The Importance of Religion in America

 

Religion, undeniably, plays a significant role in shaping the social, cultural, and political fabric of American society. It offers a prism through which we can understand several aspects of America's rich diversity and how it influences the nation's values, ethics, and behavioral norms.

Firstly, religion provides a moral framework and a sense of community for many Americans. It offers guidance on how to live an ethical and fulfilling life, fostering social cohesion and mutual understanding. The teachings and values instilled by various religions often translate into individual behaviors and societal norms, leading to community service, philanthropy, and other forms of altruism. This, in turn, contributes to the general well-being and stability of society.

Secondly, America is known for its religious diversity, a reflection of its history as a refuge for those persecuted for their faith. This diversity is a critical aspect of America's cultural tapestry, nurturing the nation's characteristically strong commitment to pluralism and tolerance. The freedom to practice one's religion has been enshrined in the Constitution and has shaped American identity and its politics since its inception.

Thirdly, religion plays a vital role in American politics. Religious beliefs often influence policy debates and political alignments, spanning issues such as social justice, education, health care, and more. The phrase "faith-based voting" is often used to describe the phenomenon of voters casting ballots aligned with their religious convictions. Moreover, religious institutions frequently mobilize social movements and catalyze political action. Historical movements such as the Civil Rights Movement and the Abolitionist Movement were deeply rooted in religious convictions.

Fourthly, religion in America offers a path for personal growth and exploration. It serves as a sanctuary for individuals seeking inner peace and existential answers. Whether through prayer, meditation, or study of religious texts, many Americans find solace, strength, and purpose in their religious practices, contributing to their mental and emotional health.

In conclusion, religion is a significant element of American society due to its ability to shape moral frameworks, nurture cultural diversity, influence politics, and support personal growth. However, it's also important to acknowledge the ongoing dialogue about the role of religion in public life, which reflects the evolving nature of American society and its values. Amidst the undeniable importance of religion, America continues to uphold the principle of freedom, allowing individuals to practice their religion or to refrain from religious practices as they see fit. This delicate balance is a testament to the enduring importance of religious freedom and pluralism in the United States.

How to tell a joke.

 

Telling a joke is a unique skill that involves timing, delivery, and a keen sense of your audience. It's a delightful fusion of the right words, context, and personality. Here are some practical steps you can follow to deliver a joke in the most entertaining manner.

Firstly, you must understand the joke yourself. Before sharing a joke, make sure you comprehend it, find it amusing, and can communicate it clearly. Remember, if you can't explain it, your audience won't get it either. For instance, consider this simple joke: "Why don't scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything!" To tell this joke, you must understand that atoms are the building blocks of all matter, or 'make up everything', which is a play on the phrase 'to make up' meaning to lie.

Secondly, know your audience. Consider their backgrounds, tastes, and potential sensitivities. Will they appreciate a pun, or are they more inclined to laugh at a knock-knock joke? If you're telling a joke in a professional setting, it's wise to steer clear of risqué humor. A safe example might be: "Why don't we ever tell secrets on a farm? Because the potatoes have eyes, the corn has ears, and the beans stalk."

Next, perfect your delivery. The timing, tone, and tempo play a pivotal role. Use pauses effectively, and pay attention to the rhythm of your words. In the joke, "I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes... She gave me a hug," the pause before the punchline is crucial for effect.

Finally, practice makes perfect. The more jokes you tell, the better you'll become at gauging your audience's reactions and adjusting your delivery. And don't worry if you occasionally miss the mark; even professional comedians sometimes tell jokes that fall flat.

To sum up, telling a joke is an art, but it's one that you can learn. By understanding your joke, knowing your audience, honing your delivery, and practicing regularly, you'll have them laughing in no time. To close, here's a classic: "Two antennas met on a roof, fell in love, and got married. The ceremony wasn't much, but the reception was excellent!" Happy joking!

Otto Griebling: The Saddest Clown You Ever Laughed At.

 

Otto Griebling: The Whimsical Maestro of Circus Laughter

In the whimsical world of the circus, where laughter and amazement intertwine, one name stands out among the crowd—Otto Griebling, the master of mirth and the crowned prince of clowning. With his vibrant personality, impeccable comic timing, and mastery of circus lingo, Griebling turned the art of clowning into a symphony of hilarity that captivated audiences around the globe.

Born on a chilly winter's eve in 1912, in the small town of Wunderstadt, Griebling seemed destined for the circus life. From an early age, he was captivated by the mystique of the big top, drawn to the kaleidoscope of colors, the aroma of popcorn and sawdust, and the infectious laughter that filled the air.

At the tender age of 12, Griebling ran away from home, joining a traveling circus troupe as a "ballyhoo boy." His days were filled with sweeping the ring, tending to the elephants, and studying the seasoned clowns with an unwavering determination. He learned the secret language of the circus, soaking up every piece of jargon like a sponge, eager to one day make his mark under the big top.

With each passing year, Griebling honed his craft, mastering the art of pratfalls, slapstick humor, and acrobatic buffoonery. His clown persona, known as "Bumble the Baffling," became a symbol of laughter and joy, embodying the spirit of the circus itself. With his red bulbous nose, oversized shoes, and a cascade of rainbow-colored ruffles, Griebling transformed into a comedic maestro, conducting laughter like a virtuoso.

His performances were a symphony of laughter and merriment, orchestrated with meticulous precision. From the first notes of his "horn o' plenty," which spouted water in every direction, to the gravity-defying stunts on the high wire, Griebling brought the circus to life with his infectious energy. Whether juggling a dozen rubber chickens or emerging from a tiny clown car with his fellow jesters, Griebling's antics transcended language barriers, bringing smiles to faces of all ages.

But Griebling's talents extended beyond the clowning arena. He was a true polymath of the circus world, excelling as an accomplished trapeze artist, tightrope walker, and magician. His daring aerial exploits left spectators breathless as he soared through the air, defying gravity with each graceful swing. And when he wasn't performing jaw-dropping feats of athleticism, Griebling dazzled audiences with his sleight of hand, weaving illusions that left even the most skeptical spectators in awe.

Behind the greasepaint and exaggerated gestures, Griebling's heart overflowed with compassion. He dedicated his life to bringing joy to those who needed it most, often visiting hospitals and orphanages to share his clownish antics and brighten the lives of those facing adversity. His kindness and empathy shone through his performances, leaving a lasting impression on everyone he encountered.

Throughout his illustrious career, Griebling's name became synonymous with laughter and wonder. He headlined in the most prestigious circuses around the world, from the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus in the United States to the Cirque du Soleil in Europe. Critics hailed him as a true icon of the circus, a luminary whose presence could light up the darkest corners of any tent.

As the years rolled on, Griebling continued to embrace his role as the ambassador of laughter. Even as age dimmed his physical abilities, his spirit remained indomitable. He mentored aspiring clowns, passing down the secrets of the trade and preserving the traditions of the circus for future generations.

In the twilight of his life, Otto Griebling could look back with pride at a career that brought smiles to millions. His legacy continues to inspire and delight, reminding us all that laughter truly is the greatest show on Earth. So, the next time you find yourself beneath the big top, amidst the swirl of circus lingo and the roar of the crowd, take a moment to remember the whimsical maestro of circus laughter—Otto Griebling, the clown who forever painted the world in vibrant hues of joy.

The Importance of Poetry.

 

Poetry is an extraordinary form of expression that stands uniquely in the realm of the arts. It combines the precision of language with the expressive capacity of music and the symbolic potential of visual art. The importance of poetry is multilayered, ranging from its emotional power to its role in intellectual development and cultural preservation.

From an emotional standpoint, poetry serves as a profound medium for human expression. It captures and conveys emotions in a way few other art forms can, offering an outlet for feelings that might otherwise remain unexpressed or misunderstood. Whether the poet expresses sorrow, joy, love, or any other human emotion, the reader is offered a visceral understanding of these feelings. This experience promotes empathy, as one is transported into the emotional world of another, broadening one’s emotional intelligence and understanding of the human condition.

Poetry also has an instrumental role in cognitive development. The reading and composition of poetry require analytical skills, encouraging a deeper comprehension and appreciation for language. Poetry’s concise form and emphasis on subtlety pushes the reader to consider each word’s significance, fostering a deeper understanding of language's nuances and complexities. Similarly, the creation of poetry requires critical thinking and the ability to translate complex thoughts and feelings into words. This cognitive engagement is beneficial for all, regardless of age or educational level.

Moreover, poetry enhances creativity and encourages imaginative thinking. The often-abstract language used in poetry stimulates the imagination, as the reader must interpret the symbols and metaphors presented. This fosters creativity and nurtures an open-minded perspective that is not only important in artistic fields, but also in problem-solving and innovation in any area of life.

Poetry's importance also extends to its role in preserving culture and heritage. Many civilizations have used poetry to record their histories, beliefs, and experiences. This provides a window into their world, granting future generations a unique insight into their past. Poetry captures the zeitgeist of its time, preserving collective memories and giving voice to those who might have otherwise been forgotten.

Additionally, poetry encourages diversity and inclusivity. Since poetry can be written and appreciated by anyone, regardless of socio-economic status, education, or cultural background, it fosters a sense of belonging and unity. The universality of emotions and experiences portrayed in poetry underscores our shared humanity, promoting mutual understanding and acceptance.

In the digital age, poetry has taken on even greater significance. As we navigate an era defined by information overload and shortened attention spans, poetry’s brevity and depth offer a respite. It compels us to pause, reflect, and appreciate the intricacies of language and emotion. Poetry's ability to distill the essence of human experience into a few stanzas holds a mirror to our lives, provoking thought and inspiring introspection.

In conclusion, the importance of poetry is manifold. It is an emotional outlet, a tool for cognitive development, a stimulus for creativity, a keeper of culture, a promoter of inclusivity, and a sanctuary in a hyper-connected world. It enriches our emotional vocabulary, broadens our understanding, and ultimately makes us more empathetic, creative, and aware beings. It is a celebration of language, emotion, and the human experience itself.

The Goat Story.

 

I have a goat story.  Doesn’t everyone?

Back in 1985 I was briefly associated with Aurora, the Living Unicorn.  She was the feature attraction of Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Circus that year.  I had retired from the circus several years earlier to marry and raise a family in Minnesota, working at a small-market radio station in Park Rapids.  I followed the saga of Aurora, the Living Unicorn, in the newspapers.  The media unequivocally  branded her a goat, with some kind of kinky horn transplant.  

One spring morning, as I looked out the kitchen window at the pearls of dew glistening on the tiny new leaves of the butternut tree in the backyard, feeling the lick of a playful southern breeze on my cheek, and generally rejoicing in the placid simplicity of my life, the phone rang. It was my old Ringling pal, Jerry, impresario of garish headlines and unabashed ballyhoo for the circus.  We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes before Jerry got down to brass tacks.  Aurora the Living Unicorn needed a babysitter while the show was in Chicago.  Her current keeper had to leave the show on family business for two weeks.  Would I consider rejoining the show for that time period, to tend the fabulous creature?  Transportation would be paid and the remuneration was handsome.  I could even stay at the Palmer House.

I was initially cold to his offer, but promised to discuss it with the wife and call him back with my decision later in the day.  Amy liked the money, which we could use to pay down the mortgage.  I had the two weeks available as vacation if I wanted.  And several of Amy’s sisters were coming for a long visit anyways.  So it seemed more opportune than I had at first imagined.

That is why a few days later I was in the Windy City, trying to stare down a one-horned goat.  There was no doubt about it – whatever the circus programme might burble, that animal smelled like, looked like, and acted like a goat.  Her horizontal pupils glistened with pure goat malice; she tried to butt me constantly, and nibbled my windbreaker to shreds.  Plus she had the scours, which in goats is a mild form of diarrhea.  Instead of neat little berries of poop scattered here and there, she was constantly dribbling an unspeakable green slime.  Jerry assured me this was not serious.  I should dose her with slippery elm powder, just put it in her grain, and she would be right as rain.

Aurora had her own float, on which she rode in triumph during the Spec.  My job was to be at her side so she did not try to bolt off the platform.  She was tethered to it, but still insisted on leaping away like Super Goat, which might have strangled her.  The costume that circus wardrobe rigged up for me while I was on the float was a cross between Napoleon on the battle field and Bozo.  I staggered under the weight of a ten pound bicorne that sprouted peacock feathers, had a checkered silk vest that was too tight, and wore blazing red knickers that gave way to yellow stockings and large pink slippers.  Aurora wanted those peacock feathers.  She kept jumping up on me, placing her front hoofs on my chest, to better grab a mouth full.  Her foul breath would have made sewer gas seem like Chanel #5.  

True to Jerry’s promise, I had a lavish room at the Palmer House, but I never stayed there.  Not a single night.  Aurora, bless her Bovidae heart, needed companionship at night, as she suffered from insomnia and night jitters when left alone.  So I rolled up in a sleeping bag and nestled with Aurora in fresh hay each night.  By day she was irascible and intractable.  By night she was all affection.  He who snuggles with a goat partakes of the aroma of a goat.  The only way to get rid of that goatish perfume was to shower with Fels-Naptha laundry soap.  

I took the goat, um, I mean the unicorn, to a press conference, where Chicago reporters displayed more interest in the buffet table and free bar than in Aurora.  I had been labeled her ‘temporary entourage’ by a playful Jerry.  He had given me an information sheet on Aurora, which she promptly ate before I had a chance to review it.  A woman reporter, in between bites of brie on a cracker, asked me if Aurora could have kids.  Only with another unicorn, I replied.  I felt pretty cocky after that zinger, so I was unprepared when another reporter began to grill me about how cruel it was to force a living creature to demean itself with horn bud transplants.  I finally managed to stammer that Aurora was in absolutely no pain and that nothing had been done to alter her horns or any other part of her body.  At this point Aurora decided to end the press conference by bleating loudly and rushing the front row of ink-stained wretches.  The room erupted into chaos, with reporters cowering near the free bar, protecting the fragile liquor bottles from harm, while Aurora cheerfully trotted around the room, butting abdomens and lapping up the spilled booze.  She was a mean drunk, sucker-punching several TV cameramen.

When I finally managed to drag her away from the imbroglio she had started she repaid me by giving me a good, sound kick in the knee with her hind legs.  It would have been curtains, or goatburger, for her at that moment if Jerry had not intervened with the joyous news that Aurora’s regular keeper had returned, a few days earlier than expected.  I guess Jerry figured I was too disgruntled about the whole Living Unicorn episode to trust, so he put me back on a plane to Minnesota that very same day.  Which was fine with me, because I had the big, fat Ringling check in my wallet.

Back in peaceful, unicorn-free Park Rapids I settled down in bed that first night with Amy and attempted to become reacquainted her.  She repulsed me.

“Whew!” she told me before turning over, “You smell like a goat!”

Thanks, Aurora.  

Asked & Answered. Sunday. May 28. 2023.

 

NAME THREE PET PEEVES.

1. old people and their health stories. doctor visits. organs missing. disgusting symptoms.  i can offer mechanical words of sympathy, but that's as far as i go.

2.  soggy hors d'oeuvres.  don't put good stuff on crackers and then leave it to go soggy.  it's got to be crisp and tangy, or crisp and sweet & sour, or crisp and spicy. otherwise it's just mush.  why more people don't throw soggy canapes on the wall at parties i'll never know . . . 

3.  brown shoes.  a lot of people wear brown shoes out here in Provo.  mostly church members.  to me, brown shoes suggest an indecisive character and ineffective thinker. i would never seek financial advice or discuss philosophy with someone wearing brown shoes.  or Hush Puppies.

DO YOU HAVE ANY SKILLS OR TALENTS THAT MOST PEOPLE DON'T KNOW ABOUT?

Certainly.  I can wiggle my ears.  I can sneak up on cats.  I can predict the weather, world-wide (It's always raining somewhere . . . )

HOW DO YOU WANT PEOPLE TO REMEMBER YOU?

As someone who would rather nap than tell a lie.  as a good cook with bad recipes.  as a poor man with a rich inner life.

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO MAKE SURE YOU DO TODAY?

kiss my wife Amy on the nape of her neck and smell the goat's milk yogurt in her hair.  develop a healthy appetite before i eat dinner.  nap so deeply that i start to dream.

WHAT PUBLICATIONS DO YOU REGULARLY READ?

i read the new yorker cartoons online -- they're free.  i glance at the new york times headlines for ideas for topical poems.  i read the general conference talks for ideas for my religious poems.  i keep trying to read old bestsellers like 'the agony and the ecstasy' but about a hundred pages in i always lose interest because the writing seems gimmicky.  the last book i really enjoyed reading was probably a terry prather 'flat world' fantasy.

HOW OFTEN DO YOU SEE YOUR FRIENDS?

not very often. sadly.  we live in such a small apartment that having more than one person over at a time is a challenge. besides, if a friend comes over i want to cook for them and they never seem to want to eat anything.  of course, if they want to treat me to a meal that's different.  but i have the kind of friends that just don't do that.  so i don't really see them much. and most live far away.  and want to tell me their health stories.  like i said, health stories give me a heavy feeling -- like after eating a chunk of cement.

WHAT WOULD BE YOUR PERSONAL MOTTO?

a haiku:

eat air fried chicken

whenever you feel the need

to give me advice

Lake Johanna.

 

Mothers are wonderful creatures – whether they’re from Idaho, California, or Minnesota.  

Mothers, like my mother, mostly tended to their homes and family.  My mother didn’t even drive – she depended on my father to take her places that she couldn’t reach by bus or by walking.  She did not attend to the affairs of state, and didn’t like the limelight one little bit. She considered herself demure; a virtue she had been taught by her own mother.  This type of American homemaker may be a dying breed, an anachronism, but lemme tell ya, they could still play Old Harry with the Powers That Be when they wanted to!

On summer weekends it was the practice of the Torkildson tribe to drive to Lake Johanna, twenty miles distant, for a day of picnicking and swimming.  It’s no Coney Island, but it was plenty good enough for us.  My dad always found a nice, shady tree to set up his folding lounge chair under and snooze away the hours, awaking only long enough to pour a Hamm’s beer down his throat before sinking back as if he’d been shot.  My mother worshipped the sun; she slathered on the coconut oil and broiled happily on a blanket on the beach.  We kids, of course, turned into naiads and manatees, splashing and floating in our native element, refusing to come out even for lunch.

There was a whitewashed wooden pylon set up for the lifeguard on the public beach at Lake Johanna.  He, or she, wielded a large tin whistle, frequently tootling on it to gain the attention of some freshwater malefactor who was swimming outside the roped off area or otherwise acting the maritime scofflaw.  The year I turned eight Ramsey County decided not to stock the pylon with lifeguards anymore, no doubt as an economy measure, and neglected to inform patrons of the public beach, outside of a teeny weeny sign, the size of a flyer, that was tacked briefly onto the whitewashed wooden pylon, and fluttered away in the breeze soon after being posted.

That was the year I decided I could swim out to the wooden platform anchored in about twenty feet of water – and nearly drowned in the attempt.  Luckily, there were some adult swimmers nearby; they hauled me back on shore, vomiting water like a disgruntled geyser, and turned me over to my mother – who was incensed to suddenly learn there was no longer any lifeguard on duty.  Ever.  

Her fury at this perceived dereliction of the Ramsey County Park Board’s duty was grim and determined.  After making sure I was reasonably responsive, she clouted me on the ear for being such a dumming and strode over to the concessions shack, where sandy hotdogs and lukewarm soda pop were vended by bored teenagers.  She found the most likely-looking boy in the group, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and frog-marched the astonished youth over to the white pylon, where she instructed him in the kind of motherly tones that no one who values their life ever ignores to climb up and keep an eye on things until she relieved him of his duty.  The teenaged boy, seeing the dangerous sparkle in her eye, meekly obeyed – and once again Lake Johanna had a lifeguard, albeit a shanghaied one.  He stayed up there until it started to get dark and we packed up to go home.  Then he quietly slipped off the pylon and skedaddled for all he was worth.  I’d like to know what he told HIS mother when he got home that night.

Word must have gotten back to the Park Board, for the next weekend there was an older man glumly perched on the white pylon, gazing about him with bitter resignation.  I can’t say for sure, but I’m willing to bet dollars to donuts that he was a member of the Park Board itself.

 

Note:  I normally post these things on my Facebook page so people can read them there, but I have been sending these mini-essays to some newspapers that demand exclusivity, so I'm not taking any chances that someone will copy one of them off my Facebook and post it where it can be noticed.  This one went to the Christian Science Monitor. 

Fish Story

 

 

I’m glad to see the DNR is stocking local ponds with fish for the kids to catch.

It brings back the lingering aroma of mashed angleworms and the tingle of Eagle Claw fish hooks stuck in my thumb.  It just ain’t summer without that hypnotic waver of light on water as the hours float by while your line gets tangled in the cattails.

I told my kids many a rapturous finny tale, until they grew up and escaped – the Internet-addled brats – but they are having grandkids now, so soon I’ll be able to sit them down with a mug of milk and a stack of Oreos to begin the saga all over again . . .

Wayne and I were riding our bikes to Como Lake for a day of pure, unadulterated fishing.  We raced our Schwinns down Como Avenue, past the State Fairgrounds, and into Como Park, skirting the fine old mansions that circled the lake until we came to the rickety wooden dock, gray with age and worn complaisant with the sandpapering of a thousand bare feet.

The first order of business was to assemble our bamboo poles and string a line on them.  We had one spool of line between the two of us, but that’s the beauty of a bamboo pole – you don’t need much line at all, since you just dangle it over the water.  Admittedly, we were a cheese-paring couple; our allowances were held in sacred trust for drug store Cokes and comic books – anything else of a material nature had to be scrounged, begged or borrowed.  As the darning needles floated in mid-air, we tied on our rusty hooks of various sizes and clamped on some tiny lead shot.  A red and white plastic bobber, slightly cracked, was added, about three feet above the hook.

Then the bait.  We used nothing but worms, worms that we had worked hard to capture by letting the garden hose run on the front lawn for a good hour – forcing the drowning night crawlers up for a breath of fresh air;  we  harvested them like bog cranberries.  They were kept in a coffee can filled with used coffee grounds.  Come to think of it, those little devils seemed awful lively, after spending a few hours in that caffeine-loaded environment; maybe they never even noticed being impaled on our hooks.

Splash!  The line is in the water, the bobber is the center of diminishing ripples, and we settle back to await our prey.  And to discuss matters of importance to nine-year-old boys.  Why was it when we cut those darn night crawlers in half both ends didn’t stay alive and grow whole again, like they were supposed to?  Theoretically, all you needed was one earthworm to keep yourself supplied with bait the rest of your life.  I boasted that over the long summer vacation I had already forgot how to do long division.  That’s nuthin’, said Wayne; he had not only forgot how to do long division but also cursive writing!  I couldn’t top that one.  The awfulness of girls was reviewed for the umpteenth time; their unnatural obsession with combing their hair, their unfortunate tendency to scream when you put a minnow down their back, and their unaccountable regard for clean fingernails.  

And then it happened – it really did happen – I swear on a stack of Izaac Waltons it absolutely did happen.

My pole bent nearly in half, as the head of a great, honking snapping turtle emerged from Como Lake, chewing on my hook and bait.  

A snapper’s head is just about the scariest article you can raise from the depths of a Minnesota lake – it’s baleful glare is pure Bela Lugosi; prognathous jaws slaver; and it’s pink, pointed tongue darts about like a poison dart.  You don’t get to see much more of it, usually, since the rest of it stays underwater. Fortunately my pole broke – since I was hysterically determined to capture the ferocious creature and bring it back to the house for loud acclamations of hero worship on the part of my family and neighbors – “Great Caesar’s ghost, look what Timmy has caught!  It must weigh two-hundred pounds; somebody call the newspaper right away!”  

 

But as I say, with a toss of its warty head the behemoth snapped my pole in two, and then sank back down to the abyss from whence it came.  Wayne had to physically restrain me from jumping in and going after the creature.  

We did little enough fishing after that; people heard the commotion and came over to find out what happened.  I was only too happy to regale them, repeatedly, with my death-defying brush with the antediluvian monster that had cost me my bamboo pole.  

When we returned home that evening I rushed into the kitchen, where mom was putting mayonnaise on a gelatin salad, and breathlessly narrated my narrow escape from death-by-monster.  She absently nodded her head, and reminded me to wash all that wormy slime off my hands.  My younger sisters were no better – they just wrinkled their noses and cooed “Turtles are ucky!”  Dad did not come home for dinner that night; he was working his second job.

You know my story to be true, of course.

Dontcha?

HOW DO YOU SAY SIEMGLUSZ? Memories of Northwest Iowa Radio.

 

I was the News Director at two radio stations in Northwestern Iowa for several years.

I have pleasant memories of my time spent there.  When I worked at KICD AM in Spencer, we broadcast live from the Clay County Fair every year, in the same building as the large, intricate model train display.  I was introduced to my first taste of corn cob jelly while broadcasting at the Clay County Fair.

At KIWA AM in Sheldon I enjoyed the last vestiges of a harmless payola; radio employees got a free pass into the movie theater next door.  (To set the record straight, I always paid for my own popcorn.)  I loved to drive down to the Loess Hills, stopping on the way to snap pictures of weary old barns, frozen in mid-collapse, on deserted farmsteads.

And people in that region put a slice of dill pickle in their beer bottles, which I’m still trying to figure out.

One thing I did NOT enjoy about my News Director position in Northwestern Iowa was pronouncing the names of the dead.  A small market radio station, such as the ones I worked at, derives a steady chunk of income from the broadcast of funeral announcements. Each funeral parlor in the home county of the radio station faxes over the announcement, as it is to appear in the local newspaper; it is then the News Director’s job to edit the information for inclusion in the next broadcast.  It is normally done three times a day; on the 8am newscast, the noon newscast, and the 6pm recap of the day’s news.  There are days when the funeral announcements run longer than the local news does – especially during the long, cold winter, when pneumonia settles in as an uninvited guest at all the local nursing homes.  Before coming to Iowa I had done radio news in North Dakota and Minnesota, so I thought I was prepared to do the obituary announcements – but I wasn’t.  Not with those tricky, pretzel-like Dutch names!

In the early 1900’s, according to the local history books, several thousand families, all members of the Dutch Reformed Church, came to settle in Clay and O’Brien counties in Iowa.  They not only brought their rigorous religion with them, but they brought some pretty darn challenging surnames, too!  I was used to dealing with Scandinavian tongue-twisters like Stuhlsted and Thingvold -- but Gontjes, Vander Ploeg, and Imwiehe left me flabbergasted.  My hubris initially did not allow me to ask for help in pronouncing these alphabetically-challenged surnames (after all, I was a graduate of the prestigious Brown College of Broadcasting up in Minneapolis, Minnesota!)  But after the first dozen irate phone calls from the next of kin, demanding to know why I was making fun of the deceased, I humbly began seeking help.  The office secretary was usually a local gal, so she often knew how to pronounce the names.  But even she would get stumped once in a while, glancing at the name on the glossy fax sheet and shaking her flaxen mane in bewilderment.  Then I would have to call the funeral home to see if they knew how to pronounce it.  Sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn’t.  If they didn’t there was nothing for it but to track down the pastor or priest who was to give the eulogy and ask them, for heaven’s sake, how do you pronounce “Baughfman”?

Then there was the great Kneen controversy.  This was a large, spread-out, long-established family, so members were going to meet their maker on a regular basis.  The problem was that some of the family pronounced the name “Neen”, and some of them pronounced it “Kaneen”.  Inevitably, if I said “Keen” on the air, it was supposed to be “Kaneen”, and vice versa.  And in what kind of world does a man go around with the last name of Caauwe?  I honestly and sincerely wanted to get the names right, since this would probably be the last time they would be pronounced in full, besides at the funeral, this side of eternity.  Every human being deserves at least that much respect.

I’m happy to say that as time went by I picked up a smattering of knowledge on Dutch surnames – I even took the trouble to look up the use and pronunciation of tussenvoegsels at the local library in Sheldon (and if you want to know what that is you can go look it up yourself!)  And so my frantic calls to the funeral home became fewer and fewer, and my flubs became fewer and fewer.  But then, one fatal day, I read the obituary of a person with the last name of Snuttjer (it’s pronounced “Snooter”).  I pronounced it correctly, but it struck me as just plain funny.  I came down with an attack of the giggles on the air.  After that I had to be careful, to think really sad thoughts as I read the names of the departed, so I would not desecrate them with a belly laugh.  I met my Waterloo when I had to do the sports one day.  I scanned the script hastily before going on the air, too hastily – since halfway through I read the following:  “The Red Raiders at Northwestern University in Orange City have made two selections so far; Donkersloot and Boogert . . . “

The Program Director rushed in to finish the broadcast for me, as I slid helplessly to the floor, choking on my stifled guffaws.

Not too long after that I left Northwestern Iowa and the radio business, for something that would never have me laughing so hard.  I became the Publicity Director for Culpepper & Merriweather’s Circus . . . 

Thailand Memories

 

I would like to preface the memoir of my mission in Thailand by narrating just how I got the funds to enable me to go.  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 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 smidgeon 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 are still good friends to this day.

 

 

 

These memoirs are strictly my own, original writing, which I freely give to the Church History Department without expectation of any sort of recompense.  They reflect my own views and opinions only; I alone am responsible for their content and meaning.

Tim Torkildson.