The grey case clasps snap open. A red velvet covers the portable piano. He pushes the cloth aside onto the cover, exposing the pristine instrument. With great care, he hoists the leather straps to his shoulders. Anticipation builds as he sits on a kitchen chair, puffs on a cigarette, and takes a big gulp of beer. He unsnaps the bellow top and bottom. A C major exhales forth. Lanky fingers tickle a D minor while pushing the bellow closed. His audience grows. Another puff. Another gulp. Requests fill the air. But everyone knows that “The Little Brown Jug” will be the first. He repositions the accordion on one knee and starts a beat on the other. Various waltzes and polkas fill the wee hours of the night. Sometimes a new song that he heard on the radio gets practiced. The ivory keyboard and black buttons get little relief until the last song, “Wooden Heart.” My daddy, the Accordionist.
Katherine Murie Webster 