Lou Jacobs
My paternal grandfather was a gamekeeper on an estate in Northern Minnesota. His job, as far as it was ever explained to me by his cross grained wife many years later, was to nab deer poachers and fish beer cans out of trout streams.
My maternal grandfather worked for Pillsbury, and had something to do with creating a patented bleaching process for flour -- which allowed him to marry a Ziegfield Follies showgirl after walking out on my grandmother.
Neither career appealed to me as a child. My own dad was a bartender for nearly fifty years -- mostly noted for his reluctance to perform any duties more taxing than drawing beers. Patrons who dared ask for a mixed drink were told to go to hell. His career, also, held no fascination for me as I grew to manhood.
When I attended the Ringling Clown College, and then went to work on The Greatest Show on Earth as a First of May, I thought I had hit on a job that my children, provided I had any, would love to emulate.
Eventually my wife and I had eight children. They grew up with a father who was an active circus funnyman. But not a one of them ever evinced the slightest interest in following in my oversized footsteps. Not. One. Of. Them. Rotten kids . . .
Instead, they became computer programmers, housewives and mothers, construction workers,supermarket managers, military veterans, and missionaries. Rotten kids . . .
Where did I go wrong? I tantalized them with rousing stories of blowdowns and hey rubes and the origin of pink lemonade -- I regaled them with the fascinating eccentricities of showmen like Irvin Feld and Tarzan Zerbini -- I described in loving detail the peculiar talents of comic geniuses I had personally worked with, like Otto Griebling, Barry Lubin, and Steve Smith. And I sent them hundreds of postcards while on the road, illustrating fascinating items like the world’s deepest well in Kansas and Nevada’s fabled jackalope. Despite all this, whenever I would coyly ask them what they wanted to be when they grew up, they always answered with something disappointing such as “an astronaut” or “a Barbie Doll.” Rotten kids . . .
Determined to pass on my slapstick heritage by hook or by crook, I dragooned the older kids into clowning with me during the winter hiatus -- when I was able to book school shows in the Midwest. I coached my oldest son Adam in the whipcracker gag. I taught my oldest daughter Madelaine to sculpt balloon animals. And I corralled half a dozen of them to stooge for me in an original gag I created around the Sons of the Pioneer’s song “Cool Water.” Every time the word ‘water’ is sung, the kids shot me with water pistols, spritzed me with seltzer bottles, and poured pitchers down my pants. Messy, but a sure fire laugh-getter. But do you suppose my own little darlings, the seed of my loins, enjoyed drowning their dear old dad in front of a mob of giggling fifth-graders? Not a bit. They always complained they’d rather stay home to play video games or make friendship bracelets. Their mother, bless her soul, is an accomplished musician, and our kids relished their piano lessons and singing in the church choir -- but when I offered to teach them to play the musical saw, they one and all gave me the stink eye. Rotten kids . . .
The crowning infamy occurred some years back, when we lived in Salt Lake City. By then we had our full compliment of eight children, so even taking them all to a movie involved considerable planning and expense. I had wangled front row Annie Oakleys to Ringling Brothers, playing at the Salt Palace, from my old circus compatriot Tim Holst. As VP in charge of Talent, he graciously provided the ducats to a Saturday matinee and then arranged for us to go backstage on a brief tour, including clown alley -- my old stamping grounds. By then I had bowed to the inevitable -- there would be no Lou Jacobs or Peggy Williams to carry on the Torkildson name and clowning tradition under the big top.
But still -- front row seats at the circus! What normal child could resist the thrills and laughter sure to follow? I had no doubt they would be the envy of their peers, getting up close with clowns and elephants and lion tamers -- what a coup for a kid! And they could boast about how their old man had been there, done that . . .
But the little fiends double crossed me. They all came down with the flu. So instead of spending that Saturday chortling at the antics of the Ringling buffoons and swooning over the aerial acts, they lolled about in their beds, feverish and nauseous, being served jello and fruit juice by their mother, and being glowered at by me. Rotten kids . . .
Well, as the years have lengthened and I have thickened, I’ve decided to let bygones be bygones. To bury the custard pie. They’ve all turned out pretty decent, although there’s not a putty nose among ‘em. And they’re giving me grand kids now. Hmmmm. Maybe for Thanksgiving this year I’ll dust off the old spinning plates and invisible dog leash to test the waters with them. They do say that talent often skips a generation . . .
Peggy Williams
