Autobiography. Chapter one.

WHAT I REMEMBER – OR – OUR CLOWNS ARE NOT TO BE LAUGHED AT.

My Autobiography.   By Tim Torkildson.   Started on Friday November 24. 2023.

“Cherish all your happy moments; they make a fine cushion for old age.”

Booth Tarkington

Chapter one.

It’s the day after Thanksgiving. I’ve just had a plate of leftover turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. With a slab of cranberry sauce. Washed down with a Mountain Dew.

I ate it on the patio of our daughter Madelaine’s house, in Woodbridge, Virginia. She flew us out here earlier in the week for a two week stay. Having just turned 70 in September, and being grossly overweight and suffering from bad knees and bad feet, I never thought to do any extensive traveling again, prior to her invitation. The credit for this lovely miracle so late in my life is due to the encouragement and help of the lady I like to refer to as Wonder Woman – Amy Lynn Snyder Torkildson.  My wife for 15 years, and now my wife again for the past 3.

When I told her today I was starting a rewrite of my autobiography (for I have written one before; some thirty years before, entitled Clown Notes) she shook her head quietly and either said or thought so hard that I heard it: “You’ll never go through with it.”

And if precedent is anything to go by, she’s right. I start strong and then stop even stronger. But I’ll be tinkering with this thing the rest of my life. A man needs a hobby; tinkering with a memoir, like tinkering with an old car, accomplishes little but eats up the time in a dignified manner.

And since I may never finish this thing, I’ll put the conclusion to it right here. It’s a Japanese death poem, from a book of death poems compiled by Yoel Hoffman.

The 3 lines are by Hakurin:

Well, then, let’s follow

The peal of bells to the

Yonder shore.

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Amy wants to watch horse movies tonight on the Freevee Channel. So I continue my tinkering. 

The character of the Editor, who interrupts this narrative with questions and criticisms, is a literary device to break up the thick slabs of narrative with some dialogue. In my previous autobiography, Clown Notes, I made up conversations. Which caused readers to keep asking “How can you remember exactly what they said all those years ago?” Which irritated me. So this time around I’ll use the Editor.

My first memory is of a horse installed in our garage on 18th Avenue Southeast in Minneapolis.

Both my parents told me years later it was a palpably idiotic idea, and never happened. None of my siblings remember it either. So it never happened?

“Do you remember when Daisy was born at home, and all you kids were there when the midwife delivered her”
I once asked Madelaine.

“I wasn’t there, dad. I was at girl’s camp that week” she told me firmly.

So another memory shot to hell. The persistence of memory, in my case at least, then, is the persistence of error. 

It wouldn’t surprise me if most of my memories are an amalgam of episodes from the books of H.G. Wells, Lewis Carol, Balzac, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. For as a child I lay on my bed reading while my childhood ran out. Holding a book felt good. Felt right. When my parents began yelling at each other I’d flee to my room to grab the first handy book, then begin to read until the noise downstairs became part of the book’s dialogue. 

Editor: “This is rather a pedestrian observation. Did you dabble in any pornography? That would lend more interest to your story.”

Me: “No I did not. I liked pure and exhilarating stories and pulp fiction along the lines of Tarzan. I never even looked at a Playboy magazine until I was in my 40s. If you want to be helpful go search the aether for a book called The Lemonade Test, which I read when I was in 3rd grade and tormented by bullies, which tells of a chemical that turns bullies into nice kids. I’ve never been able to find it on the internet. That story moved me to tears.”

Editor:  “You sure this isn’t just another one of your make-believe memories that has no basis in fact?”

Me:  “No, I’m not. But you need to leave now. You ask too many impertinent and disturbing questions.”

Other books left a lasting impression on me in my teenage years:

W.C. Field. His Fortunes and Follies. By Robert Taylor.

Mr. Laurel & Mr. Hardy. By John McCabe.

Buster Keaton. By Rudi Blesch. 

Notes on a Cowardly Lion. by John Lahr. 

I recall the writing in those four biographies as being both robust and sometimes sentimental. Celebrating clowns is godly work.

I cut my teeth on S.J. Perelman. His finicky humor turned my vocabulary into a tumorous growth. 

I never got along too well with Mark Twain. I enjoyed reading about his life more than I enjoyed reading his books.

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When I was six I poked a wasp’s nest with a stick. They swarmed over me as I ran down the block screaming. I’ve been running ever since. Most often fueled by a bottomless rage which needs to be bled dry every day like an overloaded radiator to avoid ridiculous explosions of petty wrath.

Such as peeling potatoes for the Thanksgiving lefse this year. Scraping some skin off my index finger with the peeler, I gave vent to a foul expletive. One I would never purposely use. Yet I said it because I was surprised with a minor cut, and my daughter Madelaine heard me say it. That’s not the way I want her, or anyone, to remember me. So let’s drain the outrage this instant, shall we? Just for another day.

Editor:  “Where does this bottomless rage come from, Tim? Your readers want to know that.”

Me:  “After half a dozen therapists, I still don’t know. A combination of vivid imagination, uncontrollable ego, and sense of frustrated entitlement, maybe. Anyway, no one wants to read that kind of psycho-babble. And I don’t want to write any of it, either!”

Editor:  “I’m sensing a pattern of denial here, Timmy. Whenever you face an unpleasant reality about yourself you shut me out rather than confront it, explore it, and perhaps come to terms with it. Or you dismiss it with a joke.”

Me:  “Shut up. And don’t call me Timmy!”

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When I google myself, here are the first three headlines to appear:

Utah Poet Trades Prose For Cash.

Our Newsroom Doesn’t Have A Poet Laureate, But This Guy Comes Pretty Close.

School Blogger Tim Torkildson Fired After Boss Confuses Homophones With Homophobes.

So if I don’t intervene on my own behalf, those headlines will define me, tell the world who I am and who I was. Which I don’t like. I’ve lived a long life, slightly askew. And I want to narrate and interpret it myself. Which reminds me, I should request a copy of my Patriarchal Blessing. I lost my last copy years ago . . .

And through the magic of the internet and Church archives . . . I now have a digital copy in front of me.

I am of the lineage of Ephraim. By blood or adoption. Amy says Ephraim is the tribe of leadership.

Quoting from the Church website, under Ephraim:

Ephraim was given the birthright in Israel (1 Chr. 5:1–2; Jer. 31:9). In the last days their privilege and responsibility is to bear the priesthood, take the message of the restored gospel to the world, and raise an ensign to gather scattered Israel (Isa. 11:12–13; 2 Ne. 21:12–13). The children of Ephraim will crown with glory those from the north countries who return in the last days (D&C 133:26–34).

According to Wikipedia, Ephraim translates as “I will be fruitful.” That part, at least, I can vouch for. Eight children is a quiverfull, by any standard. Amy and I planned to have a dozen kids when we first married, and that purpose never wavered despite illness and poverty. We never made it because we divorced after 15 years together. By the time we got back together again the fruitful days of our youth had vanished. If you’re looking for hindsight regret for our decision to have so many kids you won’t get it from me. I’m grateful for all of our kids and love each one of ‘em. Amy bore the brunt of the toil and heartbreak of raising a large brood. She has every scintilla of gratitude and love I can muster for this. When the books are finally balanced at Judgement Day she will be recognized and acclaimed by all as an amazing heroine. She is truly my Wonder Woman.

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Quoting from my Patriarchal Blessing:

“You are to be a leaven for righteousness wherever your lot is cast, and you will not move about the world except under the design of your God and Father . . . “

This statement I take to explain in part my wanderlust between the ages of 18 and 65, when I never wanted to stay rooted very long in any one place. 

Editor:  “So were you led by God, or did you simply stray to so many different places because of your own restlessness?”

Me:  “Good question. I think I’d like to sleep on it.

And so to bed.

That was an excellent nap. I slept wearing my thick winter coat, which weighs five pounds and was made in China. Amy said she bought it online for two dollars.

Now to my transient state of mind. In my younger times I lacked the virtue of wu wei – the taoist belief in the value of non-action. I thought, mistakenly, that every issue must be forced and that my thought and will should be paramount. And that what I wanted must be what God wanted. If I wanted to move to what I thought were greener pastures, then it had to be the right, the only, inspired path to take.

From the web page The School of Life, these words capture how I want wu wei works to work in my life today: 

Wu wei is closely connected to the Daoist reverence for the natural world, for it means striving to make our behavior as spontaneous and inevitable as certain natural processes, and to ensure that we are swimming with rather than against currents. We are to be like the bamboo that bends in the wind or the plant that adjusts itself to the shape of a tree. Wu wei involves letting go of ideals that we may otherwise try to force too violently onto things; it invites us instead to respond to the true demands of situations, which tend only to be noticed when we put our own ego-driven plans aside. What can follow is a loss of self-consciousness, a new unity between the self and its environment, which releases an energy that is normally held back by an overly aggressive, wilful style of thinking. 

Today I hold dear the stillness and modesty of our little apartment at Valley Villa in Provo. And because there is a temple just four blocks away, I feel I have come to my final home, where mystery and joy blend to create a warm light in my mind and heart. 

Editor:  “Aren’t you forgetting that mostly you’ve become extremely sluggish and lazy due to sitting around all day pretending to be in deep thought? That’s really why you want to make your sedentary lifestyle into a virtue. Remember one of your favorite lines from Balzac: ‘He sat in his study, as dumb as a carp.’

Me:  Stifle it, Edith.

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I grew up in a 3 bedroom house at 900 19th Avenue Southeast, near the University of Minnesota, in Minneapolis. We had one bathroom for six people. 

There was a swing set and a willow tree in the backyard. My memory insists that there was a mysterious hole in the backyard that appeared during the hasty spring thaw in April. The snow stayed piled up three or four feet all winter, until a sudden burst of heat in mid-April caused it to melt in just two or three days. This was often the cause of terrific spring flooding around the state, and in our backyard a small hole appeared in the soggy ground right under the clothesline – it sucked up all the meltwater so our yard did not become a swamp like all the other yards in the neighborhood.

Where did that hole come from? Where did it go? No one ever wondered about this but me. In my imagination that meltwater was siphoned into a huge underground cave full of forgotten prehistoric creatures thrashing about in icy darkness. I never got too close to that hole, lest I get sucked down and perish in the jaws of an ichthyosaurus. My mother couldn’t understand my reluctance to go near the clotheslines in April. When I told her about the dreadful hole (which always disappeared overnight in early May) she just shook her head. Thinking, no doubt, that I must be a changeling.

I also liked to pry thin slabs of ice off frozen puddles on my way home from school to crash over my head. A la the Three Stooges. The neighbors viewing little Timmy Torkildson happily trying to induce a concussion this way occassionally went to my mother to gently inquire if her little boy were right in the head. She would sigh and tell them to mind their own business, then tell me to leave the frozen puddles alone for gosh sakes. 

Having had eight children with Amy now, I can empathize with my mom for fretting over the odd behavior of the fledgling minds under her care. Although I don’t think that Billy, Sue Ellen, or Linda, gave her quite the amount of jitters that I did. 

My imagination has always needed domesticating.

Editor:  “I notice you using some ten-dollar words in your narrative so far, as well as making reference to things that most people won’t know about. Is this on purpose?”

Me:  “It’s just the way I write. When I was reading S.J. Perelman as a kid I had to stop frequently to look up a word or a phrase in the dictionary. My readers can do the same thing.”

Editor:  “Do you really think any of them will do so?”

Me:  “No. Not really. And if it’s off putting, so be it. I’m writing this thing for my own enjoyment and entertainment. It won’t be fit reading for the crop of ignoramuses coming down the pike.”

Editor:  “But if you want readers to know . . . “

Me:  “This is not a commercial venture, bub. So put a sock in it.”

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I don’t know how to approach writing about my dad. He was a heavy drinker, smoked like a chimney, delighted in profanity, and was a dedicated skirt chaser. He never told me, that I can remember, that he loved me. I never told him I loved him. 

Yet he always kept us in our own home with solid food and warm clothes. He was a better provider than I ever was for my family. He’s a wild card in this narrative; I’m not sure at this point where he’ll show up or what else I’ll write about him.

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Some of my friends and contemporaries have offered a ‘foreword’ to my life and hard times. This one is from Nathan Draper, a friend from my days in corporate Thailand:

Tim Torkildson came into my orbit in 2003 while I was living in

Thailand and working for a magic juice grift from Provo called

Tahitian Noni International. Peter Willden had invited Tim to come

to Thailand to start life anew. I think that was the general concept.

Riches and fame awaited as he would soon be rubbing elbows, and

chopsticks, with the powerful diplomatic community, teaching their

children the finer points of American literature as they prepared to

enter Harvard, Yale, or Chulalongkorn University. I think he even

got a new business suit to play the part!

When Tim arrived I soon learned a bit about his history as a

Thailand missionary and a former clown with Ringling Brothers. I

didn’t know that it was history, for at that time this line of work had

not really left him. IMO, it never has. The day Tim ran away to join

the circus he had found his calling.

But on this foray to Thailand, a type of “escape from Alcatraz”

maneuver, Tim didn’t stick around long. My naïveté was still in

force when I asked Tim to handle some business matters while I was

out of the country. Upon my return Tim was gone. I wouldn’t hear

from the minion of Minnesota for many more years.

Before Tim skipped town I asked him, or he offered, to interview

me about the most stressful year of my life, 2002, which I’ve

listened to a few times since recording it. Tim would have made an

excellent late night show host if given the chance! I would have

liked to hear him interview Boyd K. Packer!

Over the years I learned several things from being around Tim not

the least of which was the power of language and that everyone has,

or needs, a shtick! Tim had a shtick which comes through in his

writings. He never tires of relating stories of his circus days and

never lets the truth get in the way of a good story, including his run

in with the smallest man in the world who helped him get expelled

from the big top! (I have this story on “tape” and it will debut at

Tim’s funeral!)

Tim writes poetry every day. I never knew people did such things

until meeting him. I admire this nuclear habit which he does for his

own purpose and of his own volition, without the requirement of

compensation. I contend that this art form and offering to god will

get him much further up the celestial staircase than would a calling

of Bishop, Stake President or General Authority. I’d much rather

hear a Timrick or haiku than the latest statistical report by the

heavenly accountants! These lyrical masterpieces will be passed

down through the clouds to the terrestrial realms where we can

enjoy a good laugh, even on Mondays.

If this isn’t enough, Tim has the distinction of being the only person

I personally know whose antics made headlines on The Drudge

Report. If you don’t believe me: Google Homophones and Tim

Torkildson. Eat your heart out Mr. Michu!

This, along with many other headlines from the New York Times or

Washington Post, gave Tim much satisfaction. Indeed, for Tim, all

press, any press, anywhere, anytime was good press. I wonder if he

ever tried to get published in Playboy? I’ll have to ask. Either way,

I’m sure the NYT missed an opportunity to make Tim their official a

poet laureate.

I’ve enjoyed our sarcastic duels over the years, some over burgers

and fries, some with a side of rutabaga casserole (don’t ask). From

my perspective Tim’s life story illustrates the crapshoot in which we

all live. Some days everything goes right, and many days a lot goes

wrong, even with the gods in your corner. Tim has navigated the

events of his life with the ability to laugh at everything! After all we

are all part of the cosmic comedy where everything is made up and

the points don’t matter. I like to think that Tim must have said

“When life gives you lemons, write poetry!”

“Poetry is the great language because poetry is the art of saying

what can’t be said. Every poet knows this.” — Alan Watts

   

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