My mom – Bubbe, to the kids – gave my 10-year-old a bugle.

The bugle was gifted out of a large wicker picnic basket appropriately dubbed “Bubbe’s Basket.”  Bubbe’s Basket was invented long before Bubbe was ever a bubbe; it’s roots were planted by her mother, my grandmother, who would leave a lovely little present on my sister’s and my pillows whenever we would visit.  Here’s the thing, though: my grandparents lived two airplane rides away in New Jersey, so we saw them four or five times a year.  We can be at my parents’ doorstep in five hours by car.  We see them a lot.  This winter we were averaging two times a month.  Yet, Bubbe has never missed a basket.

Even when Kyle and I would wring our hands in exasperation and say things like, “Stop, Bubbe; these children are spoiled rotten!”  Bubbe would find a way.  A t-shirt or pajamas, because “It wasn’t a present.”  Once, when I specifically called to tell her NO BUBBE’S BASKET – we had seen them six days prior – she brought the basket filled with chocolate chip cookie bars.  There’s no stopping a Bubbe.

It was on another one of these NO BUBBE’S BASKET calls that my mother announced that she just simply couldn’t skip Bubbe’s Basket that coming weekend because she needed to deliver Ten his bugle.

“What bugle?”  I said.

“The bugle he wanted,” she replied.  “I asked him what to get for Bubbe’s Basket and he said a bugle.”

I pursed my lips and gave Ten – who had been minding his own business but was now staring at me because he knew trouble was a-comin’ – a look that said, “IF YOUR BUBBE ASKS WHAT YOU WANT YOU SAY YOU WANT TO SEE BUBBE THE END.”

“He doesn’t need a bugle,” I said.  “No bugle.”

“Too late,” my mother said.  “I ordered it from Mount Vernon.”

“Send it back,” I said.  “George Washington will understand.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amanda,” my mother said.  “You can’t return a bugle.”

“You can absolutely return a bugle,” I said, but the conversation had long been over.

Let’s fast-forward a bit, past the unwrapping of the bugle, the testing of the bugle, the YouTubing instructional videos for the bugle, the successful playing of the bugle, the sitting in the living room applauding the mastery of the bugle; and, after twenty minutes of bugling, the rule setting that the bugle could only be played in the basement or Ten’s bedroom.

Yesterday, Ten was in the backyard rabble rousing with a pack of five boys.  The noise went from wild and raucous to immediately silent – which, in little boy universe, is the bugle equivalent to puffing gently through a cotton ball and then blowing as hard as you can into someone’s ear.

I went to the window.  The boys were encircled around something on the ground.  I knocked and gestured to Ten to come inside.  He said something seriously to the other boys; they nodded and returned their gaze to the center of the circle.

“There are three baby birds,” Ten told me moments later.  “One by the swing, one by the post, and one by the edge of the playset, and they are all dead.”

We had two birdhouses on top of the playset.  We originally had one birdhouse, but it was such a hot commodity that we found that birds were fighting – or, in this case, probably pushing babies out – in order to take over the space, which is why Kyle added a second.

“Oh, no!  Do you know what happened to those baby birds?”  I asked, because, like my friend Beth said, trust (that your children aren’t turds), but verify.

He looked at me very seriously.

“Nature can be brutal,” he said.

“Yes, it can,” I said.  “But were you and your friends a part of that nature?”

“No, we weren’t,” Ten said, his voice aghast.  “We didn’t even know there were baby birds in there.”

I checked the backyard camera, anyways; and confirmed that nature can be brutal.

“That is very sad,” I said.  “Should you bury them?”

“Yes, we should,” Ten said.

He and his friends got a shovel and a shoebox.  They put the birds into the shoebox.  They dug a small hole in the garden, realized the hole was too small for the box, and dumped the birds from the box into the hole.  They covered it up.

Then, as one would, Ten pulled out his bugle and played…something.  Maybe taps.  I think a part of it may have been “Greased Lightning” because he had been singing it earlier that morning.  Whatever it was, it was an appropriate send-off for three baby birds.  Also, it was long.  A long and appropriate send-off.

The shovel was returned to the garage, the boys returned to their play, and I put the bugle back in Ten’s bedroom because I want to continue living in this house and I’m not too sure how many renditions of bugled “Greased Lightning” our neighbors can take.  Still, on behalf of the birds and us all, thank you, Bubbe.

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The photo above is of Bubbe wearing the t-shirt my husband gave her.

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This week on North Dakota Today we talked about Jen and Akira, my Nice People of the Week, as well as two new benches in New England courtesy of some diligent recycling. (Valley News Live)

Congratulations to Bismarck’s Kennedy Delap, Miss North Dakota 2025! (Valley News Live)

The 4-6-3 Foundation’s Liam G. Medd Memorial Baseball Tournament was a grand slam success.  Check out the photos here. (Facebook)

Moorhead’s Boaz Bike Ministries has fixed up a stack of bikes for children and adults to get to work and play. (Fargo Forum; Found from “Oops Only Good News”)

Minot’s 2nd Story is celebrating 50 years of building community by fostering social connections for people with disabilities. (Minot Daily News)

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