The Accordion

As a child, were you, too, expected to learn a musical instrument? For many of us growing up in the mid-west that instrument was the accordion and at Milwaukee’s Patti Brothers Music Store it was king.

My parents signed me up for twelve weeks and rented a small twelve-bass beginner’s model. It morphed my seven-year-old body into an animated floating musical box with head and feet. I graduated to larger versions with heavier cases and until I was ten, weighed more than I did. Why, for Pete’s sake, didn’t someone notice wheels on  luggage and screw some to those monsters?

After six months my relatives were treated to my accomplishments. “Isn’t she cute!” Grandma effused. “Can she play anything else besides “Jingle Bells?”

My parents, instilled with German stick-to-it-stubbornness, weren’t about to lose their investment in a budding musician even though I hated practicing and had little talent. When I reached seventeen they realized I would never compete with Frankie Yankovic and my accordion lessons were over.

My long-suffering teacher did not protest the end to our dubious relationship. I’m certain Patti Brothers caught on years earlier I wasn’t their prize student. But, a decade of weekly income overruled suggesting that to my parents and they were astute enough to conceal me in the band’s rear at public events.

The accordion was relegated to the basement.

I married, raised five children and when we moved, my accordion traveled along. Once a year or so, I’d lift it from its red-velvet-lined case and pound out “Lady of Spain” – just to show off. Strange how my children, one-by-one, slipped away in the middle of a piece, but I did impress them by winning first place in our church’s No Talent Show.

I considered bringing my accordion to my second-grade class, but several base buttons, keys and bellows appeared to have lost a fight with Crazy Glue. Instead, I took up the guitar, a simpler, lighter, quieter instrument and when I plucked an incorrect string, my students didn’t flinch.

While packing for FloridaI unearthed my accordion and reflected,  I’m retired now. I’ll have time to play again.

Upon opening the case, dust motes whooshed out. The powdery bellows had reduced the key-board and base buttons to mere decorations – lifeless.

Without any remorse or formal funeral, the deceased’s final resting place became the dumpster.

Perhaps, I didn’t love my accordion enough.

What’s your story?