Bullhorn

Back in the way back day, when we lived in the house on the water, my dad had a bullhorn. I think he got it as a present, but then again, I wouldn't be surprised if he actually picked it up himself at the local hardware store that also sold really nice and preppy tote bags. I miss that place. 

Anyhoo, back in the way back day, our house was affectionately known in the summers as Camp MyLastName because there was always some combination of me and my sisters friends there, hanging out, uninvited but welcome. There was a little power boat and a little sail boat and coolers that never seemed to empty of cheap beers in cans. My sisters friends who were post-collegiate would read the New York Times and eat lobster rolls and nurse hangovers. My friends, teenagers then, were just grateful to be included. And drink cheap beer in cans without punishment. (I mean, we were almost 18 and the law hadn't been 21 that long.) It was the 80s and I felt pretty untouchable and lucky. Life was kind of good but with a really, really bad soundtrack.

So my dad played nothing but Willie Nelson or Johnny Cash or sometimes Bonnie Raitt. And he had his bullhorn.

While the rest of us lounged in beach chairs all over the lawn, little groups of chatters or readers or hangers on, he would sit in the shade of a weeping cherry tree, invisible to the boats passing by. And he would hit the button on the bullhorn and rate each machine passing by. 

A cigarette boat with a name like Honey Titz would get a blaring "FOOOOOUUUURRR!" but a Hinckley would hear "You My Friend Get a Ten." He would also comment on other things: "Stop Kissing!" he would bellow, "More Sunscreen" he might shout and the ever popular "SLOW DOWN!!!!" which was the only embarrassing holler we would all participate in. 

It was mortifying but also pretty freaking funny and none of us ever budged from our chairs even as we cringed in them. When my boyfriend would dock his boat to hang out, my dad would critique the entire exercise for all the harbor to hear. I'm really surprised that boyfriend ever came back. But then again, there were those coolers... 

I'm not sure what had me thinking about that today, since it's wet and cold and windy and I can't even remember summer. I think it's the nostalgia of the season: holidays past and whatnot. And my dad's in Italy, where's he'll be through Christmas, just like last year and I doubt he plays around with a bullhorn anymore. 

I think I should get one and hide out in an upstairs street-facing bedroom and heckle all the kids walking home from school. "Where's your helmet?" I might say, or "Do your homework first thing" or the ever popular "SLOW DOWN!" 

I am nothing if not a lover of tradition.