The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. 14. Woolly Willows.

Unbeknownst to Tim Laughingstock and Sir Cornelius Cornwit Gnawson, who were in the bowels of Larry’s Lockup at the moment, a terrible thing had befallen the village of Woolly Willows. The whole place had just been put under a curse by a witch!

It seems that Lawless Lucy, a rather prickly-tempered old bat-lover who was passing through the village, stubbed her toe on a loose cobblestone. In a rage, she waved her liver-spotted hands in the air to weave a poisonous spell about the innocent people of Woolly Willows.

“Ring around the toadstool -- a pocket full of snakes. Four and twenty weasels riding on long rakes. When their eyes are opened, the villagers take care -- I’ve put jumping powder in their underwear!”    

So saying, Lawless Lucy hobbled out of the village -- never to be seen again. And the poor villagers began jumping about uncontrollably. The school children jumped out of their desk chairs and bounced out of the classroom. Their teachers bounced after them, but when they caught them they couldn’t manage to dribble them back into the school. People were jumping over candlesticks and horses and mud puddles in the street. They jumped over cats and dogs. They even jumped over each other in an endless game of leapfrog! No one could stand still long enough to take a bath or bake a pie, and the more athletic villagers had to remain outside of their own homes because they kept hitting their heads on their own ceilings. In a helpless frenzy, everyone began jumping higher and higher -- until they actually managed to spring high enough to reach the Moon. Once they landed on the Moon the curse was broken and they stopped jumping. The Moonies took pity on the exhausted and footsore Woolly Willowers, giving them a large crater to settle in and start their lives over.

Meanwhile, Tim Laughingstock had told Sir Cornelius Cornwit Gnawson all about his adventures since leaving Mountebank.

“By the nose of a narwhale, that’s a dashing tale!” cried Sir Gnawson in high glee. “Do you mind if I borrow some of the elements of it for my next fantasy novel? It will make a popping good yarn!”

As an embryonic hero, Tim did not know if he should encourage or discourage the spreading of his modestly heroic story yet. But Cornelius seemed like a nice fellow to Tim, so he gave him permission. Then it was time to plan his escape from Larry’s Lockup to get back to his own beloved village of Mountebank. Sir Gnawson suggested he simply walk through the tunnel to Woolly Willows and then make his way back home.

“And let me tell you how to deal with those wretched lumdiddles of yours” said Sir Gnawson, who was actually quite well educated and practical, despite being a writer of fantasy novels. “Sprinkle their tails with a pinch of dandruff and they will turn into amky stones.”

“What is an amky stone?” asked Tim.

“Amky stones are gems so rare that the King has decreed they belong to the Royal Treasury -- and those who bring them in are given an ample reward.”

“But where could I get enough dandruff to sprinkle on the tails of hundreds of lumdiddles?”

“Never fear, my dear Laughingstock. There is a dandruff mine just outside of Woolly Willows where you can pick up a large sack of the stuff for a few silver dimekins!”

Tim did not dare go back up to his office, since some of the prison guards had been giving him suspicious looks since he’d ordered them to stop wearing boots and start wearing wooden clogs. He regretted not being able to take Gullet the Ghoul along with him, as he had developed a fondness for the little roadkill snacker. But it seemed prudent to leave immediately, before any of the terrified guards that had fled earlier returned. So he told Sir Gnawson he was ready to leave immediately.

“One moment, my boy” said Sir Cornelius Cornwit Gnawson. “I want to pull some strings.”

Stepping out of his cell into the murky hallway, Sir Gnawson grasped several stout strings hanging from the ceiling and began pulling vigorously on them.

“I’ve always been curious as to the purpose of these things” he explained to Tim, who had followed him out of the cell. “The guards seemed to think they were of some importance -- I often overheard them saying they were the only thing that kept them alive down here.”

After a moment there was a gathering rumble, and then a trapdoor flew open from the ceiling. Potatoes and hams and small beer kegs and sacks of bread came pouring down. As did one of the guards dressed only in his underwear. And Gullet.

“You!” cried the undressed guard to Tim. “You had me put in the potato cellar! You imposter!”

“Quiet, fellow” said Sir Gnawson sternly. “You are in the presence of a minor hero who will soon become a bestseller. As the true Warden of this establishment, in the absence of my brother, I hereby command you to take charge of this prison fortress until such a time as I return or my brother returns or the King himself comes for a visit or so on and so forth and may your amber soul be still!” Then he gave the undressed guard a signet ring from off his right index finger. This seemed to satisfy the undressed guard -- at least he stayed quiet while he massaged an emerging bump the size of a lumdiddle egg on his head.

“Oh, so you’re not dead after all” said Gullet sadly. “I was hoping the potatoes had suffocated you and I would finally have a good meal.” He picked himself up, dusted off his black suit and readjusted his cravat. “You people take much too good care of each other around here. Nobody is sick or dying!”

Prompted by a heroic impulse for action instead of dialogue, Tim peremptorily told Gullet they were leaving through a secret tunnel -- right now.

“That’s fine by me -- but I’m faint with hunger!” said the little man.

“You are a ghoul, I take it?” asked Sir Cornelius Cornwit Gnawson politely.

“I am that, sir” replied Gullet, who recognized quality when he saw it.

“Then perhaps you would care to feast upon all the dead plots I have left in my tunnel over the years -- there are reams of crumpled paper on which I have scribbled the miserable beginnings of novels that I have never completed.”

“Well” considered Gullet, “it might do. Never let it be said that Gullet the Ghoul was afraid to try a new cuisine!”

The trio went back into the cell and started down the tunnel towards Woolly Willows.

“Try this aborted plot, my dear Gullet” said Sir Gnawson, offering the ghoul several dirty and crumpled sheets of parchment from the floor of the tunnel. “This was the story of an enchanted frog prince who met an enchanted toad princess -- they went on a quest together to regain their true forms by jumping down a wishing well. Alas, I couldn’t think of anything to do with them once they regained their true human form!”

Gullet nibbled the pages tentatively, then began chewing with gusto.

“This is very good” he told the fantasy writing knight. “But it needs more character development.”

Tim, who was holding the torch to light their way, nearly fell over a stack of parchment sheets that lay knee deep all around them.

“Ah yes” said Sir Gnawson sadly. “This was to be my magnum opus. I spent five years on this. The story of an ugly troll who came into possession of a magic ring that turned him into a handsome troubadour that all the ladies loved. The only problem was the ring actually belonged to an evil dwarf who wanted it back so he could marry the widowed Queen and become ruler of all the land. But the troll vowed to destroy the ring rather than let the evil dwarf have it back.”  Sir Gnawson sighed deeply. “There were battles with dragons and ishgobs, and long histories of eldritch races and epic songs of ancient kingdoms. I was quite proud of it all.”

“What happened?” asked Tim.

“The story became so confused and tangled up with diverging stories that I had to give it up -- my brain developed a leak that nearly did me in!”

Gullet picked up a few pages of the murdered magnum opus and sampled them.

“Good, dense texture” he opined. “But rather derivative. More vinegar is needed, and less treacle.”   

“Yes, I finally figured that out” said Sir Gnawson. “But by then my publishers were pushing me to abandon the whole project. So I wrote a story about ladybugs instead.”

They walked on in silence until they reached the end of the tunnel, which was overhung with mossy tree roots. Sir Gnawson flung the tree roots aside to announce, rather redundantly it seemed to him later, that they had arrived at the village of Woolly Willows.

They stepped out into the sunlight, to be greeted by absolute silence.

The Democratic Process

The democratic process is a mystery to some.

To others it’s a chance to pick the ripest, sweetest plum.

To some it is a threat that ought to be nuked out of sight.

Dictators remove its teeth so THEY keep all the bite.

I think it was in Athens, long ago in antic Greece,

Where people first began to want this sensible release

From tyranny, theocracy, and armies running things,

From royalty and loyalty to greedy queens and kings.

The Founding Fathers cobbled it together with a prayer,

And it survived a civil war by one rail-splitter’s hair.

Today it’s on the auction block; the highest bidder gets it;

Still, it’s inconceivable that anybody quits it.

I don’t know how you fix one if it’s rotten or exploded.

All I know is only fools with think it's been outmoded. 

I am a News Reporter

I am a news reporter whose authority is based

On factual information that is reliable and chaste.

I pass no innuendo, nor opine on any fact.

(Which takes a lot of courage, not to mention tons of tact.)

So when a lie is covered like the Hindenburg disaster

It makes me feel ashamed that I am also a newscaster.

Never will I ever broadcast something that is dross

(unless, of course, I’m ordered to by my big network boss!)

What Do Congressional Aides Do All Day?

My name is Thomas Mitchell Toombs; I work for Senator Wink.

I travel all the world for free, including food and drink.

Exchange programs for culture are a sinecure, of sorts.

I visit ev’ry tourist spot and stay at fine resorts.

The hosting country pays all costs; I do not spend a dime.

I account to no one what I do with all my time.

In France I sample cheeses and ascend the Eiffel Tower.

In Bangkok there’s a girl masseuse, who always wears a flower.

Lavish South Korea has rolled out the carpet red,

And Beijing ties me to it with many a silken thread.

 Argentina feeds me steak, and I mean by the platter.

Chaps in London take me to a Carnaby Street hatter.

When I return I’m tanned and fit, and full of gourmet food,

To inform the Congressman about the foreign mood.

Call it all a junket if you wish, I do not care,

Because it sure beats sitting on a bench at Farragut Square.

Grandpa Ate the Leftovers -- a Poem of Elder Abuse

Grandpa ate the leftovers, now isn’t that a shame.
We took him in because he was so old and very lame.
But Grandpa ate the leftovers, so what are we to do?
Condoning such behavior will not bring back any stew.

Grandpa ate the leftovers, we thought he was aware
That he cannot look in the fridge and let out the cold air.
We’re glad to have him staying, but he must learn to respect
Our feelings when he goes and eats a piece of bread unchecked.

Grandpa ate the leftovers, and consequences follow
Ev’ry single morsel that he did so rudely swallow.
We’ll take away his walker, make him sit in a “time-out.”
Take away his prune juice, give him bacon for his gout.

Grandpa ate the leftovers -- that wasn’t very nice;
Not when you consider that we let him have free ice.
His bed is comfy cozy and his sheets are washed with care
Once a year, the same time as we do his underwear.

Grandpa ate the leftovers, when he was left alone,
Sitting with the land line listening in to the dial tone.
He’s home alone most all the time; we have to work, you know.
And on the weekends we so like to catch a Broadway show.

Grandpa ate the leftovers; if Grandma were alive
He would not so smugly live at our expense and thrive.
But she is dead and buried – leastways that is what they said
When the home threw out her bags and reassigned her bed.  

Grandpa ate the leftovers, and showing no remorse.
We would have a nose bleed if we were up on his high horse.
We don’t charge him anything, not even a deposit,
For his lovely sitting room inside the linen closet.

Grandpa ate the leftovers, our food budget is shot.
Next he’ll want a trip to someplace warm like Montserrat.
His room and board are killing us, we’re at his call and beck!
(But please do not explain to him we cash his pension check.)

THE SEVEN AGES OF FACEBOOK (WITH APOLOGIES TO WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE'S 'AS YOU LIKE IT'.)

All the world’s a Facebook,

And all the men and women merely comments.

They have their friendings and unfriendings;

And one man in his time posts many things . . .

He first pokes, testing the water like an infant.

And then the whining timeline, with satchel full

Of complaints, neglecting his email for chats.

And then the news feed, with woeful ballad

About relationships in the furnace.

Then the apps, full of strange oaths.

Jealous in Android, sudden and quick in iPad.

Seeking the bubble reputation with

Like and Share.

And then the Pages, full of wise saws

And modern instances.  In fair round fanbase,

With eyes severe and profile edited.

And so he plays his part.

Then he shifts into the lean and pantalooned Photos,

With faces out of focus, turning again towards awkward

Poses and cute animal pictures.

Last scene of all, that ends

This strange, eventful sponsored site,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans friend requests, sans inbox, sans notifications . . . sans privacy.

The Long Road from Circus Clown to LDS Missionary

I would like to preface this longer-than-usual memoir of early my circus years by narrating just how I got the funds to enable me to go on an LDS mission to Thailand. I would like to thank the LDS Church History Department for their kind permission to copy this report from their archives.

 I was, at the time, a member of the University of Minnesota Student Branch, even though I was not a student.  The branch met in a cavernous former Christian Science church building on University Avenue, across from the University campus.  I lived just a few blocks away, with my parents.

When I told my branch president, Lewis R. Church, that I wanted to go on a mission, his first question to me was “How much do you have in the bank?”  I reported that I had exactly twelve-dollars.  He gently told me I would need much more than that in order to be called.  My parents were not members of the Church, and they made it known in no uncertain terms that they would not contribute a dime to my upkeep as an LDS missionary.  They both told me it was a foolish pursuit.

Having completed a season with Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Circus as a clown, President Church suggested I might advertise myself as available for birthday parties.  I did not own a car, nor did I know how to drive at the time, but with his help I put together a flyer and stuck copies on every telephone pole in Southeast Minneapolis.

As I was laboring in an area called Prospect Park, a woman called to me from her front door, to know what I was doing.  I told her I was advertising as a birthday party clown.  She came over to me, looked at the poster, looked at me (pretty scrawny and homely at the time) and asked if I would perform at her daughter’s birthday party.  I gladly agreed.  She asked me how much I charged, which floored me – since I hadn’t given that any thought.  I asked if twenty-five dollars would be all right and she agreed.  The party would be the coming Saturday.

I walked to her house on Saturday, carrying a suitcase with all my costumes, makeup, and equipment – a distance of about three miles.  At the party I played my musical saw, made animal balloons, and did a silly little pantomime with a golf club and a marshmallow.  This good woman had been inspired to call a friend of hers who worked on the Minneapolis Star newspaper, to ask if she, the reporter, would be interested in covering her daughter’s birthday party with the clown there.  As a favor to her friend, the reporter showed up, with a photographer in tow.  The reporter interviewed me about my career as a birthday party clown; I made sure to mention that I was doing it to save money to go on an LDS mission.  This lady reporter then did something that to this day I can only explain as being directed by the hand of the Lord – she asked me for my telephone number to include in her newspaper article.  This, I later learned, was strictly against the newspaper’s policy, as it smacked too much of free advertising.

The piece, with plenty of photos, appeared in the Minneapolis Star newspaper the next day, with plenty of photographs, and my phone number.  My parent’s phone rang like a fire alarm all that day.  I had more offers than I could handle.  But since I did not drive, I decided to knock down the price of doing parties to twelve-dollars, if the client would give me a ride to and from the party.  I did dozens of parties, and was even hired to do a few weddings!  Larry Lopp, the owner and operator of Paul Bunyan Land up in Brainerd, Minnesota, hired me for several weeks in the summer to clown at his theme park.

I had made a good start on my savings, but by late summer the work fell off – since I did nothing more to publicize myself, not wanting to spend any of my money on advertising.  By the end of August my career as a birthday party clown had ground to a standstill.  Dusty the Clown was not the hot commodity he had been back in May!

I hit the streets, looking for any kind of a job, while I put up more birthday party flyers, but found no one willing to hire me.

In early September, just before my twenty-first birthday, I was contacted by an old circus friend, Steve Smith.  We had performed together as clowns on the Ringling Blue Unit, and had then gone down to Mexico to study pantomime with Sigfrido Aguilar in Patzcuaro, Michoacán.  Steve had been offered the position of advance clown with the circus – traveling ahead of the show to perform at hospitals, schools, and libraries, as well as to do media interviews.  But circus management didn’t want him alone – they wanted a clown duo out ahead of the circus.  Once again, the Lord intervened; moving Steve, who was completely irreligious, to reach out to me to see if I wanted to work the season as his partner, our salary to be split 50-50.  I was overjoyed to accept such a wonderful offer, but made sure he knew upfront that I could only commit to one season.  After that, when I had the money saved up, I would be at the beck and call of my Church leaders to serve a mission wherever they happened to call me.  He was fine with that.

And so the team of Dusty & TJ Tatters was born.  The circus provided us with a handsome salary and gave us a large motorhome to travel and live in.  We crisscrossed the United States for the next nine months, having a hilarious time doing our own pantomime routines at hundreds of schools, colleges, hospitals, libraries, even prisons!

I saved my salary like a miser, eschewing eating out or going to movies.  I even turned down the few pretty girls I met along the way (sometimes at church and sometimes through work) who indicated they would like to go out with me.  Like Scrooge, I could not bear to part with a penny.  Not even for a date.  (Truth be told, that is the only part of my savings program I now regret!)

After the season was over, with a fat bank account, I proudly went back to my old branch and told president Church I was ready to go.  The papers were filled out and soon I received my call to Thailand – a place I had never heard of before in my life.

I have no doubt that once I had made up my mind and committed myself to serving a mission as the Lord wanted me to, He made it possible for me to earn the necessary funds.

When I arrived in Salt Lake City to enter the Mission Home, I was first greeted by a professor from BYU.  I am sorry to say I no longer remember his name, but he taught a correspondence course on Missionary Preparation, which I took while on the road as advance clown.  He welcomed me into his home and took me through my first temple session at the Provo temple.  He drove me back up to the Mission Home, with a passenger in the front seat, another professor at BYU.  This one I DO remember by name: Hugh Nibley.  When my professor friend asked Dr. Nibley to explain his latest project to me during the drive, the good Doctor gave me a long and hard look, then dismissed me by saying “I doubt he would understand it.”  Having dipped into some of Nibley’s books, I silently concurred.

At that time the mission home, where all missionaries received their initial training, was located in Salt Lake City.  It was a large converted mansion, belonging, I believe, in the past, to some mining magnate.  I arrived with my one missionary suit, which I had purchased out in Burbank, California.  It was a robin’s egg blue seersucker.

The president of the mission home was a gruff old specimen, not much given to coddling his eager young charges.  Needless to say, I stood out amidst the sea of ZCMI-bought dark suits like a zircon in a pile of coal.  I was immediately called into his office on my first day there.  He looked at me with thunder in his visage, then asked me to tell him something of myself.  As I narrated my story, his visage softened.  At the end, he told me, in a kindly tone, that my suit was not appropriate to my calling as a representative of the Lord, and I would have to buy a regular dark suit.  He reached into his pocket, offering to pay for my new suit, but I told him I had sufficient for such a purchase, and thanked him.  I went to ZCMI and bought the ‘missionary special’ suit – dark navy blue, made of indestructible fiber guaranteed to last through Armageddon.  It cost $129.00.  In the event, I never used my suit coat.  When I got to Thailand we were told to hang up the coat in a closet at the Mission Office, to retrieve when we went home.  It was just too hot and humid to ever wear a suit coat.  We worked in our shirt sleeves.

We spent most of our time paired off to learn the Church-sanctioned proselyting discussions, which, we were told, should be learned by rote and then recited to investigators – during recitation the Spirit would take over at some point, hopefully make it less deadly dull than I initially thought it was.

We also heard from many General Authorities, as well as some practical lectures on how to live without our parents cooking and fussing over us.  Since I had been on the road with the circus for the past several years, that part of it didn’t really interest me.  I knew how to take care of myself.  The one lecture I do remember was on driving safety.  It was given by a blind man from Holland.

The LTM (Language Training Mission) for all Asian-bound missionaries was located on the BYU campus in Hawaii.  President Snow ran it with scriptures in one hand, a lei in the other, and a laid back smile that proved more infectious than measles.

Most of our time was spent learning the Discussions in Thai, by rote.  We also received a smidgen of Thai grammar and vocabulary, with a dollop of Thai culture.  But the days droned by mostly with recitation.  We took one break to climb a nearby inactive volcano, another break to attend the Hawaii temple for one endowment session, and, at president Snow’s request, I did an hour pantomime show for the entire LTM one Monday evening.  We also attended a performance at the BYU Cultural Center.  But otherwise it was strictly business, with no breaks except to eat and sleep. Many a pretty girl walked sedately by our windows, some walked by as if they were soldiers on sentry duty, but we never took our eyes off our studies.  Except, of course, in the evenings, when the geckos liked to hang on our screens and gobble up unwary moths attracted by the light – that was pretty entrancing to us entertainment-starved Elders!

Eventually our eight weeks of study were up and we boarded our 20-hour flight to Bangkok.  President Morris met us at Don Muang Airport, escorted us to our hotel rooms, and let us sleep for the next eighteen hours.  We then had dinner at the Mission Home with his lovely wife Betty and their kids, and were given our assignments.  I went to Bangkapi, a part of Bangkok, where my senior companion was Elder Barton J. Seliger.

We hit it off right from the start.  His two passions in life were preaching the Gospel, and golf.  Mine were preaching the Gospel, and clowning.  President Morris had given me a special assignment before I had even arrived; he had charged me in a letter to use my performing abilities to create goodwill for the Church in Thailand. Elder Seliger was pretty long-suffering with me when we had a show to do --- he would basically tag along, moving my props for me, while I was in the limelight.  He never seemed to mind.

We did manage to spend one P day doing what he wanted, playing golf.  At the time there was only one main golf course in Bangkok.  It had been built by the British while they were building the Thai rail system in the 1890’s.  Never having played golf before in my life, I was somewhat of a trial to Elder Seliger, who had gotten a golf scholarship in Texas to go to college.  My balls consistently went into the klongs, or canals, or else wound up in the tall grass – where signs warned the unwary duffer that cobras did not take kindly to their tramping about.  Determined to make at least one decent shot, I at last took a vicious swipe at my ball, causing it to slice like a boomerang and bounce off the bell of a steam locomotive that was permanently parked nearby as a monument.  The peal of that bell, which had not been rung for the past fifty years, caused a dozen or so members to pop out of the clubhouse to see what was amiss.  For some reason, Elder Seliger became discouraged at this point, so we went back to our rented quarters early . . .

In addition to all this, Elder Seliger had to put up with my apparent allergy to the tropics.  The first six weeks I was in Thailand I had to stay in the hospital twice.  Once for a severe gastrointestinal attack of some kind that left me unable to eat so much as a spoonful of rice.  The second time was for a scorpion bite, which caused my foot to swell up until it looked like a pale watermelon with toes.  This took a very long time to heal, forcing Elder Seliger to spend long, long hours at my bedside, reading the scriptures and reviewing the discussions.  I never heard him murmur about my indispositions.  He was a great Elder to have as my first companion.  He and I remained in close contact for the next fifteen years. When I was honorably released from my mission and returned to the Ringling clown alley I made sure he got a free pass every time the show played Texas. Today he and his wife reside in Thailand, on a small durian plantation he developed himself.

Photo Essay: Great Summer Vacation Spots for Your Family

GRASS WORLD, near Big Bone Lick State Park in Kentucky, is famous for two things: Grass, and sprinklers. You can ride the Crab Grass Express through Sprinkler Alley, or enjoy a toothsome Fescue Dog on a stick. Admission is $10.00 children, and $20.00 adults. Senior Citizens are admitted free of charge every time the computer goes down.

THE BIRTHPLACE OF SPONGEBOB TRAPEZOIDPANTS -- a cousin to the more famous Spongebob Squarepants. Located in scenic Slacks, New Jersey, this historic site attracts hardly anyone and actually is the back of an abandoned K-Mart. So if someone with a broken nose invites you to take a ride to the Trapezoidpants house -- run like the wind for the nearest Witness Protection Program.

SIX FLAGS OVER NO PARKING in Fructose, California, is the kind of place where magic memories are made over a long day of trying to find a parking spot, any parking spot, within a ten mile radius. As you fruitlessly cruise dingy side streets and trash-filled alleyways you and your family will bond in a way that only occurs during a hostage-taking situation.

UNEMPLOYED WHITE GUY CITY is a suburb of Detroit, Michigan, and well worth a long visit -- especially if you are gainfully employed and want to throw bricks out your car window at the interesting denizens of this thriving ghetto. And don't miss the Eternal Voting Booth memorial located in City Park -- an interactive display that allows you to vote for Donald Trump over and over again, like the poor fatheads that live there did.

CRANE OF DEATH. The one and only attraction in Fungus Falls, Minnesota -- this hallowed ride has been around since 1949, when citizens of the town decided to start dropping strangers from the crane rather than build a motel. Nowadays you can buy Crane key chains or a T-shirt that reads "Watch out for that first step -- it's a doozy!" at the gift shop at the base of the crane, before you are hauled up and pushed off into oblivion. The ride is half-price for children on Thursdays.

 
Welcome to EMPTY LOT, near the intersections of Highway 12 and County Road 5 in the great state of Texas! This is the place to go when you and your family want to avoid all those long lines and distracting rides that other amusement parks have. There's nothing here but cracked asphalt and noxious weeds. With any luck you'll be able to catch a cricket to take home with you as a new family pet, or maybe even accidentally cut yourself on a broken beer bottle! The possibilities are endless.

Photo Essay: Provo, Utah

These are some of the famous 'snowshoe' wires that run throughout the city. Legend has it that the early pioneers would throw their real snowshoes up into the air every year on June 19th, in celebration of the end of wood tick season, and when the city began installing electric lines they decided to make some of the wires look like snowshoes -- or not: you can't trust anything you read in a blog nowadays. 

A feral cat, getting ready to pounce on a budgie, or perhaps a native wombat. Provo is famous for the tenacity of its feral cats. In 1953 the city attempted to exterminate them with flamethrowers -- the result was that the cats all moved out to Tooele and came back a year later, tougher and with tattoos. Now even the city police give them a wide berth. 

Art installation by renowned sculptor Bruce Veldhuisen, entitled "One of Our Safety Pins is Missing." It was commissioned by the city of Provo to celebrate diversity, trans fats, and fringe radio. To date, over ten thousand tourists have mistaken it for Seven Flags, Utah. 

The mysterious 'tree in a fence,' located just off of 300 East, has baffled scientists for years. Urban legend has it that a large batch of brownie mix gone bad escaped from a nearby kitchen and was immobilized by stun guns just as it began oozing through this fence to attack a kindergarten. Others believe that if you rub the 'wood' you'll get a lucky splinter in your finger that will turn to gold. Most scientists now believe a dinosaur left it behind during the last Ice Age. 

One of the many cheerful 'sweeps' that give Provo such a hygienic feeling. The city is famous from stem to stern for its lack of trash and Democrats. Both are swept up and dumped into Utah Lake quite frequently. 

Hobo Joe at Van Cleve Park

When I was ten years old the Como Avenue Merchant’s Association held a themed carnival at Van Cleve Park in Southeast Minneapolis. They called it ‘Hobo Days’ -- and the idea was for all the kids in the area to dress up as vagabonds, complete with lampblack beards and sticks impaling bandana packages of faux bindlestiff swag. The merchants thought it would be good PR, plus, I think, they really wanted to get dressed up like Freddy the Freeloader themselves. Shopkeepers have an innate longing to dress as poor as they proclaim themselves to be, what with the %#@*%# taxes they have to pay.

On the appointed day my sisters and I, suitably accoutered in our patched shirts and ragged pants with rope belts, ambled over to the park to investigate the games and goodies available. First there was a parade, where we marched in front of some nameless adult dignitaries and were each awarded a prize for our costumes -- splintered palm frond Chinese finger traps or an anemic plastic whistle that only issued a dispirited hiss. Somehow the Como Merchants had persuaded the current mayor, Art Naftalin, to volunteer his services at the dunking booth. Anyone who could hit the bullseye and send the mayor plunging into the tub got a Bit-O-Honey bar -- one the least popular confections of the era; parents apparently thought it was healthy because of the word honey in the title and bought bags of the stuff which then rotted away untouched in the back of innumerable kitchen cupboards.

The whole affair had the feel of an under planned company picnic to it. What kept me at the park, after my sisters had decided to troop back home for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wonder Bread, was the advertised ‘Big Clown Skit’ that the merchants themselves would perform under the direction of a real live professional circus clown. This I had to see.

The performance took place on the patio of the warming shed, where in winter we battled chilblains when skating in the Minnesota sub-zero weather. Kids were raised hardier back then -- or maybe parents just didn’t care as much, I dunno. Anyway, things got off to a promising start when ‘Hobo Joe’ sauntered out to do some warm-up schtick. First he removed his tattered white gloves -- which entailed pulling about two yards of material out of each sleeve. Then he blew his nose on a piebald rag, which he nonchalantly threw to the ground and deftly caught when it bounced right back up to him. He ended with a devil sticks routine that, in retrospect, was pretty basic -- but at the time blew my ten year old mind. The restless sea of kids that had billowed around the patio on the verge of bored mischief were likewise enchanted by Hobo Joe’s deft comic skills.

Things got dicey again real quick when the Como Merchants, dressed in their hobo rags, stumbled out at Joe’s direction to do the tried and true ‘Niagara Falls’ routine, ending it with a bucket of water thrown on the audience that actually contained nothing but confetti. They botched the entire gag from start to finish, forgetting their lines and asking Joe to prompt them -- spilling water on each other at exactly the wrong moment -- and throwing the confetti bucket out into the crowd in an exuberantly lethal manner, where it hit a girl smack dab in the eye and gave her a handsome ‘mouse.’

After the debacle was over and the crowd and merchants had drifted away, I worked up the courage to approach Hobo Joe, who turned out to be a real nice guy -- he didn’t mind talking to a diffident little kid like me at all. His real name was Gene Hammond, he said, and he made his living doing Shrine circuses and also renting himself out to coach amateur comedians at charity events and men’s smokers. When I innocently asked him what a men’s smoker was, he hastily changed the subject by asking me if I ever thought of running away to join the circus. Of course, he was just being a typical jocular and unthinking adult with that question. He had no way of knowing that that is exactly what I had been planning to do for the past several years. For a breathless moment I thought that he was my ticket out of town to the bright lights and sawdust of the big top. I’d ask to be his apprentice! But then I saw he was packed up and impatient to leave, and had no thought of actually encouraging lot lice like me to tag along. He was no Pied Piper -- just an itinerant entertainer looking for his next gig. Before he left for the bus stop (not much money in clown coaching, I guess) he gave me a little trinket to remember him -- a miniature spy glass. It actually worked, too! I could see things up close with it, and it seemed to have some magical power that caused people to chuckle at me the rest of that afternoon whenever I would hold it up to my eye to take a gander around.

When I finally went to the restroom later that day I saw that I had acquired a large black circle around my eye. That was a cruel setback, I admit -- still, I finally managed to escape my dull Scandinavian neighborhood seven years later when I scarpered off to the Ringling Clown College in Florida. Without the help of Hobo Joe.

(An interesting sidelight to this memoir is that the ‘real’ Hobo Joe was actually a mascot for a chain of coffee shops. At one time there were dozens of Hobo Joe Coffee Shops all over Arizona and adjoining states -- with a life-size statue of Hobo Joe leaning nonchalantly near the cash register. I’m pretty sure that the Hobo Joe I met at Van Cleve Park had nothing whatsoever to do with the coffee shops. The chain went belly up in the 1980’s, apparently as a consequence of the franchise owner’s embezzling ties with the mafia. For more details, read Ben Leatherman’s fascinating article here.)