Back in the 1950s, I was a proud member of the Boy Scouts in Omaha. I had a great time as a scout and learned many things that have stayed with me all these years. One of things I learned was bringing a bugle on a camp-out can lead to trouble.
It was while I was in grade school that I first made a feeble attempt to learn to play the trumpet. The selection of the trumpet was influenced by my older and much more talented siblings. My sister played the violin and my brother played the trumpet. I chose the trumpet. Looking back, it was fortunate I followed in my brother's footsteps rather than my sister. Bringing a violin to a Boy Scout camp would have led to even more trouble than the horn did.
It all started when my mother and I were in the Boy Scout department in Brandeis Department Store in downtown Omaha. It was then I spotted the bugle on the shelf. It was beautiful. It was shiny brass and had the Boy Scout emblem engraved on the bell. I had to have that bugle. To that end I began my campaign to get that horn.
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Whenever I wanted something from my mother I used an ingenious method developed over the years which usually proved to be very successful. It started with me saying, "Please ... please ... pleeeease?" I combined that with my famous "sad puppy dog look" guaranteed to melt the heart of any mother who loves her son. And it worked that day, too.
Mom looked at me, then the bugle. I'm sure she was thinking, "Will this kid actually play that thing?" Her answer to herself was probably something like, "Probably not, but I love that little monkey."
And so I walked out of the store with my new bugle. Somehow, probably with the help of my big brother I learned to play reveille and taps. Or at least I thought I learned to play them.
Then came the day to try out my new found skill with the horn. My Scout troop was going on a weekend camping trip. It was the perfect opportunity. I'd be the hit of the campground.
We left early Saturday morning with my bugle secretly stuffed in my backpack. As we drove to the campground I dropped a few hints as to what was to come. "You guys are really going to be impressed this weekend," I said with an air of mystery.
They gave me a puzzled look. "What are you talking about?" said one. "Impressed by what?" asked another. "All in good time my dear fellows," I replied with a knowing smirk.
The hours seemed to drag by that day even though they were filled with the usual hikes and lessons on building campfires. I couldn't wait for evening to come.
Finally the time came when the campfire was dying and the leaders had finished their last cup of coffee. "OK, boys," said Mr. Hoban our Scoutmaster. "Time for bed." Then as everyone headed for their tents I reached into my backpack and pulled out my bugle. I marched over to the edge of the camp, stood at attention and put the bugle to my lips.
As the plaintive and mournful sound of taps echoed across the darkening encampment, I heard the voices of my fellow scouts emanating from their respective tents. "What the heck is that?" asked someone. "It sounds like Mr. Hoban had too much chili for supper." "Nah..." said someone else, "it just a moose in heat."
Undaunted by the comments, I continued on. After the last note I brought the bugle down smartly and marched back to my tent. By then some heads were poking out of the other tents. "That was you?" my buddy Jerry asked. I nodded in agreement. "Why?" he continued.
"It was Taps," I said. "You know, 'Day is done, gone the sun.'"
He stared at me.
"It's what they play at military funerals." The stare continued then he said, "Who died?"
"Nobody died!" I yelled. Mr. Hoban then stuck his head out. "You boys be quiet and go to bed and whoever's making that God awful noise, cut it out!" I went to my tent disappointed but not defeated. Just wait until they hear reveille, I thought.
I dropped off to sleep running through the notes of reveille in my head. And I imagined the rousing round of applause that would greet me at the conclusion of my morning performance.
The sun was just coming up when I woke that morning. I crawled out of my sleeping bag, once again marched smartly to my position and brought the bugle to my lips.
It was a beautiful morning. The air was calm and the sky was turning beautiful shades of pink. I thought I even heard the birds softly snoring in the trees. I took a deep breath and blew. As the notes poured from my bugle I knew Harry James never sounded so good.
My eyes were closed as I ran through my stirring version of reveille. I imagined my fellow scouts coming awake filled with a deep appreciation for their new bugler - me. Suddenly something hit me in the back of my head. It was a boot. Before I recovered from that something else flew by my head. Another boot. I quickly finished reveille and ran to my tent.
Once the commotion and grumbling settled down I ventured out to the center of the camp where Mr. Hoban was getting the campfire going again.
He looked up at me and said, "I hear you brought a bugle to camp." I nodded meekly. "Well, maybe the guys need a little time to adjust to that and well, maybe you need some time to practice before you try it again." Again I nodded.
Later some of the guys came around and asked to see my new bugle. I was a little afraid someone might stomp on it but no one did. A couple of guys even asked me to show them how to play it, which I was glad to do.
Looking back on that weekend I realize that once again I learned a valuable life lesson from the Boy Scouts. Never surprise someone with a new bugle.
Terry Turner is a Prime writer who can be reached at turnert185@outlook.com
