Actually, I was a drummer at heart. Pencils made radically good drumsticks. My mother’s table made a radically good drum — however, she felt differently. I told her she was stifling my creativity. She told me she was stifling my allowance. So, it would be years before I would play a real drum.

During the 1950s, when every other child was told they’d grow up to be president, I was told I’d grow up to play accordion on The Lawrence Welk Show. Never mind that they played waltzes. If my father hadn’t been Irish, I figure I would have run the country, by now.

My daughter, Ann Thurber, decided to do things a bit differently; she took Irish step dancing, rather than instrumental lessons. All is well when Irish dancers begin in soft shoes, reminiscent of ballet slippers. Steps are soft. And quiet.

But as Ann advanced to the next level, I received payback for the squeaky accordion and desk drumming my parents had lived through. Dancers advance to hard shoes with fiberglass heels and toes, pounding out dances that chew up eardrums, but engage you with rhythmic precision.

Aside from its performance base, Irish dance is a competitive sport, so dancers often pound two hours a day. Families have the choice of traveling to competitions nearly every weekend to edge toward the World Irish Dancing Championships.

If you’ve watched the Irish shows, Riverdance or Lord of the Dance, you may have noticed that arms are stiff to the sides, toes turned out, and legs crossed knee over knee, setting it apart from other dance forms.

Originally, Irish dance was more freestyle with arm movement.

A rigid social decorum in the late 1800s rendered flailing arms unladylike and ungentlemanly. Irish dance masters emphasized fancier footwork with rigid arms and bodies.

During our Irish travels, I marveled at a musician playing a drum I’d never seen, called bodhrán (baw-ron), which translates to deafening. Played unskillfully, it is.

The instrument is a handheld frame drum played with a stick called a tipper. Bodhráns have only made their way into traditional tunes since the 1960s.

My inner drummer was begging for a real drum. In 1997, I ordered a bodhrán from a well-known maker, but hadn’t seen one close.

I was in for a shock when it arrived. The odor reeked of dead carcass. That’s because it was — a cured goatskin playing surface. I hid it until the odor had mellowed. Weeks later, I began to learn rhythmic bodhrán patterns, furloughing the accordion so I could finally play the heartbeat of Irish music.

Ann continues to dance and I drum with Irish bands and at music sessions traveling in the United States, Ireland, England, and Canada—craic-ing up with the Irish anytime we can.