It has the smell of an old library catalogue. Red velvet interior case with push button metal clasps, the accordion case is held together with one inch straps of duct tape along the side. Like large stitches, the taped straps have given a second and third life to the accordion case skin. The box still stands confident despite the blows. Like a boxer still standing in the ring, the bruises are more like tattooed trinkets. My friend, 76 or so, says to my sons "I am making room. This was my father's accordion, take it, play with it, keep or bring it back." He lugs out this heavy box from the inside of his very small closet full of music and costume wigs. I think about how this thing was carried with anticipation from gig to gig. The box, with its smells and grit, reminds me of many great stories untold. And secrets, stage grit, success and failure. And, I can't help but to think about the character carrying the box. I wonder what he was like. Seeing this