Again and again, I got the horn to make noise, and every single time, I’d cackle for a good fifteen or twenty seconds, like any two-year-old would.
Maturity and bladder control came with age. By the time I turned three, I was out of diapers, and my parents and I were shopping for my very own trumpet. I couldn’t hold it up for long at first, not even the regular sized one, but I could play it without giggling.
There was footage of me standing on my tiptoes to put my lips to the mouthpiece as the bell end sat face down on the coffee table like the flugelhorn. I blew so hard, the brass rattled against the glass.
“No, Renny.” My mother never yelled, even when she scolded me. “It’s bad luck to blow into a brass or woodwind instrument not held in its proper position.”
My mother had all sorts
