My Father's Music

　　I will always remember the day my father first dragged the heavy accordion up the steps of our house, its case resting on a small pulley stand. He summoned my mother and me to the living room and solemnly opened the case as if it were a box of jewels. "I say," he said, "once you learn to play it, it will follow you for the rest of your life."

　　At the time, if my awkward smile was an uncomfortable match for my father's hearty laugh, it was because I was praying for some other instrument, such as a guitar, or a piano. The accordion was not something that stood out in my mind. Looking at the dazzling white keys and the cream-colored bellows, I could almost imagine that my mates would see it as something for street beggars to carry around.

　　One evening, my father made a solemn announcement at home that I would officially begin playing lessons. I didn't expect this to happen so quickly and had to look at my mother for help. I didn't expect my mother to be on my father's side.

　　The cost was only $300, $5 per lesson, which was in keeping with my father's character. He was a man of practicality - growing up on a farm, clothing, fuel, and even food were often scarce.

　　From then on, I was forced to practice the piano for half an hour a day, and every moment I was thinking of escape. It seemed to me that I would never be able to play soccer again in my life and that I would always have my parents behind me to keep practicing the piano.

　　It was amazing how gradually I could remember a simple string of notes and coordinate my hands to play simple songs. Usually, after dinner, my father would ask me to play a little piece or two. As he leaned back leisurely in his chair, I would struggle to play something like "Spanish Woman" or "Polka Beer Barrel".

　　"That's great, better than last week," he would say from time to time. I think my father took the sound of my piano as the most beautiful treat after a hard day's work.

　　For, to participate in the upcoming summer performances, I also had to prepare for a solo performance on the movie theater stage. I was almost overwhelmed. So, one Sunday afternoon in my father's car I finally broke out.

　　"I don't want to play a solo show," I said. "No," my father replied. "Why?" I shouted, "Is it because you didn't have the opportunity to practice the violin yourself as a child? Do I have to make it up to you with this crap just because you didn't have a chance to perform back then?"

　　My father backed up, pointed his finger at me, and said gently, "Because you bring joy to others. You can touch the hearts of others. That's the gift I hope you don't abandon. One day, you will have the opportunity I did not: you will play beautiful tunes for your family, and that's when you will understand the hard work and effort you put in today."

　　I was speechless. I rarely heard my father mention anything about anything other than the organ. From that point on, I practiced hard and consciously, without my parents pushing me to do so anymore.

　　On recital nights, my mother dressed up in gold sparkly earrings. My father left work early, dressed in a suit and tie, his hair shiny and shiny. They came an hour early and we sat in the reception room, the small talk not without tension. It was clear that my parents saw my success as their dream of impending fulfillment.

　　When the show was over, my parents walked backstage with their heads held high and their faces full of joy. I knew that they were happy inside. My mother and I embraced deeply. My father opened his arms and rubbed me into his arms and wrapped me tightly. "You're amazing." He said, shaking my hand up and down for a long time before slowly releasing it.

　　It was years before the organ faded out of my life. Sometimes, my father would ask me to play it at home. When I entered college, I put my organ in the cabinet at the back of the hall, side by side with my father's fiddle.

　　The year after I graduated from college, my parents moved to a neighboring town. That is, my father, at the age of 51, finally owned property in his name. When I moved, I didn't dare to tell my father that he could abandon my organ, so I brought it back to my house and put it in the small attic on the top floor.

　　The organ lay there quietly, with dust and memories, until one afternoon, many years later, it was accidentally discovered by my two children. Scotty thought it was a mysterious treasure, and Howry speculated that gods and spirits lived inside. And so it was, and none of them were wrong.

　　I opened the case and the children burst into laughter, "Come on Daddy, come on Daddy." With a little hesitation, I put on the shoulder strap and played a few simple tunes. To my surprise, my skills were as perfect as ever back then. In a flash, the two children were dancing around the circle and laughing. My wife was also laughing and playing a beat. At that moment, my father's words came back to me: "One day, you will have the opportunity that I have never had. You will understand then."

　　I now finally understand the meaning of hard work and dedication to others. My father was right: there is no greater gift in life than to tug at the heartstrings of those you love. On that beautiful evening, amidst the laughter and dancing of my wife and children, it was my father's music that still bubbled in our hearts