Who Dreams About Accordians?

I woke up at 3:17 a.m. in a cold sweat, haunted by the wheeze of an accordion. Not a metaphor. A literal dream about accordions. The musical instrument. The sound vessel. The emotional bellows of chaos. And I realized—I have at least five memories tied to this squeezable beast. Which is five more than I ever asked for.

Let’s begin with the sacred rite of passage known as The Lawrence Welk Show. Every Saturday night, our family gathered like we were attending televised church. Grandma and Grandpa Pressler, the black-and-white Zenith, and the holy trinity: Bobby and Sissy, Norma Zimmer (aka the Champagne Lady), and the Lennon Sisters in matching polyester miracles. I once critiqued their outfits with the flair of a tiny gay fashion editor. My dad responded by banishing me to sort my baseball cards by team and position. I complied. I learned silence. But the real showstopper? Myron Floren and his accordion. That man could squeeze out a polka so powerful it made the TV snow. Grandpa would sprint outside, wrench in hand, to adjust the antenna like he was saving lives. And in a way, he was.

Fast forward to Brushy Mound Elementary in Round Rock, Texas. A school so uptight even the bulletin boards looked nervous. I was hired as a counselor and immediately roped into interview panels. Enter three kindergarten teachers—identical hair, identical heels, identical judgment. I showed up in khakis and a polo. They looked at me like I’d farted in a Tiffany’s.

Then came in interviewee, Melody Landers. She walked in wearing a print dress covered in baby chickens. Like, actual cartoon chicks. The teachers gasped. I saw potential. Kindergarten students would love this dress. Constance, our principal who spoke like she was apologizing for breathing, agreed. We hired Melody. Cue my inner monologue: “What in the hell have we done?”

Now, about that accordion.

Melody, bless her quirky soul, believed in home visits. She wanted to meet every student in their natural habitat. Admirable. Until one parent came in, visibly shaken. Melody had insisted the entire family be present. She arrived with refreshments, charm, and… a suitcase. Which turned out to be an accordion. She led a sing-along of On Top of Old Smokey and other top hits. The dad looked like he was being held hostage. Then she asked to take little Grace to her room for “private time.” Dad abruptly shut it down. Melody packed up her accordion like a rejected street performer and left.

We called her in. She cried. Constance trembled. I coached. We canceled the home visits.

But here’s the twist: Melody was a phenomenal teacher. Every morning began with an accordion-fueled dance party. At one point, I had to talk her down from the top of her desk mid-chorus. The other teachers loathed her. The kids adored her. At the end of the year, she transferred. She thanked me for being her one true ally. And I still see her in the filing cabinet of my mind—accordion in hand, kids twirling with joyful smiles.

Myron Floren would’ve loved her. And maybe, just maybe, that accordion was the emotional defroster we all needed. A little empathy on ice, squeezed out in song.

Talk to Me. I Swear I’m Not Holding an Accordion.

If this story made you laugh, wince, or suddenly remember your own Lawrence Welk trauma, I’d love to hear about it. Maybe you’ve got an accordion memory that rivals Melody’s suitcase serenade. Or maybe you just want to confirm that yes, the Champagne Lady was a real person and yes, polyester miracles are underrated.

Click the CONTACT button at the top right of the homepage and share your thoughts, memories, or musical hauntings. Whether it’s a heartfelt reflection or a snarky one-liner, I welcome it all. Especially if it involves questionable fashion choices and emotionally charged instruments.

Thanks for reading. And for not judging me for dreaming in polka.