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9/4/2026
“Accordion? No, Tom!”
When I was about to enter the fourth grade, it was time to decide which instrument I would play in the school band. Mom and Daddy advised me to ask my maternal grandparents, Ed and Margaret Hohmann, who were the musicians in the family. Grandma was a pianist, who once played for the silent pictures in her hometown of Littleton, West Virginia. They owned a baby grand piano that took up about half of their living room space, but I never saw anyone play it. I was allowed to peck out melodies on it, but it hadn’t been tuned in years, so that wasn’t very satisfying. Grandpa was what you would call a muti-instrumentalist. He was an old-time fiddler who must have been good at one time, but by the time I coaxed him to play his fiddle, he was eighty years old and could only scratch out “Golden Slippers” and “Buffalo Gals.” He had also played clarinet in a community band in Wetzel County, a little south of Wheeling. When I discovered a saxophone in their cellar and asked Grandpa about that, he told me he used to play that too. I never understood why they quit playing. They were reticent about the whole subject. I don’t see how a good musician can quit. Isn’t that impossible? It would be for me. They were very religious, so maybe that had something to do with it. I just don’t know.
Anyway, they still had an interest in my musical path and I valued their advice. They knew about my mandolin and how I could find melodies on it. That pleased Grandpa, but I don’t think Grandma was impressed. It seemed like she didn’t consider the mandolin to be a real instrument. So, they began coaching me about what to play when school started. At first, Grandma urged me to study piano. I told her I didn’t think piano was offered by my school, so she sided with Grandpa, who was in favor of clarinet. I thought that would be swell, as I had heard Mom’s Benny Goodman records and envisioned myself as the leader of a big band.
The school year began and the big day came. The wannabe musicians were herded into the auditorium, and a series of potential teachers crossed the stage. Trumpet was first. The trumpet teacher played a little ditty that wasn’t too bad, but he was no Louis Armstrong. He didn’t even try for a high “C,” and he opened the spit valve while still on stage. Yuck, forget that. The Trombone instructor was next. He played a few notes that didn’t really state a melody and did some slides to try to impress us, I wasn’t impressed – Next! - Here came the sousaphone. I loved it but didn’t think it would fit in Daddy’s car. Then came the clarinet. That teacher had wire-rimmed glasses, just like Benny Goodman, and played “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” a song I knew by heart. I saw how his fingers were flying and thought, yeah, I want to do that! A few more came across the stage. The bass drum – nope. Flute – no way, and I thought that was the last one. I had decided on clarinet when it turned out that there was one instrument we hadn’t heard. A teacher came on stage and told us that the accordion students wouldn’t be part of the band; that they would study independently and give solo concerts. I thought, forget that, I want to be in the band and maybe lead it like Benny Goodman. But when the accordion teacher started to play, he sounded like a whole band, just by himself. The other instruments could only play one note at a time, but here was a walking orchestra! That’s for me. I forgot all about Benny Goodman. They made us fill out forms for our parents that indicated our choice of instrument. (Like we’d forget – no wonder kids don’t like their teachers.)
When I told my parents my choice, (I had balled up the form and thrown it in the garbage), they looked at each other and said that we’d better talk to Grandma and Grandpa about it. That sounded like trouble, but why? When we arrived at Grandma’s house and she got the news, she said, “Accordion? No, Tom!” like I had contracted a fatal disease or something. After that, she was speechless. Grandpa told me how heavy it was, and how I'd have to lug “that thing” around, and how I would actually have to wear it and on and on. And my parents were on their side! But I was not moved. I was resolute. I was steadfast and unyielding. Mom said, “We had better go.” When we got home, Daddy took me aside and said, “Son, you really upset your grandparents.” At that point, I didn’t care if they ever spoke to me again. I wanted my accordion. I kept after Mom for days on end, as I knew she would eventually cave because I was her first born, her little Tom, and all that stuff. Finally, they relented. I was going to get the squeeze box! (Grandma’s term). We went to pick it up at the music store and I found out that Grandpa was absolutely right about one thing. It was heavy. Then I thought about the poor sousaphone students and didn’t feel so burdened by my choice.
I started my accordion lessons the next week. I learned the circle of fifths right away, because the left-hand buttons on the accordion are arranged that way. That’s a concept that still helps me every day. After a few weeks, the accordion teacher noticed that I was memorizing the pieces and playing by ear. He was not pleased, as he wanted us to improve our reading skills. He pulled out an unfamiliar chart and put it on my stand. I could barely play it, so he wrote “T-H-I-M-K” on my music, and said, “Do you know what that spells?” I said, “It doesn’t spell anything, you misspelled it.” He kicked me out of the class and that was the end of my accordion lessons. Mom was furious. Daddy tried to act like he was mad too, but I caught him smiling. So, I was on my own, determined to become another Dick Contino (another artist Mom liked) without all that formality.
The following spring, my father, a heating and air conditioning contractor, was looking for a helper to help carry tools and heave equipment. The fellow who applied for the job didn’t make much of an impression, as he couldn’t name any parts, tools, or machinery associated with the air conditioning business. Finally, Daddy asked, “What can you do?” The prospective helper said, “I can play the accordion.” Daddy said, “Go home and get it, I want to hear you play.” He turned out to be an accordion virtuoso, so Daddy hired him to help out a little on his jobs and teach me accordion. Daddy’s helper was Bobby Lyle, the half-brother of bluegrass banjo legend Rudy Lyle.
So, I learned from a real maestro. Bobby played a lot of pop music, as that was his bread and butter, but he loved to play beautiful French and Italian pieces, polkas, of course, and even some country music. Bobby introduced me to a whole new world of music. After a year or two, I was playing for picnics, church events and other gatherings my parents were involved with. I knew a lot of songs by heart, so I could do requests, and I had a great time with it. I’ve been getting by that way ever since. I still play some of the pieces Bobby Lyle showed me. That thing is heavy to lug around though.
I should add that I loved my Grandparents more than you can imagine. My tantrum as a nine-year-old didn’t dimmish that love in the least. They eventually warmed to my accordion when the folks at church events told them how much they enjoyed my playing, and that they must be so proud. I suppose they were.
Photos:
1. Me (leftmost) with fellow accordion students, 1966
2. Grandpa on fiddle, his brothers Clem on mandolin and Lou singing, 1936
3. My grandparents, Margaret and Ed Hohmann 1970
4. Bobby Lyle, 1974
Tom Mindte
September 2026
Me (leftmost) with fellow accordion students, 1966
Grandpa on fiddle, his brothers Clem on mandolin and Lou singing, 1936
My grandparents, Margaret and Ed Hohmann 1970
Bobby Lyle, 1974