The One and Only Gatekeeper

"Therefore ye must always pray unto the Father in my name"

All may approach the Throne of God but none the Kingdom gain

Who do not have the name of Jesus Christ in heart and brain.

All the good that’s ever done will find a just reward,

But access to the Father is completely through the Lord.

So do not think a substitute will pass you through the gate;

No proxy has the Father named to take His Son’s mandate.

The Clown and the Sabbath

It is a cruel twist of fate that when I go down in the circus history books, if I go down in them at all, it will be because of my titanic battle with Michu, the World’s Smallest Man, and not because I am the only Ringling clown to ever negotiate a contract with Irvin Feld that gave me the absolute right to have every Sunday off from work.

I grew up in a time and a place where Sunday was purposely different from any other day of the week. There was a strong element of self-righteous piety, not to mention smugness and hypocrisy, in the Scandinavian/German neighborhoods of Minneapolis sixty years ago. It had little to do with religion but much to do with goofing off. Businesses, shops, markets, and factories were all closed on Sunday -- but the theaters, restaurants, and saloons were wide open and did a roaring business. As a child and teenager I devoted every Sunday that I could to fishing. The Mississippi was just a few blocks from my house and Como Lake was within easy bicycling distance. My childhood religion consisted of worshipping a bamboo pole and a coffee can full of nightcrawlers.

When I left home to join Ringling Brothers I simultaneously left my mother’s Catholic faith for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Mormons. And one of the main tenets is proper Sabbath Day observance. The Lord told Joseph Smith:  “For verily this is a day appointed unto you to rest from your labors, and to pay thy devotions unto the Most High.”

As a First of May, of course, I worked every Sunday. Business was always good on Sundays -- parents enjoyed taking their children to see the elephants and clowns after church services. But I was troubled about breaking the Sabbath day and not keeping it holy. When I shared my feelings of guilt with my great pal and LDS exemplar Tim Holst he explained his pragmatic view about it.

“Look, Tork” he said. “Some people have to work on Sundays -- like policemen, firemen, doctors and nurses, and bus drivers. The Lord doesn’t condemn them for it. We gotta work on Sundays, too. It’s part of the job. And we always try to get to Sacrament Meeting before the show whenever we can, right? I think the Lord is alright with our efforts.”

But I remained unconvinced. I was uneasy with applying the greasepaint when I should have been knotting a necktie for church services. So I wasn’t exactly heartbroken when I left the show after the next season to go study pantomime down in Mexico. We never had class on Sundays, of course, so I could take the Tres Estrellas bus into Morelia for church each week. And even though the entire service was in Spanish, which I did not understand, I felt more at peace with my own beliefs.

Then came the call from Washington DC, from the Ringling office. Would I be interested in teaming up with Steve Smith to work as advance clown for the Blue Unit?

A week later Smith and I were seated in Irvin Feld’s dim private office. Because his eyesight was damaged by high blood pressure, he kept the blinds down and used special French-manufactured light bulbs inside green lampshades. The dignified murk reminded me of a gypsy mitt joint I had once entered in Greenwich Village.

After a few pleasantries, Mr. Feld got down to brass tacks. We were expected to be ready to start traveling ahead of the show in three weeks. Our salary and benefits were set out in standard boilerplate language in the contract. All we needed to do was sign on the dotted line. Smith eagerly reached for the pen proffered by Mr. Feld and scribbled away. When he handed me the pen I gulped several times as if trying to swallow my Adam’s apple, and finally spoke up in a timid squeak. I had made up my mind to negotiate.

“Um, would it be okay if something were added about me not working on Sundays?” I asked in a whisper.

Smith ground his heel into the toes of my right foot to indicate surprise and mild displeasure at my sudden and unexpected diffidence. His eyes rolled up into his head as he suppressed a groan of frustration. I was going to queer the deal!

“You want Sundays off? Why?” asked Feld.

“Um, because it’s Sunday and I, um, don’t want to break it like it says in the Bible, too” I explained with perfect lucidity.

Mr. Feld shrugged. He handed the contract back to Allen Bloom, who had been looming silently in the background.

“Here, Allen. Take this back and add something about Torkildson having Sundays off so we can get this thing signed. You two boys wait out in the lobby and Allen will have it back in a minute. Good luck.”

He stood up and shook our hands -- and that is how I cannily negotiated the only circus contract to ever contain language about Sabbath Day observance.  I wish I still had that contract -- I would donate it to the Smithsonian. (I could use the tax write-off.)

I confess that I did not remain very humble about my unique contract. When circus promoter Art Ricker would ask Smith and I to do a live Sunday TV talk show I simply pulled out my contract and waved it rudely in his face.

“Says here I don’t hafta do it, Art!” I would crow. Lucky for me, Smith was a good sport about the whole thing. He went and did them himself.

In the LDS cosmos where I have lived for the past 45 years, and in which I still continue to live, this story should have a neat wrap up -- one where my obedience to the commandments of God, such as keeping the Sabbath Day holy and going on an LDS mission for two years to Thailand and getting married in the Salt Lake Temple, allow me to keep my standards intact until I reach a hallowed and peaceful old age. But, instead, it turns out that contract was just a fluke. A one-time expedient that would never be repeated again. When I returned from my LDS mission and needed a job desperately, Mr. Feld was glad to hire me back -- but not as advance clown. I worked on the show for a regular clown’s salary, and I had to work Sundays like everyone else in clown alley. And I never got Sundays off again when I went to work for other circuses, either. And I was always glad to get the work, believe you me. I had a large family to support for much of that time.

But now that I’m retired living on a modest fixed income, and not in very good health, every day is a Sabbath Day -- a day of enforced idleness, if you will, and quiet contemplation. And even though there is no neat ending to this narrative, there is this one thing I’ve learned over the years about Sunday -- real Sabbath Day worship comes from the heart and not from outward forms and actions and restrictions. It took me a long time to learn that simple and basic bit of Christian doctrine.      

Bill O'Reilly

O’Reilly gets sued by the gals

For nonsensical rationales.

He is misconstrued

And called awful crude

For wanting to be their best pals.

He Will Return

“We testify that He will someday return to earth.”  

(Testimony of the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve. January 1, 2000)

The day will come when Christ returns,

And ev’ryone his mercy learns.

The stillness of the grave will crack.

The hopeless will receive hope back.

The miser will find gold a bore;

He’ll spread it as a happy chore.

Oppressors all will drop their whip.

Their victims will not vengeance grip.

Without exception we’ll detect

The Lord sees us, not our defect.

And children once again we’ll be

Now at his feet eternally.

Restaurant Review: The Deli at Smith's

Who knew supermarkets were going to turn into delicatessens? They all have pharmacies and takeout sushi, and on the East Coast they now serve drinks at an in-house bar for the weary housewife who needs a snort or two. So I thought I’d take me a look at the deli over at Smith’s on Freedom Boulevard in Provo. It’s catty-corner to the Rec Center, so when I got hungry this morning after my swim I got out my camera and notebook to record the experience for posterior . . . . er, posterity.

Drat! I got there too early -- there was no hot food ready yet, just sherbet and cold salads. I thought they had bacon and egg biscuits and such like, but they don’t. The fried chicken starts coming out around ten.

But not to worry -- when it comes to food we Torkildsons are zealous improvisers. I bought a bollito for 44 cents -- and I can tell you their bollitos are scrumptious. Brown and crisp on the outside, white and yielding on the inside -- they remind me of my days as a pantomime student back in Patzcuaro, Mexico. I bought 2 cans of Jumex pineapple coconut juice for a dollar. And a can of Cliff Side Sardines in soybean oil for a dollar-nineteen. Then I sat me down in their dinky deli section and feasted.

It is a utilitarian ambiance, I can tell you that. Meant for functionality, and nothing more. Anyone who lingers over their cafe au lait here is probably homeless. But I gotta hand it to them, they are well-stocked. They have plenty of plastic knives, forks, and spoons. Their packet selection is outstanding, featuring Tabasco sauce, mayo, taco sauce, mustard, ketchup, and tartar sauce (which is spelled on the bin label “Tar Tar.”) There is an abundance of non-dairy creamer and sugar packets. And something called ‘Equal.’ Salt and pepper packets (half of which are always empty, as if the manufacturer were playing a practical joke.) The paper towels and thick and brown. And there is a jumbo jug of hand sanitizer within easy reach.

I may come by again some day just for the bollitos. If I do, I’ll bring a couple of hard boiled eggs and some cheese so I can snack as cheaply as possible -- although I think I’ll still get two cans of Jumex for a dollar. That’s a pretty good deal.

Smith's has an inconspicuous stand by the produce section, where they offer a free piece of fruit to kids. I may just come in each morning a snag a free banana or apple for my breakfast, and forget about the bollito. On my Social Security, it's not easy to keep the wolf from the door.

Matt Margucci, Circus Music Composer.

It takes a rare combination of pluck, inspiration, and borderline insanity to write music for the circus. Pluck, because compensation from show owners is often slow and hesitant. Inspiration, because show tunes cannot be done by chromatic rote. And borderline insanity because only a madman would attempt to give musical wings to an aerialist or torture the trombones for a clownish melody. Such a one is my old friend, Matt Margucci.

Matt and I worked together on the Culpepper and Merriweather Circus back in 2008 and 2009. I began the 2008 season as one of the clowns, but the owner, Trey Key, soon decided that I had more promise working directly with the show sponsors -- so he made me the Publicity Director. That was a step up for me -- the money was better, and I got to work directly with Matt on promoting his original musical compositions.

Capturing the spirit of each individual act was a challenge that Matt relished. He created elegant waltzes for the Spanish Web girls. Rollicking scherzos for the clowns. And bombastic marches for the elephants and big cats. All without falling into cliched muzak. When I asked him how he did it, he just shrugged his shoulders and said: "I don't write the tunes, they write me. I get most of them in the back of my head while practicing my trumpet."

Although an accomplished pianist, Matt's first love is his Getzen trumpet. With Culpepper and Merriweather Matt often spent the early morning, after the tent was up, sitting on the bleachers and practicing on his horn, hour after hour. As melodies and musical bridges came to him, he would try them out on his trumpet. When his embouchure was just about ready to collapse he'd quit and come find me so we could go get some breakfast.

Matt and I share a belief that the only decent breakfasts left in America are made in hole in the wall cafes in small town America. That's where the hash browns are hashiest and the scrambled eggs are scrambliest. No yogurt-infused granola or fancy-schmancy acai berry compote on matzoh for us! We sought out the biggest, baddest waffles in the county and the thickest, meatiest sausage gravy over biscuits available -- and not the IHOP franchise pablum, either. We went straight to those weary old fry cooks whose feet hurt and whose aprons are not spotless, the ones that operate a storefront greasy spoon on a potholed main road in a dilapidated town in the Rust Belt or the Deep South. They knew how to serve up a breakfast that not only stuck to your ribs but invited the in-laws to come stay a while as well. Matt was an inveterate drinker of black coffee, while I couldn't get enough chocolate milk -- as long as it was ice cold. There is nothing that spoils my morning reverie quicker than mildly chilled chocolate milk. If it doesn't have penguins swimming in it, I don't want it.

The culmination of Matt's musical contributions to the circus came in 2009, when he released his one and only CD -- Big Top Afternoon. He was hoping it would be a bestseller, but it didn't quite live up to Matt's admittedly extravagant expectations. This really disappointed Matt, along with the fact that several shows had basically stiffed him in the matter of payment for his original circus compositions. So Matt retired from composing circus music to concentrate on his career as a therapeutic pianist in nursing homes in California. He also worked as an accomplished sideman with live bands at Native American casinos across the Southwest. And I left the country to go teach English in Thailand. We've exchanged a few letters and phone calls since then, but since Matt doesn't do social media I can't really say I've kept in touch with him.

So I guess this is my way of saying "Hi ya, Matt. How are things in Burbank?"

Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner Still Benefiting From Business Empire, Filings Show

Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner, President Trump’s daughter and son-in-law, will remain the beneficiaries of a sprawling real estate and investment business still worth as much as $741 million, despite their new government responsibilities, according to ethics filings released by the White House Friday night.  from the NYTimes.

the daughter of a president to poverty's immune;

she owns Manhattan real estate and some part of the Moon.

I wouldn't put it past her to have off shore bank accounts --

she'll never write a check that has the slightest chance to bounce.

her husband, too, a gravy train has coupled to his rear -- 

he can buy a Swiss chalet and treat it like small beer.

I'm glad to know Trump's children still enjoy prosperity --

and now if you'll excuse me I must file for EBT. 

The Clown and the Congressman

As the years piled up, the determination to shake off my self-imposed exile from Ringling Brothers started to become an unhealthy obsession. There were many other shows I could, and did, perform with. But I couldn’t get Ringling out of my mind for long. And at this point, being in my forties -- they were no longer interested in rehiring me. This mania led me down some strange paths.

None more stranger, perhaps, than my constant attempts to get my Congressman to intercede on my behalf. I figured since, at the time, the Ringling headquarters were over by Washington DC it just made sense to have my representative go to bat for me. Naturally, my letters went unanswered -- they all went into that vast circular file that lawmakers keep handy for communications from their crackpot constituents.

Until, that is, I sent a note to Senator Rudy Boschwitz -- the ‘Plywood King’ of Minnesota. I really did not expect to hear anything back from him -- I was just writing out of habit, more by rote than by hope. But, in a letter dated April 5, 1990, Senator Boschwitz detailed his attempts to help me out. Here is the entire text of that amazing letter:

Dear Tim;

Enclosed is a response to the inquiry I made on your behalf from the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

I sincerely regret the agency response could not be more favorable. If you feel there is something further which I can properly do to be of assistance in this or in any other matter, please let me know.

Sincerely, Rudy Boschwitz.

Good old Rudy . . . Is there a United States Senator today who would put himself or herself out like this for an obscure and obviously bonkers constituent? I doubt it.

The ‘response’ that Senator Boschwitz refers to came from Kenny Feld, Irvin Feld’s son, who was then running the show. It is dated March 8, 1990. Here it is in full:

Dear Senator Boschwitz;

I am in receipt of your letter dated February 28, 1990. Your File #005710012, regarding the possibility of rehring Tim Torkildson as a clown with Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus. There is never an age limit put on any of the people we hire as long as they can do the job.

Mr. Torkildson left the show and throughout the years has bad-mouthed our organization and operation. I know he has contacted many of our people and I’m sure has had an answer, even if it was not in writing.

At this time I do not have a position for Mr. Torkildson but I wish him well in whatever he pursues.

Sincerely, Kenneth Feld.

Senator Boschwitz did me a huge favor by getting Ringling Brothers to officially state my status with them -- persona non grata. Kenny’s letter finally freed me from my fixation with Ringling, and I began casting about in earnest for other venues where I could put my peculiar talents to use.

Clown Alley and the BLT

Clowns are a hungry breed. Something about the work induces ravenous appetites -- you won’t find a picky eater among the whiteface crowd. And while ‘Gluten-free’ may be the rallying cry for many a circus buffoon today, many moons ago when I was just starting out in the business with Ringling Brothers there was a definite surge of sympathy in clown alley for the humble blt sandwich.

I came to clown alley completely innocent of the blt. It was not on my mother’s menu -- for reasons I have never fathomed she considered a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on par with oysters Rockefeller and caviar -- something only rich people could afford. So she stuck to tuna casserole and beanie-wienie. Organ meats were popular in our household as well, because of their cheapness -- popular with my mother, that is; we kids shunned the stuff with the determination of Crusaders in the Holy Land.

So one bright morning when I happened upon Roofus T. Goofus munching on a blt sandwich I was all agog.

“What in the world is THAT?’” I asked him.

“Bacon, lettuce, tomater sanawich, Tork” he replied indistinctly, dripping mayonnaise and bits of bacon from his mouth.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Guy across the street makes ‘em in that greasy spoon. Only a dollar.”

The ‘guy across the street’ turned out to be a true artist in the craft of blt-making. When I entered his flyblown emporium and timidly requested a blt he didn’t bother to ask if I wanted whole wheat or white -- he made ‘em all the same way, on white toast with gobs of mayonnaise and greasy bacon and just a touch of lettuce and tomato. Then he wrapped ‘em in wax paper and handed them over to be admired and devoured.

I had two that first day. And have been in love with this distinctively American comfort food ever since.

Swede Johnson told me that when Ringling was still under canvas and they ran a giant cook tent for everyone, the bacon, lettuce, tomato sandwich was the prefered takeout for clown alley.

“You could take it with you if you weren’t hungry right then, and eat it later -- it still tasted just as good cold as hot” he told me. “Besides, the damn cooks didn’t really like serving them -- they were all hired from big hotels in New York and Chicago and wanted to show off with fancy dishes. They thought a blt was a trashy comedown so they’d let us take as many of ‘em as we wanted. I used to take half a dozen to give away to hungry kids I saw working on the lot.”

Clown alley was divided into two warring factions when it came to the blt. You were either ‘burnt’ or ‘cooked right.’ The Burnts maintained that it wasn’t a good sandwich unless the bacon was so crisp it crumbled away on first contact. The ‘Cooked Right’ crowd, on the other hand, stoutly avowed that the bacon should still have a little fight left in it when you bit into it. Needless to say, I was a “Cooked Right” man from the get-go. Everyone agreed that skimping on the mayo was a knavish thing to do -- any cook caught in the act should be strung up by their thumbs.

Some of the clowns, like Prince Paul and Murray Horowitz, did not eat pork, and so they were not involved in the debate at all. But they had their own set of standards when it came to a good pastrami sandwich. Once out of the New York area there was never anything remotely approaching a good pastrami sandwich.

“I’d kill for some decent pastrami right now” Horowitz would say fiercely as we traversed the cornfields of Nebraska.

“Wait until we get to Los Angeles” Prince Paul would counsel him. “At Canter’s the pastrami is so good you’ll eat until you plotz!”

The pie car made terrible blt’s. Since the cooks were always from one of the overseas acts they were unfamiliar with the basics of American cookery. They didn’t toast the bread and thought the bacon was just for window dressing -- so they only put one itty bitty strip of it on and instead piled on the lettuce and the tomato, thinking in their confused foreign way that it would taste just as good. And they put brown mustard on it, for the cat’s sake, not mayo!

The fact of the matter is, the best blt sandwich I ever made myself consisted of white toast, half a jar of mayonnaise, and six pieces of bacon -- I just waved the lettuce and tomato over it.

Before the sorry rise of the monolithic fast food empire, America was dotted with luncheon stands where you could order a blt and a bowl of tomato soup for a dollar and a quarter. Bacon was cheaper than hamburger. Down South, the Rebels put a slice of cheese on their blt sandwiches or else inserted a dill pickle. No wonder they lost the War Between the States.

In search of that ineffable sandwich in today’s food court hurly burly, I recently stopped by the local Five Guys franchise in Orem. Along with their superb hamburgers and abundant fries, their menu features a luscious looking blt sandwich. So I ordered one. Imagine my outrage when it came out with the bacon burnt to a crisp!

It’s a conspiracy, I tells ya! Breitbart News needs to get on this one, pronto!

The Clown Gets Married

(continued from ‘The Clown Fries an Egg’)

When Tim Holst heard that I was engaged to be married he sent me a wedding present -- a wooden rocking chair. I have often wondered just what he meant by that gift, what it was supposed to symbolize. I never did figure it out. But it was sure nice for rocking our eight children to sleep over the years. Steve Smith sent me a check, as did Chico and Roofus T. Goofus. Swede Johnson sent me a bottle of Geritol -- an archaic blood tonic that was supposed to pep up old men in the bedroom that is still in circulation today as a ‘dietary supplement.’

The last time I saw Amy six months ago, before she moved to Virginia to live with our oldest daughter, she gave a talk in church -- and at one point she looked directly at me to say “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the stories you needed to hear.”

I understood what she meant very well, but I’m not sure I can explain it to anyone else. When you’ve been married to a person for fifteen years you develop a private language that excludes everyone else, even your children.

Maybe the best way to explain what she meant is to tell some of the stories she was referring to.

Our reception in Williston bordered on farce of the ring gag variety when one of the flower girls became enraged at Amy for attaching cute little bumblebees to the silk flowers we used to decorate the LDS basement hall -- this loony thought it was a desecration of the holy rites of matrimony, so she ran around tearing off the bees and ripping holes in the flowers. I and some of Amy’s brothers finally got her in a half-Nelson and threw her out. And please remember -- there was absolutely NO alcohol served at this LDS reception. Next, the wedding cake that Amy’s mother Alice made began to tilt like the leaning tower of Pisa, finally collapsing on the basement floor before we could shore it up. We still served it -- but just the top portions. And finally the reception photographer, a former boyfriend of Amy’s, deliberately took all the photos out of focus and then made us pay in advance before we saw the album. When we got it I couldn’t help laughing uproariously at the calamitous start to our marriage -- until I realized Amy was quietly sobbing her heart out in a corner. She really thought our marriage was cursed by some wandering and malicious spirit that had settled over us like an invisible vampire -- sucking all the joy and satisfaction out of it. I did my best to cheer her up -- but clowns are no good at cheering up people without their seltzer bottle or trained baby pig.   

The actual marriage took place in the Salt Lake Temple in Salt Lake City.

Amy was a gregarious and vivacious gal, always eager to please and ready to try anything new. When I broached the subject of working as a husband and wife clown team to her she was gung-ho for it. Until, that is, one of her sisters helpfully reminded her of a scripture verse from Section 88 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Verse 121, to be specific:  “Therefore, cease from all your light speeches, from all laughter, from all your lustful desires, from all your pride and light-mindedness, and from all your wicked doings.”

This initially created a huge rift between us, for Amy was of Brigham Young’s persuasion when he declared “The Kingdom of God or nothing!” She suddenly realized that I was a damned soul for wanting to make people laugh, and she would follow me to Perdition if she encouraged me or participated in any kind of professional clowning. The same sister that had initially shown her that pernicious scripture recommended a quick divorce as the best solution. (And my children wonder why I hate their maternal aunts so much . . . )

This particular LDS scripture has been a thorn in the side of LDS comedians for many years. It seems to say cut out the funny business. But taken in context it simply means don’t make fun of sacred things -- or, as Ecclesiastes 3:4 puts it: “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

I came out of this marital crisis with my belief in the sanctity of a good laugh intact, and eventually Amy moderated her views so that she didn’t think I was an automatic customer for asbestos longjohns. But she refused to ever perform with me (although she did consent to be my assistant when I was Ronald McDonald down in Kansas.)

Let me ask all you married clowns and comedians out there: Does your spouse think you’re funny? Oddly enough, this is a question I never asked Amy -- did she think I was any good as a clown? And she never volunteered that information. As the years rolled by she stopped laughing when I was around -- or was it I stopped laughing when she was around? I can still remember her bubbling laugh early in our marriage when something would amuse her -- a passage from a James Herriot book or one of Hawkeye Pierce’s zingers from “MASH.” I loved that sparkling melody of hers And I miss it terribly, even today.

But I am not a clown with a broken heart. Far from it. I’m a comfortable old bachelor who fiddles with words and finds his self-worth outside the conventional bonds of matrimony. Not every fairy tale is meant to end happily ever after. And even when a fairy tales goes sour -- still, it was a fairy tale for all of that. And something to bring wonder into the world.