When I left home to attend the Ringling Clown College in Venice, Florida, in 1971, my parents gave me a particularly Norwegian blessing: "You’ll be back." Their faith in my talent and ability was, to say the least, tepid. And I've had to work hard all my life to overcome that handicap.
As the weeks went by in Venice, as I struggled, and failed, to find a decent clown makeup or learn to ride a unicycle, I spiraled down into deep discouragement. After all, I was just a 17-year-old kid who had never been anywhere or done anything. I was up against older, more mature, and certainly more talented individuals. They understood the world, and how to prosper in it. I barely understood how to brush my teeth in the morning.
My breaking point came during acrobatics class one day, when we were learning to make a human pyramid. As one of the larger specimens, I was placed on the bottom row. As the number of bodies on top of me grew, my arms began to quiver uncontrollably. Finally, just as the last person vaulted to the top of the pyramid, my arms gave out and I collapsed. And so did the pyramid. The instructor was kind; he suggested that from now on I just observe the proceedings of his class from the sidelines. But some of my fellow students were more blunt, referring to me, with no attempt at subterfuge or secrecy, as an uncoordinated nincompoop, and other, more colorful, epithets.
That afternoon I rode my rented bicycle into town to the bank. I was going to withdraw my meager savings, quit Clown College, and go back home. In those days a bank was staffed by human beings, not by machines and fees. The teller was a little old lady, with whom I had had dealings with before; she had helped me open a checking account when I had arrived in town, full of enthusiasm and purpose, and was fascinated to hear I was going to study to be a circus clown. As I stepped up to her window she beamed at me, pulled up the chain her bifocals were dangling on so she could get a better look at me, and gave me a warm Southern greeting: “Hello, young feller! I was hoping you’d show up here soon. I’ve made something for you.”
She ducked down below the teller window, then came bobbing back up with what turned out to be a green stripped vest. “I had some leftover material from my drapes, and I thought it might be comical enough for you to wear as a vest.” She handed it to me. “Good luck, young man. I think you’ll do a bang up job with the circus!”
The pattern was hideously contrived and confused; it would never match anything but a patch of duckweed on a pond. And I loved it. This little old woman, a stranger, believed in me enough to sew me up a bizarre-looking vest. Suddenly I didn’t want to quit Clown College anymore. Suddenly I felt like getting back on that unicycle to give it one more stinking try.
“How can I help you?” She was patiently waiting for my reply. I simply thanked her for the vest, and ran out of the bank. I hopped back on my rented bike, which was rusty and stunted and sclerotic, and made it back to Winter Quarters just in time for makeup class. My makeup wasn’t any better that day than it had been before; when done, I looked like a witch doctor’s mask. But I felt better, much better.
And I stuck with it, ignoring the slurs and set-backs. And out of thirty students, I was one of twelve who was awarded a contract with Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Combined Shows.
I wore that ugly green vest in every clown gag for years, until it literally fell apart. It served as a great reminder that it's the little things that count in life.
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