An organ transplant

This morning a delivery truck unloaded 25 square feet of church organ into my rec room. And all of heaven laughed a big snorty whooping laugh.

I took organ lessons for 8 years of my childhood. I practiced hymns and Beatles tunes (I was the first to play the "Jeremiah was a bullfrog - Guide me O Thou Great Jehovah" medley) for 1/2 an hour on weekdays, and then washed the tears from the keys every Saturday. For me the words "organ lessons" are right up there with "impacted wisdom teeth" and "Autopac claim centre." My anguished cries to the Almighty of "Why? Why do I have to play organ?" bounced off the stucco ceiling, only to be eternally lost in the golden shag beneath my pedals.

Then God gave me an Aspie son whose fixation happens to be organs.

K. walked to school alone for the first time today so I could wait for the truck. When I picked him up for lunch he grabbed my hand and literally dragged me all the way home. "Come on, I want to play my organ!" The irony is killing me.

This monster of a music machine is so worn out it's almost as noisy when you're not playing it. It's missing a key and the pedals sound like transmissions to another planet.

And my son thinks he's died and gone to heaven, or at least Disneyworld. Anyone know a good organ teacher? Maybe I still remember how to play "I believe in Yesterday."