Holiday weekend and old pump organ

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It’s a holiday weekend, and I’m so excited to be with my daughter-in-law’s family, and one sector of my family. For years I’ve pictured another generation sitting at the old pump organ pulling the “stops” and making music.

In my son’s barn, it’s the day after a wonderful feast. I thank my son and grandson for moving my stuff out of storage, then, my mind races with piles of what to keep, what to chuck and what to take to Goodwill. Consumed by our projects, bits of conversation break the silence.

“Look at this.” I show him a photograph.

“Who are they?”

“Your sister and you.”

They’re in a big overstuffed chair. She’s just about 2 years old. He’s 3 or 4 months old. His sister and the chair are jointly propping him.

He comments on the pump organ in the background. “Forty-five years right there,” means his age which adds to the pump organ’s age.

We acquired the pump organ when our son was an infant. It was collecting dust in a hallway of his great-grandfather’s farmhouse. Uncle Floyd said if my husband would trade his shotgun, we could have the pump organ.

My husband had said, “You don’t even hunt.” Uncle Floyd didn’t hunt because he was lame.

I would have paid for the pump organ, but Uncle Floyd wanted the gun. My husband shrugged his shoulders and our children grew up pulling out the stops. A lot of unusual sounds and some music poured out of this old pump organ.

Twenty years ago, I crammed all my stuff in an old chicken barn in Camden – storage. On this property, during the summers you could put your money in a box and help yourself to fresh vegetables and flowers – the honor system.

Storage was pretty much the same. Take the key off the hook inside the kitchen door, open a little padlock in the barn, then put the key back.

When my youngest son took the library table and deacon’s bench out of storage, he spotted drums he had made in fourth grade. “Why are they here?”

“Because you made them. Maybe some day you’ll want them.”

This school project began with a big cardboard drum – 16 inches tall, approximately 9.5 inches in diameter. It’s an aesthetic wonder; grayish, with circles, triangles and zigzags. Two colors to a design repeat like wallpaper perpendicular to the floor. Parchment-like paper is stretched over one end and securely glued around the side. After 26 years, it’s still intact.

One wooden drum looks like an elf’s bench – a rectangle. It’s open at both ends. Pretty indestructible.

The teacher was so pleased with the children’s enthusiasm over this project that she added some big wooden barrels from Warren, and the fourth-grade students made these barrel drums. The barrel drum stands at least three feet tall and still has the original wide green ribbon in case you want to sling it over your shoulder. It sounds like a “tom tom.”

Two-thousand five, as I sort stuff, I tell my son how excited I am. Now, his children can play the old pump organ.

My son looks at me. “I won’t let them near it.”

I’m stunned.

He’s very serious. Quietly, he states, “Mom. It’s old. It’s fragile.”

“You all had so much fun with it!”

“Mom. How long has it been in storage?”

He answers for me. “It hasn’t been played in 20 years. I tried and couldn’t get any sound out of it. When I have time, I’ll look at it.”

He means he’ll look at the bellows. I was deflated, but the pump organ is in the right place. My son knows wood and he’s respectful of family history.

A little bit later, two of the children scoot into the barn. When they leave the barn my granddaughter has a big grin on her face and the big barrel drum is slung over one shoulder. One day I’ll see that grin at the old pump organ.

Before heading home, I go into the house to hear the children. My grandson writes his own music for his electric guitar and this holiday, one cousin has transposed a piece for the piano. While my grandson strums his guitar, two cousins at the piano accompany him.

There’s that big grin, again. The barrel drum sits firmly on the floor in front of my granddaughter. Gently, with her hands – like a tom tom – she keeps the “beat.” A quartet! They’re terrific!

I sure am glad I saved those fourth-grade handmade drums!

As for the old pump organ? Maybe another holiday weekend…

Barbara Murray Klopp is the author of “Alex & Zig,” an award-winner for children’s fiction through the Maine Media Women’s Association. Information can be seen at www.alexzig.com.