bugle boy

When we were young, there was a brass bugle sitting atop a most precious side table in the "living room". This room was only used during holidays and get-togethers with family and friends. It was the room where the furniture was nice and no sticky fingers were allowed. No screaming children or hide and seek or space shuttle missions or jumping the steps three at a time. Absolutely no farting noises, please. {I know this because these were some of the things I was scolded for doing in this room} My mom often hid here and ignored our cries when we were certain her silence meant she'd been abducted by aliens. Anyways back to the bugle...

The bugle was a fascination of mine. I couldn't understand why we had a perfectly good horn and yet no one played it. So I tried. Taking my chances on whether or not this was allowed {I was assuming it wasn't but lived by the beg forgiveness motto} I brought the bugle to my lips assuming a most beautiful sound would pierce the air, but nothing happened. My face turned red, my cheeks ached and not a peep.

And then my dad swooped in... I was certain I was destined for a spanking {my mother is currently thinking "we never spanked you kids,"} but instead he lifted the bugle to his face and sounded the alarm. A most awful alarming sound that shook the very essence of my soul erupted through the airwaves ... in a very bad way.

It was hideous sounding, perhaps because he really didn't know how to play only had better lung capacity than I. And so for the remainder of my time in that house, the bugle was used to "summon" us when we refused to get out of bed, come for dinner or spent too long on the phone. This became a particularly painful event during our teenage to early adulthood years when a hang over was certainly the cause of the slow moving selves.

Today I stumbled across a photo of an EXACT. REPLICA. OF. THE. BUGLE.


I am still recovering.