Every time there’s a knock at the
front door, I cower. One of these times, and soon, it’s going to be Homeland
Security. I just know it.
I’ve tried to keep my recent
activities on the down low. But no matter how careful I am, no matter how
secretive, I live in constant fear I will be found out. One of the neighbors
will notice. He or she will make a phone call, and that will be that. I’ll
disappear.
The worst of it is, it’s not my fault.
It’s Mrs. Taylor’s (formerly Lori Frankforter’s) fault. She’s the one who
bought me the weapon of mass destruction.
It was a birthday gift.
Oh, sure, some people call it an accordion. But in my hands, believe me, it’s
a WMD on a par with anything ever dreamt of by Saddam.
As WMDs go, it’s a beaut. It’s
big, red, made in Italy, and it has about 30,000 buttons, keys and switches, of
which I have so far mastered two.
As you probably know, the
accordion is the third most feared musical instrument ever invented. Bagpipes
and banjo are first and second and I already own a banjo. I rarely play the
banjo, since the tone messes with the navigational equipment of nearby airplanes and I have already been
chastised repeatedly by the Federal Aviation Administration.
But when it comes to the
accordion, I just can’t help myself. There’s something about that big, red box,
with all those buttons and keys. It’s fairly bursting with potential, even if I
am not. It cries out to be played!
I first fell in love with the accordion
40 years ago. It was my first Pulaski Days, in Grand Rapids, not long after my
21st birthday.
For those not in the know,
Pulaski Days is a week-long celebration of all things Polish, celebrated
city-wide in G.R. All the Catholic halls are thrown open to the public (even
Protestants) and offer traditional Polish food, Polish music and lots and lots
of beer.
This last item no doubt helped
ease my passage into the world of accordion music. Over the years, I have
discovered that accordion music is greatly enhanced by a six-pack of Rolling
Rock.
At any rate, 40 years ago, I
accompanied my then-wife to Diamond Street Hall. There I heard my first polka
band, Bob Brock and the B-Tones, to my way of thinking, the best polka band.
Ever. Of all time. The beer may have helped shape that opinion, but not
necessarily; they really were (and still are, I believe) a fun band.
I mean, there’s something about a
sweaty, middle-aged man leading a large, slightly inebriated crowd in a dance
in which a giant, rubber chicken is featured prominently. It’s just … fun. Maybe
not fun for the sort of folks who sipped champagne on the deck of the Titanic,
but fun for those of us getting by down here in steerage, thank you very much.
I was hooked. It’s been 40 years
and in all that time I have missed Pulaski Days exactly zero times.
And each year, I watch those
accordion players – who are everywhere
on Pulaski Days – hammering out those old, familiar tunes. “The Beer Barrel
Polka.” “The Pennsylvania Polka.” “The Tick Tock Polka.”
Every so often, one of them will
try to play a pop song, usually “Proud Mary.” But the audience pelts this guy
with empty Bud cans and that puts an end to that nonsense.
Those accordion players always
look like they’re having a great time. I’ve envied them for years, and now,
thanks to Mrs. T’s (fLF’s) gift, I have a chance to join their ranks.
All I have to do it find a quiet,
soundproofed room I can practice in for next year or so. Sure, it may land me
in Guantanamo if I’m found out. But if I can learn the “She’s Too Fat Polka”
it’ll be worth it.
(616) 730-1414
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