by Betz Richards

I once asked my mother what happiness was. Twisting the dishtowel between her hands she turned and faced me. “It is loving Jesus,” she said. I was eleven and it seemed to me happiness should be something more tangible, like the first lick of an ice cream cone or the thrill of the downhill drop on a roller coaster or holding Daddy's hand when we walked together. "You should want to tell everyone you meet about His love," she continued, "set an example in the way you dress, the way you act, the music you play. All should glorify Jesus. That will make you happy."
My mother's 'Jesus talk' embarrassed me. All for Jesus, I wore skirts and dresses, never shorts or slacks, had long hair, avoided rock and roll music, and listened to Bible stories on the radio, but I didn't like it. My mother would scold, "You should never be ashamed of Jesus, or your mother."
But I was. My mother did odd things my friends' mothers never did. She'd make all of us, including Daddy, bow our heads and thank Jesus for the fried fish dinners we'd just been served at the Dairy Restaurant. Sometimes I'd peek to see if anyone was watching, but most of the time I just cowered into my collar hoping my mother didn't pray too loudly.

"I want Grace to learn to play an accordion," I heard my mother say as my parents lay in bed talking. Their room was down the hall from the bedroom my sister and I shared. "An accordion's so portable. She could play out of doors and in places like church and at school."
I could hear my father get up, his feet sliding into leather slippers on the hardwood floor by his side of the bed.
My mother continued without an answer, "It's a good way for Grace to witness for Jesus. I want her to play music outside of our house."
I heard my father in the bathroom, splashing water on his face. "I don't want to purchase an expensive instrument and then not have her use it," he said.
My mother dropped her nightclothes into the hamper. "An accordion has the same keyboard as a piano," she said. "What she memorizes on the piano can be played on the accordion."
I pulled the covers to my chin: I didn't know what an accordion was. I imagined a small piano I could peddle down the sidewalk like a wheelchair with a keyboard across my lap. Would she force me to play it on our front lawn, instructing me to play Jesus Loves Me or Do Lord, oh Do Lord, Do Remember Me as cars passed and my friends snickered as I tried to save them with music?
"I promise she will play it," my mother said. "I'll make sure of that."

I learned to play the accordion keyboard with my right hand but without formal lessons I could only use two of the mass of buttons on the other side with my left. As long as I could plunk out familiar Christian tunes, mostly in the key of C, my mother was happy. She expected me to mirror her in witnessing for Jesus. She sang for Jesus. She talked to our mailman and the milkman about Jesus. Once, my sister was backed over by a taxi driver, pinning her and her bicycle under the car. My mother wrote in her journal, "Oh the Grace of God kept her from being killed. The blood alone availed. Praise His name! At the time of the accident I was telling a young salesman about Jesus."

My first accordion performance was in the auditorium at the junior high school booked for my mother's Bible school program. It was large and cold, the wooden seats uncomfortable and uninviting. I entered from the back of the stage, lumbering the brown-speckled case up a short flight of steps. I lifted the red and white accordion onto the floor wishing the evening were over and I were home, asleep under the quilt on my bed.
At supper I'd pushed pot roast, potatoes, and carrots around my plate. When we'd driven to the junior high, I complained that I couldn't stop my knees from shaking.
"Don't worry," my mother said. "You'll do fine. You know your piece by heart, don't you?"
Dad said, "It's good to be nervous. It means that you're not overconfident. When you're overconfident, that's when you make mistakes."
As the program began one of my mother's friends leaned over and whispered, "I know you're nervous. But just keep telling yourself you're as cool as a cucumber. You'll be fine, honey."

When it was my turn to play, I walked up the steps to the stage. Behind the curtain I knelt before the accordion. My heart blipped with stoic resolve. "I'm as cool as a cucumber. I'm as cool as a cucumber," I repeated. I wished I could faint. Was this it? Would I feel happiness in Jesus if everything went well? Would I feel I didn't love Jesus enough if I missed a note? Clutching the thick double straps, I lifted the accordion to my knee and positioned it over my chest. Rising, I inhaled deeply, slowly blinked my eyes, and walked on stage. A spotlight focused on me. I couldn't see anyone in the audience. I could only hear the noise of a shuffling crowd as my mother announced, "My daughter, Grace, will play 'What a Friend We Have in Jesus' as the collection plates are passed."
I made no mistakes. I didn't forget the number of times to play the verses or the refrain. Finished, I carefully lowered the accordion into its case, walked back to my seat and slouched into the hard chair next to my mother's friend. She whispered, "You did just fine."
On the way home everyone was quiet. Not one for praise, Dad focused on getting us home in time for the evening news. Mom believed if she complimented me, pride would enlarge my head or vanity would make me feel too good about myself, so I sat in my corner of the backseat, remembering the weight of the accordion against my chest. For a moment, I thought I couldn't breathe.

 

 

Betz Richards started writing short stories about three years ago, after her retirement. She graduated from John Brown University (Siloam Springs, Arkansas) in 1968 with a BA in English. Her careers have included ownership of a word-processing and typing service in San Diego, California, an Allstate Insurance agent in partnership with her husband, and finally, a personal chef. She lives with her husband of 21 years and an eight-year-old Siamese cat named Sophie Aussi in Olmstead Falls, Ohio. She is currently working on a memoir based on eleven of her mother's diaries found in a closet at her parents' home nine years after her mother's death.

artwork by Jenny Ostraff. Blessings of Another Kind. Intaglio print. 2007.