When did I turn into Mr. Wilson?
All of my life I have relished the Dennis the Menace role. Instead, I turn out to be the old guy muttering in the street about these darn kids.
Today I had a visit from Mr. Wilson.
The scene looked innocent enough. 10-year old boy on his way home from school. But with a deadly weapon in his hand.
Not a hand gun. Not even a sling shot. But -- a bugle.
In itself, the bugle is a benign instrument. Even a bit aesthetic with curves in all the right places.
But putting one in the hands of a boy is like giving money and power to politicians. It simply will not turn out well.
I had never seen him before. So, I indulged in the optimism of the ignorant. Maybe he does not live near. Ignoring the fact that there only about two blocks where he could live on our little laguna-locked peninsula.
But I did not have to wait to hear where he lived. He was so beamingly proud of his newly-acquired instrument of mass musical destruction that he could not wait to get home to press it to his lips.
Up it went. And the result was just as bad as you could expect from someone with little music sense, even less talent, and no time to wait for the inconvenience of scales and practice.
And I did not mind it one bit. Other than a bit of wincing.
I love music. And I love people who are excited enough to attempt to make some of their own.
I wish him well. He may turn out to be the next boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B.
But, far more likely he will hook up with the local village band that relies solely on enthusiasm and volume for their appearances.
Even that will be fine. After all, I moved to Mexico, not to Julliard.
And I have learned something new. The sound of a badly-played bugle can travel a long, long way from a ten-year old's home.
Even further than a cock's crow.
