Small Steps by Peg Kehret

Author:Peg Kehret
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Albert Whitman & Company
Published: 2013-10-08T00:00:00+00:00

13: The Great Accordion Concert

Although I had not yet mastered the fine art of moving the pile of marbles from spot to spot with my toes, I received a new challenge in O.T. I was going to learn to play the accordion.

Certain muscles of the arms and hands are used when pushing an accordion in and out, and it happened that I needed help with those particular muscles. The Sheltering Arms owned an accordion, and Miss Ballard knew I’d had two years of piano lessons. She said the accordion was the perfect exercise for me.

From my very first attempt, I hated the accordion. It was heavy and awkward, and pushing it in and out made my arms ache. The trick of playing a melody on the keyboard with one hand, pushing the proper chord buttons with the other hand, and at the same time pushing and pulling on the accordion itself was completely beyond me.

“It would be easier if you asked me to juggle and tap dance at the same time,” I said.

“You just need practice,” Miss Ballard replied. “Try a little longer.”

I did try. However, even when I got the correct right-hand note with the proper left-hand chord and pushed air through the bellows at the same time, I didn’t care for the sound. I had never liked accordion music, and my efforts during O.T. did nothing to change my mind.

When my parents heard about the accordion, Mother said, “What fun! You’ve always loved your piano lessons.”

“That’s different,” I said. “I like the way a piano sounds.”

“You already know how to read music,” Dad pointed out. “You will master that accordion in no time.”

I insisted I would never be adept on the accordion, and Dad kept saying it would be a breeze.

I finally said, “Why don’t you play it, if you think it’s so easy?”

“All right. I will,” said Dad, and off he went to the O.T. room to borrow the accordion.

He came back with the shoulder straps in place and an eager look on his face. My dad played piano by ear, so he didn’t need sheet music. Even so, the sounds he produced could only be called squawks and squeaks.

He pushed and pulled. He punched the buttons. He grew red in the face. Beads of perspiration popped out on his bald spot. Something vaguely resembling the first few notes of “Beer Barrel Polka” emerged from the accordion, but they were accompanied by assorted other sounds, none of which could be called musical.

We girls covered our ears, made faces, and booed. We pointed our thumbs down. Mother laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.

Finally, Dad admitted defeat. Temporary defeat.

“I’ll try again next week,” he said. “Meanwhile, I want you to keep practicing.”

“It will sound just as terrible next week,” I said, but I agreed to work on my accordion technique awhile longer.

The following Sunday, we could hardly wait to tease Dad about his musical fiasco.

“When do we get the accordion concert?” Renée asked the minute my parents arrived.

“Wait!” exclaimed Alice.

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