Journal of a Living Lady #226

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

The twenty pound box in my lap is an antique. I ordered it from eBay. When the postman delivered the bulky package, my hands trembled with excitement. I never thought I would own one of these again.

 

During this second siege with cancer, following a twelve-year hiatus, the treatments left me so weak at times that I barely had the strength to pull my body up from a chair.

 

Several months ago I sadly sold my beautiful red accordion with its diamond-like buttons and ivory keys. When the decision to sell the beloved instrument was made, Buddy took me to the flea market and I displayed it along with some household knick-knacks.

 

A Hispanic young man, accompanied by a bi-lingual friend, repeatedly passed by our table. It was obvious he wanted the instrument. His friend asked me if I would play it.  I don’t play that well with music and even less well without it, but managed to demonstrate its melodious sound with some old finger drills I had memorized.

 

We made a deal and cash changed hands. The lad couldn’t play a lick, but he pranced around the flea market grounds pretending that he could. Hopefully, Pedro is now playing my old accordion well.

 

When I was a young girl, accordion bands were popular in the big cities. Everybody watched Myron Floren play accordion on the Lawrence Welk Show.

 

I promised myself that I would play one of those instruments someday. Several times I rode the city bus to the Memphis auditorium to watch the spring recitals.  My mama could have easily made a formal gown as good as any there, but neither she nor my dad could afford lessons and certainly not an accordion.

 

Someday came a few years after Buddy and I married.  I bought a small, used 12 bass accordion in a pawn shop. With only six piano lessons as a background, I attempted to teach myself to play the magnificent accordion.

 

Believe me. Playing an accordion is only for people who multi-task well.  It is difficult to pull the bellows with the wrist, push the proper black chord buttons on the left and play the piano-style keys on the right hand side while your eyes follow the music and your brain counts to four. With no teacher, fingering was a guess. Eventually jerky, but recognizable simple tunes came forth. When the neighborhood children came to play in our yard, I often entertained them with my repertoire of songs from Beginner Book One.

 

The vintage accordion that arrived from California last week has seen better days. Something happened during shipping that made half of the buttons hide below the plate. A horrible cacophony came from the bellows when I pulled them open. Stuck chords fought for clear air

 

As usual, Buddy came to my rescue. He can’t stand to see a grown woman cry and I was close. Buddy knows less than nothing about accordions except that he likes to hear one played. He meticulously dissected the accordion with all its 50,000 metal, plastic and rubber parts. Hours later he placed the box in my lap. With great anticipation, I pulled the bellows and tried each of the 41 keys and 128 buttons. Everything worked singularly and in unison. The sound was glorious. It was automatic. My arms opened wide. The rusty gears of my mind start turning stagnant gray matter. Within minutes I was playing some of those old Book One tunes.

 

I will never be an accordion maestro. That’s okay. I consider myself doubly blessed. Once again I am fulfilling a childhood dream. Once again I am proving that not even cancer can stop the music. The Living Lady plays on.

 

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