Life, according to Norse accordionist
A feverish Nordic-American accordionist on wrestling with life.
Can man-made instrument save a life?
Hi, everyone-
In every classroom, there’s usually that kid who always needs a letter for every school activity. When they run laps with everyone else, they’d always manage to finish last. And whenever a joke sends everyone into fits of laughter, they’d sit still with just a shadow of a smile.
This was probably the case for one Nordic-American kid who had rheumatic fever.
Rheumatic fever can be the most fatal of all rheumatological diseases.
Rashes, lesions and lumps could begin to spread.
It’s not always noticeable. So it spreads undetected.
It can make your joints stiff, and getting out of bed hard.
Extreme cases weaken the heart valve—which it did for this kid.
And surgery can lead to death.
So Myron Floren didn’t know what to do.
He was a first-generation American whose parents came from Norway and lived in a farm in South Dakota. So I’d imagine, even if it’s just a bit, he would’ve heard the mythology of all-powerful Norse gods. Or maybe he’d be in a pajama, listening for the hundredth time about when Thor commands lightning like life isn’t much of a wrestle.
I wonder if he felt some sense of belittlement whenever he heard this. Strength—especially the heart-pumping, muscly kind—must’ve seemed a stretch.
But his parents weren’t discouraging. One day, his father decided to get him a $10 handheld accordion. No one taught him how to play. He just worked on it himself. Soon enough, he was good enough to try a full-sized accordion.
I think the last person I saw with an accordion was a one-man-band street performer. I remember kids pointing and laughing while the adults took pictures. Everyone left soon after—forgetting that a laugh can leave a shadow, and not a smile.
But Floren pressed on with his accordion. An accordion is about twenty pounds of mass pressed up against the chest, with two shoulder straps for balance. If you’ve tried to lift a giant watermelon—that’s about how heavy it is. The straps are mostly just to secure the instrument.
But the back bears the load.
And the chest: the force.
Some have likened playing the accordion to playing a piano while wrestling a bear and blacksmithing all at once. In any ranking methodology, musicians agree that it’s one of the top five most difficult instruments to play.
So for the literally weak-in-heart Floren, this was hardly the ideal instrument.
But it’s a good thing he can’t see his heart, and can only see the accordion. Because day after day, something strange happened: his constant exertion to lift, hold, bear, play, control, extend, and compress the instrument now strapped to his chest—seem to have strengthened his heart.
Hours upon hours a day he’d wrestle with his accordion. And the accordion wrestled back.
Sometimes the man wins. Sometimes the machine.
Yet both gained muscle for each other. The machine needed Floren. Otherwise it’ll just be on the floor, a passable photo-op moment for finger-pointing. And the man needed the machine, to sound a smile long left in the playground shadows where he was always last.
So finally, Floren knew what to do.
He got a heart valve replacement from a pig’s heart.
And so, Floren started to play at fairs, social events, colleges, and radio stations. It no longer mattered if it was his heart or an animal’s heart inside. He just had to bear the instrument.
He even enlisted for the army during World War II. But when the doctors saw the damage to his heart from the rheumatic fever—he was rejected. For a long time, I couldn’t understand the disappointment of being rejected when enlisting. When so much of it ends in devastation for families, shouldn’t it all just be relief?
Now I think I get it.
Floren’s accordion had already taught him something important: that the weight of responsibility—including physical weight against the chest—is the blood pressure that keeps the heart alive.
More specifically, the accordion had already shown him that: sometimes getting what you want comes in the form of holding one finger on one key, to deliver one note that—when pressed in—can sound a lot like a cathedral choir splitting the sky in one breath.
So he insisted on serving his country.
He joined a non-profit organization that provided performances to the US army.
Floren lived … to the age of 85.
Sometimes, knowing what to do is really as simple as:
Knowing what to play—or in this case: knowing what to bear.
-Thalia
PS:
If you enjoyed what you’re reading, consider becoming a free, or preferably paid subscriber. A special welcome to Dr. Allan Schwartz, PhD and John Sloan Jr, son of World War II fighter-pilot—for your yearly paid subscription. Thanks for contributing to keeping this newsletter going. And for helping me put food on the table for my kids. It means a lot. I hope I’ll have moments when I’m as thoughtful as Floren’s dad—who brilliantly got … the instrument that saved his son’s life.
-Thalia
Great advice.
Nice…had a friend who lived just across the street who played that accordion 🪗.
Story reminded me of him. Thanks
What was your inspiration for this story? You always leave your readers with something to think about. 👍🏾