I could ring the bell on a weekend morning and The Professor would steam up the stairs to find out what attention was being summoned. Our kids soon recognized that it generally meant "Service"...of the culinary kind. It went as far as picking up freshly baked croissants from a neighbouring town. Once the tradition had been set, the bell rang and four little feet hit the floor running wildly in order to launch themselves into my bed just in time to place their own "orders". It only lasted until the teenaged years, and occasionally, one sleepyhead or another would bark out from under a pillow that they'd also like the treats, but were unwilling to move just yet.
The Professor never faltered. He always answered the bell and friends, in an effort to keep the hilarity alive, even contributed to my collection. Nowadays, the bells collect dust and The Professor may or may not hear any entreaty, let alone a little china clapper.
I was reminded of my bell-ringing days by my friend Helen who recently broke her ankle. She has now resorted to using her cell phone to call down several flights for assistance. I never thought of this, but you can be sure I'll be giving it a try. Now that I know how to text, my bell will be the Clarabell version.