Fiddler’s Green

The Legend of Fiddler’s Green

Fiddler’s Green is a long-standing military legend describing a place of rest and reunion for those who have completed their final watch. It's not defined by religion or rank, but by fellowship; familiar faces, shared stories, and the comfort of being understood without explanation.

In the legend, there are no formations, no orders, and no urgency. Music drifts through the air, laughter comes easily, and time no longer presses. It's a place where service is acknowledged without ceremony and where burdens are finally set down.

To say someone has “gone to Fiddler’s Green” is not to speak of an ending, but of arrival, a quiet way of honoring those who served and the bonds that outlast time.

Nothing that loved us ever truly left. - Paraphrasing my brother

Fiddler's Green

They say there’s a place called Fiddler’s Green,

where the sky leans low and listens,

where the grass remembers every footstep

and hums, you made it… you made it home.

I don’t think it’s far away.

I think it begins the moment

remembering loosens into joy.

It might look a little like Lincoln Street,

or bend gently along Southern Boulevard,

where walking always meant staying longer

than you planned.

I’ve heard it described in borrowed words—

no reveille, no last watch,

no orders shouted sharp,

only laughter drifting like pipe smoke

and the soft clink of glasses saying, stay awhile.

In Fiddler’s Green, the wind doesn’t hurry you.

It asks, gently, who were you?

and waits while you answer with stories,

with names, with quiet nods instead of salutes.

Family is there.

Not waiting - just present,

the way people are when time has finally

lost its authority.

They look up and make room,

as if room was always part of the plan.

And then the dogs come running.

Skipper first - sure of everything,

already smiling for you.

Bruegger close behind, all heart and motion,

the joy of him unrestrained,

as if nothing was ever broken.

No leashes.

No years between then and now.

Just that familiar weight against your leg

that says, you belong here.

A little farther on,

your artillery buddies are gathered -

the ones who knew the sound

before the impact,

who learned patience by waiting

and trust by standing shoulder to shoulder.

They greet you the same way they always did:

with grins, with shorthand,

with stories that don’t need explaining.

Someone claps you on the back and says nothing,

which somehow says everything.

The old ones sit close, saying remember when,

their hands wrapped around mugs that never empty,

their eyes bright with the kind of peace

that whispers, you carried enough.

There are songs there - always songs -

not perfect, not practiced,

just voices rising together,

each one saying, this is mine,

and this is ours.

Somewhere, a fiddle begins -

not loud, not proud - just true.

A voice joins it, quietly,

the way people sing when they’re not trying

to be heard, only accompanied.

No one stands alone in Fiddler’s Green.

If you fall silent, someone notices.

If you ache, someone says, I know,

and means it without asking for details.

Time loosens its grip.

Yesterday and tomorrow shrug

and agree to wait.

Only the moment matters,

only the feeling of nothing left to prove.

And when the tune finally settles,

it says what words never could:

rest now, you’re safe, we’ve got the watch.

So if you ever hear someone murmur,

they’ve gone to Fiddler’s Green,

don’t think of endings.

Think of a door opening,

and a voice calling out -

Hey…

we saved you a seat.

GBS jr

2006