The Phone Call: Another Memory of Irvin Feld.

As my LDS mission in Thailand drew to a close in 1975 I was summoned to the Mission President's office for a little chat.
Harvey Brown, President Brown to me, was a short and roly-poly sort of a man, with a pug nose and a perpetual twinkle in his eye. At least he always had a twinkle for me, the one LDS missionary in the world who put on clown white and dropped his pants as part of his proselyting efforts.

He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder as I entered his office and ushered me to a seat beside his desk.

"Elder Torkildson" he said, "have you given much thought to what you want to do when you get back home from your mission?"

This was a stumper; for I hadn't really had the time to give it much thought. I was busily engaged in what every LDS missionary does on his or her mission -- appearing at hospitals, schools, libraries, Buddhist festivals, and even prisons, to do 45 minutes of cornball slapstick -- including playing my musical saw.

I figured he wanted me to come up with some kind of serious career choice, so I blurted out:

"I was thinkin' I'd like to be a barber!"

For the first time ever, he glared at me. And shook his head.

"What in the world would you want to do THAT for?" he asked me. "You have a gift you need to share with the world! And you DON'T want to go back with the circus?"

Actually, I did -- I just didn't think it was a dignified way for a former LDS missionary to earn his bread. Lucky for me President Brown was happy to harangue me until I was convinced that returning to the big top would be right and proper. It took all of two minutes.

"And by the way" he added as I left his office, "don't delay getting married, either!"


A few weeks after that interview I was back in Minneapolis, staying with my parents, looking at a bank account that was as shriveled as a raisin found in the Pyramids of Giza.

My parents were happy to see me after a two year hiatus, of course; but they made it quite clear that nothing would please them better than a job that would take me out of their house -- preferably for years at a time.

So I  called Information (there were actual LIVE persons who you could talk to back then) and asked for the number of Ringling Brothers Circus.

I then dialed the number, asked the receptionist if I could please speak to Mr. Ivin Feld, and waited to see what would happen.

She asked my name, told me to hold on please, and in less than a minute a very familiar voice, with that inimitable all-business accent, came on the line.

"Well, Torkildson -- is it? What can I do for ya?"

I was profoundly amazed that he would pick up the phone for me, someone who had left his employ two years earlier, and not in the best of odors; he had planned something big for me, he had said at the time, but my ill-advised zeal to go knocking on doors somewhere would put the kibosh on that now.

"Uh . . ." I mumbled like an idiot, "um, I'd like a clown job if you have any openings right now."

It was the middle of April, the season was in full swing -- of course he was not going to need any clowns.

"Sure, I can use ya! Report to the Blue Unit in Cleveland by Saturday and they'll put you right to work. Have a good time in Thailand?"

He remembered that? I think I had dropped him one postcard the whole time I'd been away.

"Uh, yeah -- it was great. I got to . . . "

He cut me off: "Well then, don't be late for the Saturday morning show! Gotta go, Torkildson. Welcome back!"

I told the folks I had a job offer, if I could scrape up plane fare to Cleveland; they were happy to fork over the 45 bucks (like I say, this was a LONG time ago).

When I got to Cleveland Charlie Baumann met me, grim-faced as ever, at the arena back door.

"You are back" he stated flatly. He did not seem either pleased or surprised. "Go talk to Svede Johnson -- he is in charge of der funny men." He spun on his heel and walked away without another word.

I got a rousing welcome on my return to clown alley. Swede gave me a sour look, waggled his head back and forth sadly, and proclaimed: "We got the %##@@& pinhead back again!" He then gave me a big lopsided grin and shook my hand warmly. Kevin Bickford shyly gave me a rubber chicken that had "Welcome Back, Tork" stenciled on it. Several of the new faces, the First of Mays, were immediately told that I was the fabled Mormon Missionary, and they broke into a chorus of the LDS hymn, "Come, Come, Ye Saints" -- only they improvised some obscene and profane lyrics that caused my earwax to melt.

Gee, it felt good to be home again . . .

I know not what to think

Mosiah 25:8-9 ~  "For they knew not what to think; for when they beheld those that had been delivered out of bondage they were filled with exceedingly great joy.

  And again, when they thought of their brethren who had been slain by the Lamanites they were filled with sorrow, and even shed many tears of sorrow."

 I know not what to think, when sunshine follows rain,

 when evil follows good, when fitness follows pain.

To me the world's confused, the mix of good and bad

is bunched like wheat and tares, like colors in a plaid.

Complexity is not my fancied cup of tea;

I have no answer pat for ambiguity.

O make me unafraid, thou God of all Design,

to see this tangled web as something more divine. 

Breaking News . . .

Most people don't think that Salt Lake
has an important News Break;
but where else will a Seer
give messages clear,
implying so much is at stake?

Salute to Peter Arno

I love a naughty picture, when drawn with real panache;
it makes a telling statement without the use of trash.
A cunning use of language, wherein the dishabille
of the quaint old Adam slips on banana peel.

The Harder Right

The harder Right, not easy wrong,
should be our everlasting song.
Like Alice, if we do not choose
with care, our way we surely lose.
Not ev'ry path a man can trod
will lead him to a loving God.
So heed the Cheshire cat, who said
you are the path that you will tread. 

The Burglar

 The Burglar is not quite extinct;

they're common as white kitchen sink.

Just get with your banker;

without any rancor

he'll rob you before you can blink.

Limerick: The Anti-Consumer.

I consume very little these days.
To me shopping malls are a maze.
I like a thrift store
where prices don't soar;
pooh-pooh to J. Galbraith's essays! 

The Gecko

The gecko can outpace a fly
when traipsing a ceiling up high.
The hairs on its feet
with molecules meet
(though I've known 'em to fall in stir fry . . .)

1MDB

There once was a canny Malay
who wanted an endless payday.
"A movie with fizz"
said Mr. Aziz
"will make me as rich as Norway!" 

Judy Garland took a trolley

Judy Garland took a trolley -- sang about it, too,
back when things moved slower and there was no traffic queue.
Now the tracks, paved over in a mad attempt at speed,
have been relaid to gentle the vehicular stampede.
The sense of dim nostalgia, and concern for dirty skies,
have made the trolley on the tracks an urgent enterprise.
A streetcar named Ambition might attract a lot of fares
if it featured wifi and some padded, comfy chairs.
If I could drive a trolley powered by the city's juice
I'd feel as proud and haughty as that fabled daemon Zeus!
But I am a pedestrian and do not choose to ride
any such contraption that with others may collide.
Give me a peaceful stroll upon the pavements straight and firm;
it keeps my bowels quite frisky (with a bit of raw wheat germ).