From fifth through seventh grade, my parents made my sister and me play the accordion. Not the guitar. Not the violin. Not the piano. The accordion.

Parents are funny that way. They dream dreams for their children. Sometimes those dreams fit. Sometimes they do not. My parents apparently envisioned two accordion-playing daughters. Even now, this decision remains one of the great mysteries of my childhood.

My sister and I had other ideas. Looking back, I suspect my parents were not trying to raise musicians as much as they were trying to share something they loved.

There is no age at which the accordion is particularly cool, but junior high may be its lowest point. The instrument itself weighs approximately the same as a small household appliance and requires the player to wear it like a piece of farm equipment. For a developing pre-teen girl, there was also the matter of the bellows, which had an unfortunate tendency to pinch sensitive chest parts.

My parents enrolled us in the Fred Milsner Accordion School. Every Wednesday, Raymond Milsner, the handsome son of the owner, arrived at our house to evaluate our progress. He listened politely while we played our assigned songs. If we performed well enough, we earned a gold star and advanced to another musical masterpiece.

Our daily assignment was thirty minutes of practice. Every day. For years.

We became surprisingly proficient at such accordion classics as Hava Nagila. Playing it required the left arm to violently jerk the bellows back and forth while simultaneously pushing mystery buttons and keeping the right hand on the keyboard. There was no graceful way to do this. No one has ever watched an accordion player perform and thought, "Now there's a future heartthrob."

Eventually we graduated to Proud Mary. Tina Turner's version is one of the coolest songs ever recorded. Unfortunately, the accordion can remove cool from anything it touches. If coolness existed on a measurable scale, Tina Turner would occupy one end of the spectrum and an eleven-year-old girl in glasses playing Proud Mary on an accordion would sit firmly at the other.

The competitive recitals added another layer of drama. My father offered cash prizes depending on how well we placed. We would arrive carrying our massive accordion cases lined with burgundy velvet. The spring-loaded latches snapped open with tremendous importance, as though they contained priceless Stradivarius violins rather than accordions. We also carried folding music stands tucked inside velvet bags.

And then there were the outfits. Floor-length maxi dresses. Who looked at a child expected to wrestle a thirty-pound accordion and thought, "You know what this ensemble needs? More fabric."

My sister, my best friend, and lifelong hero, was trapped in the wrong musical biography. She was an exceptional athlete and an excellent student. Given the choice, she would have selected basketball, volleyball, track and field, or perhaps being chased by wolves. Instead, she was anchored to the primary instrument of polka music.

I, unfortunately, was good at it. I do not say this proudly. I was accidentally talented at the accordion. The music came easily, and I placed well in competitions. I earned first part in the accordion band and routinely collected my father's prize money. There is something uniquely tragic about excelling at an activity you desperately hope nobody discovers.

Eventually the Fred Milsner Accordion School assembled an accordion orchestra to compete nationally. I earned first part. My sister advanced to one of the early Moog synthesizers, while still playing accordion. I was thrilled for her. At least one of us had escaped into a cooler instrument.

That was also where we met Marcy Suarez, a cheerful girl from our school, St. James Catholic School. Her parents had apparently reached the same decision mine had. Marcy played accordion. We bonded instantly through shared suffering. Our signature piece was Neil Diamond's Holly Holy. Despite all my accordion-related trauma, I still love that song. Every time I hear it, I am transported back to those rehearsals.

The highlight of orchestra practice, however, was not Neil Diamond. It was the drummer. A cute drummer in an accordion orchestra was roughly equivalent to finding a rose growing in a gravel pit. Years later, my sister and I still laugh while imagining the conversation that recruited him.

"Young man, we have an incredible musical opportunity for you."

"A rock band?"

"No."

"A jazz ensemble?"

"No."

"A recording session?"

"No. "It's an accordion orchestra."

The pause that followed must have been lengthy.

The real incentive was the possibility of a European tour. Yes, a European accordion orchestra on tour. Against all odds, the drummer kept showing up.

Then came the darkest chapter of our accordion career. Someone decided that Marcy, my sister, and I should perform at St. James School during the school day. Until then, we had successfully hidden our accordion identities from the general public. We marched from classroom to classroom carrying our instruments, music stands, and sheet music.

For my sister, this was particularly cruel. She was one of the school's standout athletes and would eventually become Colorado Athlete of the Year, win four state basketball championships, earn a volleyball scholarship, and set state records in track and field. Meanwhile, there she was hauling an accordion through the hallways.

We played. We smiled nervously. We wished for death. Oddly enough, nobody mocked us. Or if they did, I have repressed the memory.

Eventually the orchestra performed exceptionally well. For the first time, all those hours of practice seemed to be leading somewhere. I even wondered if perhaps the accordion had a purpose after all.

Then news surfaced that the Fred Milsner Accordion School had been grifting parents, and the accordion school collapsed before we reached high school. My accordion career ended not with applause but with a scandal. Probably fitting.

My feelings about the instrument remain largely unchanged. The accordion has never fully recovered its reputation. Popular culture has rarely come to its defense. My sister's favorite Far Side cartoon shows new arrivals at the Pearly Gates being directed through two doors. One leads to heaven, where everyone receives a harp. The other leads to hell, where everyone receives an accordion.

Even Hollywood gets in on the joke. In Home Alone, John Candy's character, Gus Polinski, proudly introduces himself as the "Polka King of the Midwest" and leader of the Kenosha Kickers, famous for their hit song, "Polka, Polka, Polka."

Harsh? Maybe. Entirely inaccurate? Also maybe not.

Still, when I think about those years now, I realize the story is not really about the accordion. It is about parents. Recently, I asked my sister why our parents had done this to us. Her answer was immediate. "They loved polka music." Of course they did.

This was the same couple who dropped two elementary-school-age daughters at a Donny Osmond concert at the Denver Coliseum near the I70 viaduct so they could drive to Longmont and dance to a polka band. My sister was in fourth grade. I was in fifth. We had no cell phones, no emergency contacts, and no way to summon help beyond finding a pay phone and hoping for the best. After the concert, we did exactly as instructed. We hailed a cab, paid the driver with the money our parents had left us, and made our way home. Thankfully, the taxi driver was kind and delivered us safely to our front door sometime after 11:00 p.m. My parents never seriously considered missing the polka dance. That is how much they loved accordion music.

Parents are funny that way. They dream dreams for their children. Sometimes those dreams fit. Sometimes they do not. My parents never produced the famous accordion virtuosos they may have imagined. Instead, they produced two daughters with excellent memories and a sisterhood bond that is forever. And perhaps that is enough.

The accordion taught me something valuable. When our daughter was growing up, I was careful not to confuse my dreams with hers. I wanted her to discover what she loved, not what I loved.

Still, every now and then, when I hear Holly Holy or see an accordion, I smile. Not because I miss the instrument. Good heavens, no. I smile because I miss my parents. Their enthusiasm. Their dreams. Their strange belief that the world would somehow be a more delightful place if two young girls learned to play the accordion.

It was a ridiculous dream.

But it was theirs.

And after all these years, I find myself grateful for my parents' love of music, the memories with my sister, and somehow the accordion.