Boom Box Bugler

If ya gotta toot your own horn, you'd better hire a new bugler."

Words of advice from a wise friend. Granted, he offered them in the context of vanity, and in the interests of full disclosure, pride could have been a motivator the day I decided to buy a bugle. But in my defense, I decided to buy one after Frank Wainwright's funeral.

I knew Frank probably better than the next of kin who reluctantly sat in the front of the church, first pew. In case you're wondering, I use the word reluctantly on purpose. In his last years, Frank was a cantankerous old man, intolerably grumpy. Part of the problem was, I suspect, just his nature; part of it, though, was attributable to the shrapnel buried in his legs since June 7, 1944, when his landing craft was turned to metal shards and wooden splinters a few yards from Utah Beach, Normandy, France.

Yes, Frank was a veteran. And thanks to Congress, he was entitled to a free flag presented by a member of his military service and the sounding of Taps at his funeral. Therein lies the problem.

Have you tried to hire a bugler lately? 

New or used, they're a vanishing breed. Congress must have recognized that shortage because it generously modified the law to authorize recorded versions of a bugle as a suitable substitute.

So, Frank's service closed with a very dignified folding of the American Flag preceded by an undignified, electronic bugle rendition of something that sounded like Taps. Crotchety or not, the old man deserved better.

Unfortunately, Taps-by-boombox has all but taken the place of the lone soldier and his bugle at military funerals. 

A shame, actually, because it's an amazing work, Taps. At just 24 notes, it will tug at your heartstrings, even if you have no personal ties to the martial sound or special bond with those who do. It's the sweetest of all calls and, after 30 years, the single-most powerful trigger that, with just a few notes, can take me back to a time when duty, honor, and country were my stock in trade. 

More important, it's a tradition all men and women who've worn the uniform have had in common since the Civil War. It's a promise to each that when the shadows of their lives lengthen and the veteran's work is done, their last rites will include the sounding of Taps.

With the noble goal of banishing the dreaded boombox from the military funeral, I bought a bugle. It came complete with the standard warning that Taps would be the hardest 24 notes I would ever sound. Nevertheless, I began practicing in earnest; my first brassy squeaks and squawks were born in the basement with only the family dog present. And she was so deaf she couldn't have passed muster in Helen Keller's remedial canine school for the hard-of-hearing. Only after I reached an inconsistently recognizable presentation did I venture outdoors to practice.

Then, for months, I traveled the backcountry roads and highways of the Pacific Northwest in search of places where the bugle could tell its story. The concert halls were small municipal cemeteries and overgrown, abandoned graveyards. Dressed in my jeans, I'd march through forgotten churchyards and burial grounds, collecting cockleburs on my socks. 

Sometimes when the path was clear of rattlesnakes and red ant hills, the concerts went well. Other times not so much, like the first time the snow was ankle-deep, or when the sun chapped my lips, or a bee crawled up my pant leg. Sometimes I just had a bad day. 

Over the months, though, the sounding improved. It would never be good enough for the audience that never complains. But then, they wouldn't. Every one of them would have known the sequence of the sound and cadence. Every one of them would have known it came from my heart.

I gradually transitioned from the solitude of the solitary bugler in a hidden cemetery to rendering the honors for veterans at their last roll call. The National Guard's Regional Honor Guard unofficially adopted me as their bugler, and with their encouragement, I even put the uniform back on. Overcoming my reluctance to dressing the part was a small price to pay to show the families of the fallen that our country still cares enough to recognize the traditions they held dear.

I still have a hard time passing a country cemetery when I see one on a day trip or vacation. And I still get a bit misty-eyed when I put the bugle to my lips, and each note finds its proper place. But when that happens, my heart is more at peace than at any time since the last time I wore the uniform and listened to Taps echoing across a military installation more than 30 years ago.

Today, when I hear that soulful sound, I'm reminded that the servicemen and women for whom it cries were real once-I might even argue they still are. And I met those whose stories are contained in these pages, courtesy of an old bugle call.