The Blighted Trumpet

This was my father’s trumpet. It’s beat, bent, and busted. But I just blew it here in Pine Hollow Studios so we could put some distant notes behind a song. Long time ago, in the essay “Scarlet Ribbons,” I wrote about how Dad’s trumpet playing altered the course of my life. After five minutes in the booth, my lips are half numb and my mustache smells of brass, but I can still muddle through the C scale, and we got what we needed.

“Scarlet Ribbons” is in this collection:

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