More accordion—can never have too much… (Here in Vancouver, we have the annual Accordion Noir fest!) No, you do not need one in your prompt piece here.
Steislinger, that was a Nazi name if ever I heard one, and every Tuesday after dinner he would putter up to our house in his rust red Folkswagon for music lessons. My brother and I wanted guitar, to be like the Beatles—we were only at ‘Help’ having watched it five times in the theatre and rehearsing each song with our “mates” our guitars fashioned from from cut out cardboard, slats of wood, thumbtacks and thread for strings. But no, our father wanted accordion.
To play the accordion is like the old game of rubbing your head while patting your stomach at the same time, only throw in some complex finger gymnastics, calisthenics, and weightlifting. If done properly you can illicit some beautiful tones, in the hands of an eight-year-old you challenge the most novice of bagpipe players.
One evening my brother was exempted, something at school.
It was just me and Steislinger.
My accordion was used, the straps worn and narrow and the bellows ancient. It took a Herculean effort to manipulate them, they wheezed and cracked like ancient smoker’s lungs.
Steislinger settled back onto his stool and studied me with those steely eyes peering out of his rotund bespeckled face.
I began an Ooom-pah-pah tune that I was supposed to memorize. On an accordion your right hand plays the piano keys while the left hand keeps time with the bass buttons. Both are totally different finger and hand movements and on top of that the left hand is slung through a strap to push and pull the bellows. The ergonomics of this being designed for an adult hand not the arm and hand of a small boy.
“Nein, Nein, Nein!” I had messed up right away. “Again.”
And so, it began. The strap on my left-hand slicing into my wrist, the worn leather shoulder slings digging into my clavicles and the sound—Oh the sound.
Steislinger became concerned. He knew my father was upstairs, the stairwell funneling the noise to his meal ticket. His bald dome began to glisten, he bobbed on his stool.
“Nein, Nein, Nein.” He yelled. “The fingers are all wrong. Finger one is this key. Two is this key. Three this. Again.”
I started…
“Dummkopf!” he shrieked. Suddenly he stood and marched me over to the ping pong table and splayed my hand on it. I didn’t see the ballpoint pen till it was too late. With a shaking hand he scrawled above each knuckle as he spat.
“Eins. Zwei. Drei. Veir.”
It was too much.
I tore my hand away and threw down the accordion. I charged upstairs. My father was resting on the chesterfield.
“Look what that Nazi did to me.” I screamed. “He tattooed me! I quit!”
I stormed out of the house running hard when a tune came into my head to calm me.
There's so much going on here--I'm left curious to know what Dad's response is, how he reacts the the main character calling the music teacher "Nazi;" I'm curious about main character's relationship with his brother... I remember ONCE taking piano lessons that were shared with another girl, and how I managed to stay in her shadow (happily, yet it all caused such anxiety!) Here it does seem that somehow that teacher hasn't been paying attention to THIS kid's music until now. So... lots of questions, which is good. (Why does Dad insist on the accordion, for another. And maybe "where's Mom?"
The sandwiching of the Beatles' songs is good. Now wondering where that will take him...
And the story thread of being handed the accordion instead of the guitar... oh my. Young person's nightmare.
I'm wondering about the years these songs were released and the years the band played in Germany... and does this kid live somewhere where he'd sneak in and hear... I know it's tough to stay with the word limit for these prompts! But curious!
Sipping coffee in my 2004 silver Honda Accord I lazily observed the ferry docking at Saltery Bay on its way to Earl’s Cove. The plan was to drive to the Sunshine Coast where I would take the ferry to Horseshoe Bay, then home. The parking lot was full – it was the epicenter of summer when people were determined to travel somewhere to enjoy the warmth and freedom of vacations and cottage time. I was returning from a sailing trip out of Lund after a week of exploring Desolation Sound. Being a reluctant sailor, I was relieved to be returning to the comforts of home.
Suddenly I felt the urge, the pressure of nature calling. I looked at the ferry not yet unloading. There was lots of time. I made a spontaneous decision and quickly headed to the washroom conveniently located at the edge of the parking lot.
Placing the car keys on the back of the tank for quick recovery, I did the deed then simultaneously grabbed my keys in one hand while flushing with the other. I watched in disbelief as the keys suddenly flew out of my grasp landing in the toilet bowl precisely at the moment the high pressured vortex of water was at its peak. In a nanosecond my whole set of keys was swallowed whole, never to be seen again. Was this a bad dream? I stood rooted to the spot wasting precious minutes in denial of this ludicrous scenario.
As I walked out of the washroom, I noticed the ferry had finished loading and was in the process of departing leaving my abandoned car sad and alone in the parking lot. Next came the embarrassment of having to explain my predicament to BC ferries staff who feigned sympathy while stifling their amusement.
Two nights of hotel stays, BCAA intervention and large amounts of money managed to get my beloved car back to the Honda dealership in North Van. There, at further expense I was able to get two new keys coded into the car computer. As I drove home I vowed never to risk last minute bathroom stops and furthermore to never ever put a set of keys on the back of a toilet tank. Yes, it really happened and now, several years later, I can even laugh about it.
Steislinger
Steislinger, that was a Nazi name if ever I heard one, and every Tuesday after dinner he would putter up to our house in his rust red Folkswagon for music lessons. My brother and I wanted guitar, to be like the Beatles—we were only at ‘Help’ having watched it five times in the theatre and rehearsing each song with our “mates” our guitars fashioned from from cut out cardboard, slats of wood, thumbtacks and thread for strings. But no, our father wanted accordion.
To play the accordion is like the old game of rubbing your head while patting your stomach at the same time, only throw in some complex finger gymnastics, calisthenics, and weightlifting. If done properly you can illicit some beautiful tones, in the hands of an eight-year-old you challenge the most novice of bagpipe players.
One evening my brother was exempted, something at school.
It was just me and Steislinger.
My accordion was used, the straps worn and narrow and the bellows ancient. It took a Herculean effort to manipulate them, they wheezed and cracked like ancient smoker’s lungs.
Steislinger settled back onto his stool and studied me with those steely eyes peering out of his rotund bespeckled face.
I began an Ooom-pah-pah tune that I was supposed to memorize. On an accordion your right hand plays the piano keys while the left hand keeps time with the bass buttons. Both are totally different finger and hand movements and on top of that the left hand is slung through a strap to push and pull the bellows. The ergonomics of this being designed for an adult hand not the arm and hand of a small boy.
“Nein, Nein, Nein!” I had messed up right away. “Again.”
And so, it began. The strap on my left-hand slicing into my wrist, the worn leather shoulder slings digging into my clavicles and the sound—Oh the sound.
Steislinger became concerned. He knew my father was upstairs, the stairwell funneling the noise to his meal ticket. His bald dome began to glisten, he bobbed on his stool.
“Nein, Nein, Nein.” He yelled. “The fingers are all wrong. Finger one is this key. Two is this key. Three this. Again.”
I started…
“Dummkopf!” he shrieked. Suddenly he stood and marched me over to the ping pong table and splayed my hand on it. I didn’t see the ballpoint pen till it was too late. With a shaking hand he scrawled above each knuckle as he spat.
“Eins. Zwei. Drei. Veir.”
It was too much.
I tore my hand away and threw down the accordion. I charged upstairs. My father was resting on the chesterfield.
“Look what that Nazi did to me.” I screamed. “He tattooed me! I quit!”
I stormed out of the house running hard when a tune came into my head to calm me.
When I was younger so much younger than today
I never needed anybody’s help in any way
But now these days are gone
Al, thank you for posting; first up, you are.
There's so much going on here--I'm left curious to know what Dad's response is, how he reacts the the main character calling the music teacher "Nazi;" I'm curious about main character's relationship with his brother... I remember ONCE taking piano lessons that were shared with another girl, and how I managed to stay in her shadow (happily, yet it all caused such anxiety!) Here it does seem that somehow that teacher hasn't been paying attention to THIS kid's music until now. So... lots of questions, which is good. (Why does Dad insist on the accordion, for another. And maybe "where's Mom?"
The sandwiching of the Beatles' songs is good. Now wondering where that will take him...
And the story thread of being handed the accordion instead of the guitar... oh my. Young person's nightmare.
I'm wondering about the years these songs were released and the years the band played in Germany... and does this kid live somewhere where he'd sneak in and hear... I know it's tough to stay with the word limit for these prompts! But curious!
This Really Happened
Sipping coffee in my 2004 silver Honda Accord I lazily observed the ferry docking at Saltery Bay on its way to Earl’s Cove. The plan was to drive to the Sunshine Coast where I would take the ferry to Horseshoe Bay, then home. The parking lot was full – it was the epicenter of summer when people were determined to travel somewhere to enjoy the warmth and freedom of vacations and cottage time. I was returning from a sailing trip out of Lund after a week of exploring Desolation Sound. Being a reluctant sailor, I was relieved to be returning to the comforts of home.
Suddenly I felt the urge, the pressure of nature calling. I looked at the ferry not yet unloading. There was lots of time. I made a spontaneous decision and quickly headed to the washroom conveniently located at the edge of the parking lot.
Placing the car keys on the back of the tank for quick recovery, I did the deed then simultaneously grabbed my keys in one hand while flushing with the other. I watched in disbelief as the keys suddenly flew out of my grasp landing in the toilet bowl precisely at the moment the high pressured vortex of water was at its peak. In a nanosecond my whole set of keys was swallowed whole, never to be seen again. Was this a bad dream? I stood rooted to the spot wasting precious minutes in denial of this ludicrous scenario.
As I walked out of the washroom, I noticed the ferry had finished loading and was in the process of departing leaving my abandoned car sad and alone in the parking lot. Next came the embarrassment of having to explain my predicament to BC ferries staff who feigned sympathy while stifling their amusement.
Two nights of hotel stays, BCAA intervention and large amounts of money managed to get my beloved car back to the Honda dealership in North Van. There, at further expense I was able to get two new keys coded into the car computer. As I drove home I vowed never to risk last minute bathroom stops and furthermore to never ever put a set of keys on the back of a toilet tank. Yes, it really happened and now, several years later, I can even laugh about it.
Oh, that moment of watching the keys disappear... and the longer moment of absorbing the reality!
And the laughter. Right. So true. Glad you posted, Joan!