John Henry Roberts was born in the spring of 1888 in a small farmhouse his father built by hand. He spent his life close to the land — rising before dawn, working the fields, and coming home to a kitchen that always smelled of bread.
Those who knew him remember a man who was quiet until he had a story to tell, and then could hold a room for an hour. He played the fiddle at every wedding and most funerals, and he never once turned away someone who needed a meal.
The spring the river came up, half the valley lost their barns. People gathered on the high ground near the church, soaked and frightened, not knowing what they'd go home to.
Daddy took out his fiddle. He stood on the church steps in the rain and played every tune he knew until the sun came up. He always said you can't stop a flood, but you can keep folks from drowning in their own worry until the water goes down.
