Peek into the mind of an Artist
This is the first post on my new blog. I’m all about the circus, living my life as a creative artist and how wonderful my life with horses has been. I have many stories to share about my interesting life and have finally begun getting this new blog going, so stay tuned for more and let me hear from you. Subscribe below to get notified when I post new updates.
Beaming with pride, my attention was soon distracted. I noticed a strange clicking noise coming from the engine in the rear. A glance at the dash was all it took. The oil light was on, so I immediately steered the bus to the side of the road and shut her down. An inspection of the underneath and the rear of the bus looked grim. Oil was all over the back dripping from the engine. My heart sank. Superdog would have to wait in the bus while I hitchhiked for help.
Standing on the side of the road, I studied the view of the grassy fields to the left and right as I waited for the next car to go past. Long amber shafts of grass with full seed heads waved rhythmically in a breeze as large olive and black grasshoppers flew lazy arcs overhead. Tired fences offered shelter to infant trees safe from the routine of mowing along the road and during the harvest of the hay. Clumps of mature sumac, maple and oak took a stand along these boundaries initiating a windbreak and providing shade.
Not much for standing still, my walk took me farther and farther from the disabled bus. A driver, seeing the curious vehicle on the side of the road and the tall longhaired guy continuing on foot figured it out immediately. He slowed down and offered me a ride. Pikeville was only a few miles ahead and yes, he knew of a garage he could take me to.
Soon I faced a shallow, faded white block building with the usual array of rusted car parts and shiny grease stains on the worn driveway. I made my way inside the dimly lit garage and followed paths between piles of worn tires and stacks of oily motor parts and found the woolliest man I have ever seen. He was bent over a car fender concentrating on the cold gray mass of metal under the hood. I began to speak.
As I explained my quandary, he began to smile, lighting up the place. He thought as he wiped his hands on a maroon rag. He then gestured for me to follow him out back. There, he told an enthusiastic youngster immersed in a repair job behind the building about our quest and that we would be back soon. We walked toward a rusty stout truck that, although it started right up, the sound was evidence that the mechanical components were in dire need of attention. Unspeaking, he seemed confident that the truck would make it, so after climbing in, I settled into the most comfortable part of the torn foam seat and held on.
With the help of a tow strap and with me at the wheel soon the decorated bus was rolling down the highway again. Knowing the value of having the vehicle sign work on display, I opted for parking the bus in the front of the garage next to the road. There I could stretch an electric cord and have relative comfort while I arranged for and then waited to get the mechanical work done.
My sign work became a sensation for the youngster working out back. He became interested in, not only my plight, but also my vocation. In contrast, my wooly savior seemed satisfied that his job was done. He didn’t seem to be able to communicate information about the services offered that I would have found helpful. As the result, a solution to my dilemma was not forthcoming.
I set out on foot to find some work. The Auto Parts store wanted their name lettered in an arc across the face of their block building over the front door. While doing this job, I found and used a long piece of quarter-round trim to assist laying out the large arc. When the project was almost complete, two curious sign painters stopped by and asked me how I laid it out.
I also found some glass doors that wanted some business names lettered on them and some trucks to letter. The local fire department/rescue squad became a friendly haven and an excellent place to network with people in this community. I became friends with an ambulance driver and during our chats, I found the same kind of genuine fellowship I enjoyed with my friend Hayes back in Michigan.
Although in just a few days, I had become a productive part of this community, my wooly host wasn’t making any progress on my broken engine.
One night after work, I was invited to go with him and his assistant. It was an evening of drinking and driving the old rusty truck. We went up and down the windy mountain roads that began at the edges of the flat plain and the activity seemed innocent enough. The good old boys were out for a joy ride. That is until the driver made a decision to do something heinous.
In the darkness, on a section of mountain road with a flat area between the curves was a large dumpster. He negotiated the truck in behind the large steel object and gunned the motor. With a loud scream the truck lurched forward and the steel box began to skid away from its resting-place. As I watched this activity in horror, my host purged a cynical laugh and we drove away leaving that large ominous object directly in the path of anyone attempting to use the highway. Although this deviation from the innocent joy ride created concern deep inside me, I was unable to voice my fear. What was I to do? Stranded without hope of escape, it didn’t seem appropriate for me to squeal. I began to fear the homicidal tendencies of my host.
My close friend at the Rescue Squad noticed that nothing was going on with my dead motor. He took it upon himself to retrieve my engine, take it to the rescue squad garage and tear it apart. With his help, we discovered the problem; a valve had dropped and broke a piston. He then found the needed parts and reassembled the motor. Grateful for the camaraderie and prosperous with sign work, now my mechanical needs were being met. I was once again mobile. With a few more sign projects to complete and the show date of the circus in Knoxville now well past, there was no need to hurry out of town.
One morning, I was alarmed to see the ambulance that my friend drove, hooked onto the back of a large wrecker. The front of this rescue vehicle was smashed flat. I found my friend inside the fire department with his head bandaged up and his arm in a sling. He then told me the story.
On a late-night emergency run with an injured patient on board, at a high rate of speed they ran right into something they couldn’t see. The object they hit was somehow sitting right in the middle of the road. I immediately had a flood of emotion grip the inside of the back of my throat rendering me unable to talk.
I was appalled, yet I didn’t know what to do. Should I tattle on the woolly one and risk the vengeance he is capable of? How can I be a friend to this man that is now hurt who took an interest in me when I was down. I was in a terrible quandary.
Like so many times when threatened with the cruel nature of the world, I did not know what to do. I stuffed this down along with the unanswered relational conflicts of childhood, siblings, girlfriends, family and home. This debacle went deep inside to a secret forgotten place and hopefully the episode would stay there forever.
An inner tension existed and I found myself reluctant as I interacted with my injured rescue squad friend. With the last few sign painting projects complete and motor integrity restored, soon I motored away from this place and toward another adventure.
A few weeks lapsed. I looked at the beautifully lettered sign for the circus. They would be long gone by now, headed for California. Sadly, there was no hope of ever delivering that beautiful sign to them. I still have it.
Life deals circumstances that often have no reasonable explanations. There are questions about events that nothing can be done to improve. Such was the emotional quandary that accompanied me as Superdog and I motored away from Pikeville and headed south. The engine was back to its optimal self and the routine of travel resumed, albeit with a different direction due to the extended stay in Pikeville. Plus, it was getting cold outside. I made haste and motored across the peach state.
During the wonderful drive climbing the mountainous regions of east central Tennessee, I found many scenic overlooks. These afforded a place to pause, enjoy the vibrant autumn colors and reflect. I also noticed along the way, cardboard arrows to guide the path of a fleet of show trucks. I took a detour to follow the arrows to wherever they led. At the end of my effort, I found a grand tented circus such as I had never seen before.
Circus Vargas was from California and the grassy showgrounds was adjacent to a shopping plaza. The colorful fleet and the flags flying in the breeze atop the large canvas big top was an impressive sight to behold. I didn’t know any of the performers or workers on this show but it didn’t take long to make some contacts.
Thanks to my VW bus being decorated with sign work of all sorts and my habit of parking in a location with maximum visibility, the circus management soon noticed and responded by commissioning a sign. The project would take a few days to complete. I had to find a board and begin with several coats of paint. When the board was dry and ready, I began to letter the copy. The show would be in a different town by the time the sign was complete so I was given a route card. I would deliver the sign in Knoxville where they would play and give two shows the following week.
I found a board at a local lumberyard and had it cut to the proper size. I sanded the edges and began the process of painting front and back with several coats of white enamel to insure a long life. The colors selected for the copy were blue and red and when the board was dry, I was ready to lay out the letters.
A lettering man starts to draw the entire layout with a Stabilo or water-soluble crayon. Having carefully-formed guides for the letters helps prior to the tricky technique of using the brush loaded with paint to depict each letter.
Having an intimate knowledge of letterform is a big part of what it takes to be a lettering artist. Each character is individual and has unique features that must remain intact in order for each character to be recognized. Time-honored rules provide the foundation for re-creating these old lettering styles. Beyond a respect for what remains constant, the variety of possibilities for letterforms is endless.
I became fascinated with this art form partly because it is so vast. That and constant demand for lettering skills exist virtually everywhere.
Creating these forms with enamel paint and a special lettering brush is tricky. First, the paint must be thinned to the proper consistency, with the outside temperature and humidity playing a factor, to achieve proper viscosity. Then, loading the brush with paint requires a special technique. First, the brush is dipped to the hilt to get paint around every hair and after the excess is wiped off on the inside rim of the can, the brush must be palleted, or wiped back and forth on a flat surface to insure even distribution of paint. With the brush fully charged the lettering can begin. It is best not to wait too long because the paint in the brush is liquid and gravity is constantly playing a role. If you wait without doing anything, you run the risk of getting a big drip of paint on your shoe.
Once the brush touches the surface, the same rule applies. The motion of moving the brush across the surface unloads the paint in the area where contact is made using a gradual twist of the brush while lifting away from the surface, allowing one corner to make a sharp point. Round shapes are facilitated by dragging the loaded brush in an arc. Care must be taken not to double-stroke these areas with two layers of paint because the buildup can sag later when the next half dozen letters are complete.
Another discipline that made me efficient as a lettering man was to stop looking at what I had accomplished while I painted and only look where I was going. Adopting this technique increased efficiency and promoted faith in what was going on. Trust the process. Sure, I could glance at what was complete to make sure it was acceptable but my attention must remain focused on where I was going at all times.
Once all the red letters were intact, the time arrived to add some interest to the sign. A shadow is an effect that adds impact. Each letter appears to be an inch thick, standing off the surface. This is accomplished by visualizing where a shadow would fall. I would visualize a light source as coming from above right that would cast a shadow on the area below and left of each letter. By using the brush again to create these shapes I added interest to the sign.
The finishing touch is the border. I secured a pinline wheel device for such a purpose and was pleased with consistent results every time I used it. Once everything on the sign was completely dry, I wiped off the stray crayon lines and had it ready for delivery. Although completely satisfied with the results, I was also aware that my accumulating additional knowledge of letterform would be beneficial.
Soon the beautiful sign was lying on my bunk in the back of the bus. With Superdog smiling in the passenger seat, we headed south through a great valley in the middle of the state of Tennessee. The project was complete in plenty of time to rendezvous with Circus Vargas in Knoxville. All went well on this perfect, sunny day and I was filled with the joy of accomplishment. A comfortable breeze competed with the view of fertile pastureland that stretched out to the foothills of the mountains beyond. Ram Jam played an up-beat rock and roll tune on the eight-track player as Superdog and I motored toward the next town and the circus. I was smug as the accomplishment was sure to impress my customers on the circus and hopefully lead to more work.
Watching the trees turn color, starting from northern Michigan and traveling across to the central Midwest and on to the southern states in my VW bus during 1977 was perhaps one of the most outstanding events of my lifetime. The magical bus was the perfect conveyance to enjoy the early morning magic while finding another little town, and to peruse the sights around the countryside. I had begun the first autumn viewing and sign painting expedition of my life that wonderful year.
My intention was to start in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and head south through Indiana, Kentucky and Tennessee, as the color gradually shifted, with the eventual destination being Florida for the winter. The first jump of my journey after closing with the carnival in Allegan was straight north through the middle of the state. Although the color was about seventy percent in Jackson County, as I headed north the intensity of color became complete. The vibrant yellow and orange scenery whetted an appetite for more. The little bus meandered through quaint villages, stunning farm country, beautiful water and boating destinations that one by one were investigated my Superdog and decorated by Krazee Davee.
I had fallen in love with this state over the last few years while performing in most of the towns across its length and breadth on a tented circus doing one-day stands, doing two shows a day. After high school, I had joined the circus as a drummer in the band and began to live a lifestyle full of adventure. The microbus helped me trace some of the route the show had taken and allowed me to stop in to see a couple of the girls I had met.
Tourist destinations were all closed down by this time, yet apples and pumpkins were available all along the way. The hint of winter rode the breeze and an ominous overcast sky caused me to select a change in plans. I headed south before I arrived at the Mackinaw Bridge. I am continually amazed at how a hundred miles can influence comfort.
With cold weather looming, heading south became priority. Crossing the state line placed us back in the gorgeous autumn weather. As I headed south through Indiana on the interstate, I reached a point where the van started to run rough and soon thereafter, just refused to go any further. I had to hike to the next exit and get friendly with the mechanic that drove the wrecker parked at the gas station.
The first order of business once the van had been pulled to this establishment was to pinstripe and letter the mechanics toolbox as he investigated the mechanical issue. Scottsville, Indiana was the name of the community. I must admit, some of the most memorable times with my beloved bus were when she broke down. Call it divinity, serendipity or whatever you will, but the timing for being here couldn’t have been more perfect. It was almost Thanksgiving and while the VW was waiting for the parts needed, I walked into town to find some work. Literally every store I went to was ready to have Christmas decorations painted on the picture windows and glass doors thanks to the service having been provided for years by the local sign painter, who incidentally, had died the day before I broke down.
This coup allowed me to rapidly establish rapport with all the members of the business community. Not only did I paint Christmas wreaths, Santa’s, Nativities and holiday messages of all sorts for the next few weeks, but the contacts also led me to dude up hot rods, create extensive pen and ink artwork for a nautical themed menu at a local restaurant and fine sign-work for a jewelry store.
Because of the void being left behind with the passing of the local sign painter, I could have easily assumed his role in this town and moved right in. But a longing in my heart was to take me away from this place that could have become my home, but not before a few false starts.
On one occasion, finally complete with the last project, I was ready to head down the highway. An enthusiastic youngster headed me off before I got to the entrance ramp of the interstate. After begging me to paint one more painting, I then returned to his dad’s auto lot to paint a small mural on the glove compartment door in his sports car. I must admit this community had a lot to love.
My life would have fared quite different if I had stayed in that town, but the lure of the highway kept calling. Soon, I was driving along with the festive colors of autumn flanking both sides of the highway. I was headed into Kentucky.
I decided that the autumn colors would be especially pleasant in a college town so Bowling Green became my next destination. At the edge of a nearby town on the way, I stopped at a corner gas station. While looking at the Hot Rod magazines in the rack inside, I met a young fellow. The elaborate paintwork on the bus piqued his curiosity. He had a 40’s car he was making into a hot rod and wanted a mystical scene painted on the large trunk lid. I followed him to his family’s large sawmill and saw the dark blue vehicle in one of the buildings. On the car, I visualized a rugged mountain scene with a castle atop in the midst of subtle clouds and a large moon. The foreground would have a winding road that led to the ominous dwelling.
During the project, I was made part of the family. Meals took place in their large home in town, in an equally large kitchen. I sat at the biggest dining table I had ever seen and enjoyed the family style of passing large serving bowls heaped with southern vittles. Collard greens, fried okra, lima beans, cornbread, fried chicken and mashed potatoes with white gravy were among my favorites. In addition to my hosts siblings and parents, his grandparents sat at this large table for each meal.
I painted the castle a small size, leaving plenty of room for the rest of the vista on the car trunk lid. I wanted the architectural features of the structure to be accurate upon close inspection. Intricate details for this airbrushed castle were created with the help of cutting friskets or stencils. I carefully cut out interesting shapes from index cards and sprayed color through them. The tedious process produced stunning results that my customer, now my friend, found very pleasing. Finally, complete, I took the memories of this job, being part of his family and the Polaroid photo of this latest masterpiece and bid adieu and headed south into Tennessee.
By august, the time for the Jackson County Fair had arrived. During a rare day off on the Fisher Bros Circus a few years ago I recalled a trip with Hayes to meet his friend Jim Elliott who was setting up his ride. He was now the manager of W G Wade Shows. I figured this would be another place to thrive. With my last twenty dollars, I bought a gallon of paint thinner, a case of beer and had enough left to pay my admission into the fairgrounds. I was then out of money. This situation became do or die.
Once on the fairgrounds, I put a sign under my arm that said “Signs, all kinds” and started walking. I walked around the midway until a showman named Eddie saw me. He hired me to letter “3 plays quarter” on his two Digger games 46 times. While I worked, word got around that I was here.
Next, I met Tim. He had a request to paint something very special. Tim had a stunning clown design and wanted a design embellished with scrollwork and his initials. In order to paint this on either end of his Skee-Ball alley trailer, I had to begin after closing at night and paint throughout the night. The alley was open for business all day. The next morning, my efforts were on display as the showmen awakened. Tim Bors was pleased and would become a steady customer and one of my favorite carnival showmen of all time.
An older man named Peg had a limp and owned a peanut company. He guided me over to where a cute girl was working in one of his lemonade stands. As he encouraged rapport between us, he mentioned that she would really enjoy having her name lettered on the entry door of the trailer. I was happy to oblige as I basked in the glow of her smile. The finished product promoted a sense of pride and even more of her grateful smile. When the project was done, I couldn’t find Peg anywhere to get paid for that name. I never saw him again.
Additional requests for sign work assumed flood status. Soon I was as busy as ever. Although falling for the slick manipulative ploy by Peg, I did go on to become the sign painter for his son and his adopted grandson who still tour with their premier concession operation.
Jack & Sid had the popcorn concession on the show. They had two brand new cotton candy booths. They wanted me to paint fancy Victorian scrollwork around the tops of these booths to imitate what was popular on the circus. They also wanted portraits of clowns holding a cotton candy painted around the base. I referred to an image of friend Bernie Kallman, a clown on the CBCB circus and created his likeness for them. They became not only good customers but great friends. From that humble start, I went on to meet more showmen who provided interesting artistic challenges.
Soon, as the sign painter at the county fair, I drove my little bus among the components of the midway in the morning, parked alongside my next project, behind rides and between concession trailers. All I needed was a little niche near my project. Then as the throngs of fair goers arrived to mill about, I became lost in the project at hand. I had found that perfect place to fit in.
I was encouraged to follow them to the State Fair, where I continued to be as busy as ever. Making money, producing a variety of decorative projects and eating the fun foods that this industry is famous for became my modus operandum. As I became immersed in this society, I also began to notice activities unique to this industry going on in the background – both during the fair and especially during tear down and set up.
I have always been fascinated with how the circus was able to accomplish moving all the components of a giant tented city every day. Here on the carnival, the equipment was much more sophisticated and engineered to perform amazing things. The engineering that went into, not only the ability to carry passengers on a variety of undulating circular ride paths, but the portability that allowed these steel masterpieces to fold up into a manageable size was amazing. During tear down, I was often studying how the crew worked together as the load was transferred from spindle to carrying rack.
These observations opened up a whole new world. I never saw this entertainment environment as the naive patron did. At first, I sought a huge canvas waiting to be enhanced with decorative paint. The I became savvy to why these components work. I studied the mechanics, the science of marketing, the seduction using music, art and lights. I also recognized the psychology of influencing behavior and developed my art form to create desire and appeal. In an effort to better serve this industry, I began to study and become fascinated with other forms of art. I studied comic books, magazine ad illustration, letter forms and color theory.
These showmen competed for attention. Each one seemed to be obsessed with “look at me,” and for good reason. The more effective their advertising, the more they sold. As they sought to out-do each other, requests for finer and more intentional work became an uncanny payoff that benefited us all. Split color roman letters with triple outlines and a double-shadow would tie me up for days, denying a competitor access to the sign man. As they competed, I thrived.
I learned quite a bit about effective visual marketing and how artwork adds to the entertaining environment of the fairgrounds that summer. After the last fair of the season, I received a request from the manager of the show, Jim Elliott. The final project would be on his living quarters/house car.
“I want elephants painted there,” he commanded while pointing at the side, adding, “and I want the paint real thick.”
His green semi soon received elephant heads surrounded by orange circus scrollwork. While I worked on this final project the crew parked the ride equipment in the barns at the fairgrounds for the winter. With the season over I returned to Clarklake.
Hayes reveled at the stories of my adventures and the photos of sign work when I returned to his home. I was motivated to continue with my career as a sign painter. I had an idea for a drawing table to use wherever I went. In an effort to be helpful, he gave me some nice cherry wood slats that I fashioned into folding supports for a portable drawing table that would pack away in the bus. That project was complete when the jacks were varnished and the slats pinstriped.
As the trees began to turn orange in the fall, I took my cue to start my next adventure. I planned to drive first to northern Michigan and then head south to enjoy the fall foliage change across Indiana, Kentucky and Tennessee. I would find sign painting opportunities all along the way.
My love affair with the Volkswagen bus began on a sunny afternoon, as I sat in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. I was waiting for my friend to return from the Veterinarian’s office where he had taken his little dog for shots. I hitchhiked earlier that year to visit Billy Griffin in Florida to secure a job on the Clyde Beatty Cole Bros Circus. I found out the rigors of my role as the 24-hour man would not completely satisfy my relentless inner creative urge.
I discovered the merits of the winter in Florida. Sunshine and palm trees coincide with practical weather and enabled life and work to take place outdoors. As I sat in the truck, through the side window I saw a magical vehicle pull in and park next to me. The microbus was dark green and rigged for camping with jalousie windows on each side and a bicycle rack on the front. A flowery couple enjoying themselves ambled out of it and went into one of the stores.
As I studied this unique vehicle, I was sold. I realized this small practical vehicle could provide housing in addition to transportation. This would allow travel and adventure and be the perfect conveyance for a guy with a dog pursuing a trade. That brief introduction to Volkswagen piqued my interest for a compact, unique and loveable mode of transportation.
Three months later, my handling the logistic and advance duties for the largest big top circus on earth was over. I decided the time was ripe to launch my career as a sign painter.
My companion Superdog and I hitchhiked from the Adirondacks, over the mountains of Pennsylvania and across Ohio to land in Michigan where I shared tales of my adventures with friend Hayes.
In a moment of epiphany, as we sat together in his living room, I announced something pivotal.
“Hayes,” a new thought had entered my mind, “I’ve decided that I ought to become a sign painter.”
Inwardly, he chuckled, having known the perfection and perhaps inevitability of this career direction.
“That sounds like a great idea,” beamed his response.
In anticipation of my visit, Hayes had fashioned some decorative shaped boards in his wood shop, routed ornamental edges on them and varnished them to an admirable shine. While I enjoyed respite from the road, Hayes asked me to paint images of his prized birds: a Komourner Tumbler, pigeon and a bantam on the plaques. One board had such a shape that the likeness of the standing Komourner left a blank place in one corner. No problem. I painted a likeness of a blue ribbon and lettered “Champion” on it. Like déjà vu, the next spring at a competition, that bird got a blue ribbon.
Hayes also liked the idea of pinstripes to decorate the slats on the utility trailer he pulled behind his car. Although my first attempts qualified as crude, his enthusiasm for my effort was genuine. I was also getting geared up to serve my customer in Clarklake, Tom Collins, who wanted more signs for the Beach Bar.
One day Hayes spotted a VW bus with a “for sale” sign in the front window along Highway 231 and suggested that we go look at it. The next thing I knew, I was the owner of a 1964 bus with jalousie windows and a pop-top roof, all set up to camp out in. The interior had cabinets and a bunk. Once the bus was mine, I designated an area for my painting gear, personal effects and comfortability for my dog.
The first order of business was to decorate this bus. A perfect panel existed next to the jalousie windows to letter the word signs. I was also experimenting with a device called an airbrush. After securing a CO2 bottle for propellant, I emblazoned my moniker “Krazee Davee” across the entire side in an effective way. A bright orange splat became a comical decorative element above and around the driver’s window to suggest that I had been pelted with something orange. To add to the humor, upon this funny shape I lettered, “I got it!” Then the adventure of a lifetime began.
I started that summer enjoying the barefoot, casual experience of lettering signs at the Beach Bar, with regular intervals of simply walking across the street and immersing myself in the refreshing water of Clark Lake. Becks was on tap and I made friends with several of the waitresses, one of whom became instrumental with my future.
Over the years I made additional signs, logos, gilded window treatments, murals and T-shirt designs for the Beach Bar. What became the focal point in the dining room, was the fancy plate-glass piece with glue-chipped fern shapes in the glass with gold leaf designs to showcase an old-time photo of his dad with his dog. The inscription read ‘Best Friends Meet at the Beach Bar.’ My development over the years from an enthusiastic beginner into an accomplished professional coincided with the Beach Bar morphing from a drink shots and get crazy joint into a respectable place to bring the whole family for dinner.
Being on display while I worked became an effective way to find the next customer. When the annual summertime festival on Clark Lake occurred, my bus was parked in the middle and I lettered signs while I met the people who lived in the area.
The magical microbus transported Superdog and myself to many places. Whenever I needed work, I found the downtown drug store where merchants gathered for a cup of coffee at ten o’clock each morning. I became an attraction when I parked the decorated bus outside and began to paint on it. Lettering ‘Mobile Sign Shop’ across the roof of the bus was one such undertaking. This manner for meeting clients was effective.
Adding to the existing sign work on my vehicle always lead to a job or two from the local merchants. While I painted away on the exterior, someone would ask me to come with them and look at their storefront. Then, I would have a store window, an office door, truck or a van to work on with never a lack of ideas for designs.
Early in my relationship with the VW, a slight inconvenience occurred. The beloved bus refused to start. After some frustration, I became elated to find out that if I planned ahead and parked on a hill, the situation was easy to live with. When the time came to go, I rolled down the hill and popped the clutch while in gear and this vehicle started right up. Even on a flat area, the small size of the vehicle made it easy to get rolling; I pushed it myself and then jumped into the driver’s seat to repeat the above-mentioned procedure. Soon we roared on our way.
I saved my money for a new starter. Little did I know that this situation also provided an opening to influence more than just mechanical integrity.
Hayes suggested I go downtown to Fletcher’s Garage in Jackson to get the starter. I arrived in front of the two-story brick storefront with service bays and out of habit, scanned the available parking spaces for one with a suitable incline to facilitate starting. I then went inside and spoke to the new owner of the business. Kelly Osborne was my age.
“I would like to buy a starter from you, but I don’t have enough money to hire you to install it,” I began, “Can I buy the part from you and install it myself in your driveway?”
Evidently this odd request coming from a good-natured individual created a good impression, because his response was to be helpful. When the bus was in front of his bay doors I went underneath to dismount the starter. This was when I discovered I did not have the proper tools to get the job done. Soon I was back inside.
“May I borrow a socket to remove the rear bolt?”
My good-natured host provided me with the tool I needed.
Over the years Kelly not only became a good friend, but his place of business, renamed ‘Kelly Imports,’ soon sported sign work by Krazee Davee.
During several points in my career, his garage housed a variety of my painted projects. He allowed me to decorate business vehicles there along with making 4×8 wooden signs. I even decorated a complete set of rounding boards for a carousel there one winter. Those were the days of sharing an amber beverage on a tailgate after work with an occasional smoldering herbal accompaniment.
As the years brought maturity to the fellows at Kelly Imports, in addition to keeping an endless succession of VW buses running for me, they became mentors of clean-living and fine examples of living successful lives.
The large tented circus of yesteryear making one-day-stands required finely tuned choreography for all its components. I admired the Clyde-Beatty Cole Bros. Circus since I was a kid. The wreck of the truck used to haul my liberty act ponies and my performing horse shelved my ability to perform with any circus.
I had to assume a job that didn’t require having my own vehicle. The Clyde-Beatty Cole Bros. Circus needed an advance man and the position came with a panel truck in which to work out of. When I arrived at the winter quarters near Deland, I found out more about this job.
My responsibilities were to remain 24 hours ahead of the show. I would put up the arrows for the fleet to follow, lay-out the lot and make all the last-minute preparations. I would also arrange for fuel, hay and other provisions to be delivered to the showgrounds. The most important of these duties was to lay out the lot or designate the positions of the tents and trucks to optimize the circus configuration in the local setting. Another big part of the job was to rail the road, the term left over from the horse and wagon days when, in advance of the circus, rails from local fences were laid across the roads at an intersection to guide the teams pulling the heavy baggage wagons.
The modern truck circus used cardboard arrows taped to sign posts and chalk indications on bridge abutments to give drivers directions to the next lot. This influenced the name I gave myself. Childlike artistic urges found expression as I quickly fashioned directional arrows that resembled stylized circus tents with flags flying and elephants with trunks that pointed the way. Images of clowns, girls and horses were all created spontaneously using large pieces of marking chalk. These diversions made the lonely job ahead of the show interesting and became a source of amusement for the show folks too.
While driving the panel truck towards the next town, I became quite good at finding a place to jump the curb for a place to park. From this location I walked back to a sign post to tape up an arrow or walk to a bridge post and draw a chalk image.
One day while immersed in these duties in Maryland a surprise awaited me. I returned to my truck, prepared to leave and looked in the mirror to see a barefoot girl running up from behind me frantically waving.
“Hey mister” she yelled “can I have a ride?”
I invited her inside. There must have been something comfortable and curious about the white Chevy panel truck with the three speed on the column. My white Spitz Superdog shifted from the shotgun seat to the middle to make room and the barefoot girl settled in. She was tall with long brown hair. She held her head a little forward and looked down as she reeled from what was going on internally. Sad heavy eyes had a demeanor that seemed to look inward, yet were somewhat playful. She was mildly curious about what I was up to but was clearly wrapped up in a world that I knew nothing about.
When she noticed I was looking, her expression perked up and she would quickly smile. Then in an effort to be sociable, she asked an innocent question about the dog, what I was doing, or where we were going. I found out her name was Mary. Our conversation began this way. She was running away and didn’t mind the refuge or the beer. As my tasks along the way continued, my passenger became involved. It ended up that she had no immediate plans so I had a companion for a few days. It was actually fun having someone along while I laid-out the lot and pursued my other duties.
A journey of a hundred miles took all day. I stopped every couple of miles to put up another directional arrow. Each upcoming turn was indicated with a series of three arrow sets. A system of arrow configurations signaled slow down and turn ahead. A mile before a turn the arrangement began with two down arrows on top with one right (or left) turn arrow. The next set had one down and two turn arrows to say slow down, turn ahead, final warning. At the turn all three arrows pointed the direction the fleet was to go. A mile in the right direction a straight up arrow validated everything was right for the driver.
By the time all my arrows were in place for the fleet to find the shopping mall parking lot. Mary was excited about the circus and eager to help. As I stepped off the lot to see how I could get the show to fit, she patiently waited and enjoyed watching Superdog who, filled with zeal, explored the new location.
The big top was laid out using metal rods driven into the asphalt (or grass) to indicate the location of each center pole. From those locations a light chain was used to form the radius of the round ends of the tent. The spacing between the stakes at the perimeter was accurately determined with the use of an extra length of chain dragged along as an “El” behind the spoke of the chain from the center. Thusly the 150×300 canvas behemoth had a place to go and every stake along the perimeter was designated. To anchor the ridge of the tent between the four center poles, semis were parked in a straight line with the length of the top so aerial rigging inside had secure anchor points.
The midway, backyard or performers area, various animal departments, cookhouse and various maintenance departments were all arranged around the central big top. Once the lot was laid out and ready to receive the fleet, we could relax and wait. During this time, we enjoyed a cool amber beverage and reflected on the wonders around us in this new location. The first trucks would roll in, depending on the length of the jump, by midnight or so and at that time I would spot them.
The steady pounding of the stake driver on steel stakes was our alarm clock. The next morning the once vacant lot began transformation into a tented city. With a minimum of sleep, workers began to get the massive tent into the air. The first dramatic feature was the fifty-five-foot aluminum center poles that soon commanded the area that, the evening before was my exclusive territory. Like the proverbial beehive, many activities were accomplished simultaneously and all was intact and ready for a show by noon, in plenty of time for the 2 O’clock matinee.
My companion was content while she observed this plethora of activity while I attended to my sideline business that provided me with extra income: my newspaper route. I arranged for feed, hay and fuel to be delivered to the lot along with the inevitable incidental emergency tasks that occurred with an operation of this size. Mary was imprinted that day with my love for the circus.
When the band started playing for the big show, Mary saw how the physical elements and preparation activity combined to promise an entertaining show for the throngs of people that now filled the seats.
A shrill whistle blast came from a dapper Count Nicolas. He was dressed as a traditional ringmaster in black boots, white riding pants, red claw-hammer tails and top hat. My new friend sat up straight in her seat as if not to miss a thing. This was pure circus all the way.
Lions and tigers went through their paces as well as aerialists, clowns, horses, dogs, jugglers and the large group of elephants that filled three rings with their unique presence. The show culminated with a couple who rode a motorcycle up a cable that went the length of the tent. All of the noise, hoopla, thrills and showmanship climaxed with their final feat of daring.
The circus moved to a new location in the DC area every couple of days. In the midst of helping me prepare the way for this large circus, Mary told me about her family and asked for a ride home to get some shoes. During one of the jumps to lay out the next lot, we drove to her house. After the panel truck crept into a plush suburban neighborhood and I waited, she entered a nice home. She soon returned with a minimum of supplies and was eager to resume her adventure. This glimpse perhaps cemented our connection. I discovered that we had much in common with our backgrounds. We both have an older brother and a younger sister, great parents and came from lovely homes. Yet we searched for something else. We then headed out to be ahead of the show.
With the help of my new friend, the arrows went up, chalk artwork was created on bridge abutments and lots were laid out. Once again, the fleet was efficiently guided to other locations in Maryland. My route card had the list of the next few weeks of towns we were to play. The show was headed through New Jersey and beyond the city to Long Island. With this information looming, my friend reluctantly sought a ride home.
Putting the magical sawdust world behind us, the panel truck penetrated the suburbs. Once we arrived at her home, parting became sad. We exchanged tears and hugs and vowed to stay in touch. Then I went on my way. I may never know the full imprint she received those few days at the circus. But in the following years as her correspondent and friend I was happy to observe she had accumulated a love for both the circus and adventure.
Through the great sprawling city that began in New Jersey and continued with a labyrinth of highways and cloverleaves, my role ahead of the fleet was tested. Putting up the arrows through New York City was only possible at night when traffic was light. Without a shoulder to pull off onto, the panel truck sat in the slow lane unattended while I affixed arrows to the poles.
Long Island was beautiful. New England quaint, yet the same restlessness that originally brought me to this place would take me away. As the solitary routine wove its way through New England, my skills as a creative artist were established amongst the showmen and I began to desire a different, more stimulating situation. My relentless zeal to create could never be completely satisfied with this routine no matter how many bridge abutments existed.
The circus management being aware of my artistic gifts begged me to illustrate a book for future twenty-four-hour men. John Pugh commissioned the artwork best created by a 24-hour man with a working knowledge. The artwork for my ‘Lot Layout Planbook’ was completed in pen and ink in a motel in upper New York state.
I trained a replacement to do my job and became ready to hitchhike to Michigan to launch my career as an artist/sign painter. Before leaving John Pugh requested me to return during the winter to paint the lettering and décor on the entire fleet.
My plan was for Superdog and I to hitchhike to Michigan and launch my career as an artist. I shipped my stuff to Michigan. My horse waited there also. The time spent ahead of the circus had been lucrative. This fallow time gave me ample opportunity to create, live and laugh. My chance meeting allowed my love for the circus to be passed on to another. There could not have been a better place for the beginnings of my visual communication attempts and entertaining artwork. During this time providing guidance for the fleet, I received direction for my career. I often wonder how my friend from long ago is doing as I savor those memories of adventure with the circus as the Great Chalkmarksman.
It was during those months ahead of the show that my thought processes combined to point the same direction. When I arrived back in Michigan to share my tales of adventure with Hayes, he was already anticipating what he had predicted as inevitable. He was delighted to hear among the friendly exchange my impromptu announcement.
“Hayes,” I began in all earnestness, “I’ve made a decision.”
The bare trees of the Midwest grappled a gray sky and fields lay dormant, dusted white and cold. Soon Illinois also disappeared from beneath my tires. While driving across Missouri I realized this was Christmas Eve. All that I knew was that my parents had found a haven in the Ozarks and had assured me there was a place for me and my stuff.
After driving all night, I arrived in the little town where my parents were supposed to be early on Christmas day. I found the place called Shiloh in a large limestone building had been a hotel at one time. I saw people going into the large building. Upon entering I found the dining area filled with people and found out my parents were out of town. This community in Sulphur Springs, a charismatic Christian commune was receptive.
I was immediately welcomed. After explaining my predicament, I was taken out to their farm where the ponies were unloaded and turned loose. Then I returned to the main building and was fed the first of many wholesome meals.
The following day, my parents returned to that little town. I was filled with a deep sense of shame mixed with elation at seeing them. After being reunited, they shared the sequence of events that occurred that led them to this special place.
Shiloh originated as a group of men who fought together during WWII under a charismatic commander. When the war was over they wanted to continue living, worshiping and working together. One of the men was a baker, so they decided to start baking nutritious bread as a livelihood. While they studied spiritual practices and found ways to be of service to others they attracted others. The community expanded.
They were on the leading edge of the emerging health awareness through nutrition and natural food consciousness. Shiloh developed a big bakery operation and a distribution system for natural foods with their fleet of trucks.
My parents became part of this special community. Impressed with what was going on here, my parents decided to settle near this community and build their retirement home. For now, they occupied a bedroom in one of the many family homes. A large stone building downtown had an attic I could use for storage and a place for my bunk.
In those days Shiloh was a bustling center of communal family style activity populated with three-hundred people from babies all the way through to the elderly. The early morning lifestyle I was accustomed to existed here to albeit with a completely different look. Book study began at 6:30. They had secured a manuscript – revolutionary at the time – called ‘A Course in Miracles.’ The book study was followed by an impressive breakfast. Then the time arrived to tackle the day’s duties.
An interesting cross section of society frequented these early morning sessions. I became friends with a variety of them. Among them was a man named Robert, a quiet calculating man about my age who had found this place as the result of serendipity. He confided to me he was searching for something. He filled his days with spiritual research, contemplation and service.
With the ponies loose on their large farm and the remnants of my operation in storage, I began to wonder how I was going to continue my career as a showman without a truck. That wreck crippled my ability to be on any show. With two acts and other talents without a rig, I had zero options for the near future. The reconstruction of my ability to resume my career would take well over a year.
Billy Griffin had been on Fisher Bros Circus and later on Barnes and Dailey Circus when I was there. Now he was in the office of the Clyde Beatty Cole Bros Circus and suggested that I come to Florida and go to work. They needed a 24-hour man, the man who worked one day in advance of the show, who laid out the lot, railed the road and spotted the rigs as they arrived at the show grounds. Perhaps this job could be a stepping stone I could manage while in this predicament but not a career destination.
After being immersed in the commune lifestyle for several months, I thanked my new friends at Shiloh, bid the ponies’ goodbye and packed light for my trip with Superdog. With my thumb up while standing on the side of the road, I headed towards the next logical chapter of my life.
The aftermath of the wreck became a series of attempts. My wardrobe, props, equipment would need to stay dry. The calliope had been damaged in the wreck. I could store this stuff in a barn at the fairgrounds where the show stored their fleet. What I considered to be valuable were the sketch books of my inspired drawings produced along the road. I asked Al Stencell to take them home for safe keeping. He knew they would not fare well in the dusty barn. My beloved sketch books went with him.
I had been discarded by the circus with no means of moving ponies and equipment. Fortunately, I began to meet a series of Canadian people who helped me. First, a man with a small stable for trotting horses allowed me to keep my livestock in a paddock at his place for a while. A hard drinker himself, I joined him on adventures of going to the trotting track. This man and his horses revealed another interesting facet of the horse industry to me.
The situation at the trotting barn was temporary and he knew a couple with a larger farm south of town. After hitchhiking to meet this couple and explaining my predicament, I found a warm reception. Soon my livestock was in a stock trailer on the way to their farm in the country. This was in an area of rolling, wooded countryside. An enormous wooden barn commanded the center of their sprawling complex. The horse and ponies immediately enjoyed this expanse of still, green pasture. With them loose on this farm, I was freed to make other attempts.
I slept in the truck parked at the fairgrounds at first. Getting my equipment safe and monitoring the livestock required lots of walking and hitchhiking. While walking through town, during a happenstance meeting on the street, I met a smiling, curly long-haired young fellow with an attractive girlfriend. I must have seemed out of place and he was curious and proactive. After hearing my tale of circumstance, he opened up and offered to help. He lived in an apartment over a store downtown. Soon thereafter, I became part of his circle of friends. Pete became my closest ally as I went through this difficult time.
I was learning lessons about human nature. When someone goes through an unfortunate episode in their life, others do as in nature and the injured is pecked to death. I had been discarded, left to figure out this predicament on my own. Pete was a godsend. Perhaps even a good Samaritan.
Just having an audience to explain my predicament allowed inspiration for solutions to occur. Plus, I was out on the street in a foreign country. I was powerless. As Pete welcomed me into his home, a turning point in how I viewed humanity occurred. With cold weather coming fast, I was running out of money. He had regard for my situation. I took Pete up on his offer of a warm couch.
The condition of the wrecked truck seemed hopeless to drive the distance I had to go. Instead of attempting to make it road worthy, I became involved in salvaging all I could and store these commodities with the rest of my equipment and belongings. Then, with great reluctance, I took the rig to a nearby junk yard. I asked the man behind the desk to compensate me for whatever value occurred as the parts were sold. I then left my beloved rig behind. I never heard anything from him.
With my equipment secure in a barn, a comfortable couch in a warm apartment, and camaraderie with a boisterous bunch of Ontario youth, I began to pursue possibilities for getting the livestock across the border into Michigan. I hitchhiked south to the farm in the country where my livestock grazed.
First, the couple with the farm wanted to show me some hospitality. We went on a road trip to a nearby drinking establishment. After an evening of music, food, drinking, dancing, laughter and conviviality, they had an announcement. My hosts were planning a trip to take an empty stock trailer to the horse sale at St Johns, Michigan to buy and bring back a load of horses. That meant they could drop off my livestock across the border.
A friend of Clarence Hastings had a farm on the way to that sale in Grass Lake. He made a call and yes, I could have them dropped off there. Now all I had to do was get my livestock health and customs papers in order. I was flabbergasted. This was perfect for getting my livestock to Michigan. I was in luck. I got the papers in order, helped load my ponies and horse in the stock trailer and watched as they pulled out onto the road that headed west.
Next on the agenda was to get my personal stuff and the remaining equipment out of Ontario. I would have to select a destination. My parents had moved from the Chicago suburbs to the suburbs of Kansas City. While they lived there, my having ponies made it difficult to visit for any length of time, although once having a picket line across their manicured lawn did create quite a sensation in the neighborhood. All I knew at this time was that they had moved again. This time into the Ozarks. I suppose I could go there to an unknown destination.
The situation for the livestock in Grass Lake ended up being more temporary than was originally implied. Before I could get the rest of my belongings out of Ontario, I received a strong indication from the farm owner that she wanted me to come get them moved and moved now. This was unfortunate with the sequence I had planned, but matched the tendency of human nature I was finding out about. I had to postpone the attempt to get my load of stuff rolling and attend to this almost impossible task of traveling several hundred miles on foot to move my livestock fifteen miles. My quest was clear although I had no idea how I was going to do this.
I began to hitchhike from up near Ottawa the length of Ontario. I planned to cross the border at Detroit at night and go into Michigan.
Hitchhiking can provide either a seamless trip to the destination, or a series of extended waits in obscure locations while attempting to appeal to a driver. This time my trip was entirely in cold weather. On a positive note, my hitchhiking was facilitated due to my constant companion Superdog. By keeping the white fluffy nature of this American Eskimo spitz attractive, he became a ride magnet.
Although never on a leash while we were on the road with the circus, during these hitchhiking sessions, I carried a long shoe lace to keep him safely secured to my backpack while standing next to the busy highway. I learned to travel light. The front top pockets of my denim jacket carried special cargo. One was filled with sunflower seeds and the other raisins.
During our trip across Ontario and on towards Michigan, we were blessed with plentiful rides until arriving close to Windsor. Late at night, we waited alongside the highway in the dark with large snowflakes swirling all around. After a long, cold wait, one car finally gave us a ride. At the port of entry, we walked across the bridge to the American side in the wee hours.
Detroit was scary. I was grateful when a black man with whisky on his breath finally picked me up and gave me a ride out of the inner city as dawn approached. Once daylight returned I was in familiar country.
Upon arrival at the Wolcott farm, I saw no immediate danger. My erratic host had a litany of reasons why my livestock couldn’t stay. I was able to borrow her stock trailer and a pickup truck. I thanked her for receiving my ponies and horse from my friends in Canada and once loaded, headed toward friendlier territory. Reunited at Hayes farm, the livestock had a safe place to stay for a while.
Once at Hayes home, I caught up on the sleep missed and once refreshed, began to attend to the tasks at hand. Hayes helped me return the truck and stock trailer.
This visit coincided with Thanksgiving. Hayes was busy making his signature dressing. I was invited to stay and join them for dinner later that evening. He agreed to tend to Superdog for a while. With waning warmth outside, at the brink of a long hitchhiking trip back into Ontario ahead of me, I reluctantly declined participating at this most welcome meal and assumed my place on the side of the road with my thumb up. The return trip was a repeat of alternate riding in warmth and standing out in the cold.
When I returned from getting my livestock moved, it was time to retrieve equipment. I returned to the barn where the remains of my operation were stored. The Bogan amp used for my sideshow presentation was missing. It probably showed up mysteriously on the circus the next season. Disbelief accompanied the blend of grief, shame and frustration as I attempted to salvage the remains of my empire. A bigger lesson would follow.
Thank goodness for the friendly reception and the helpful nature of my new friend Pete. He provided a welcome distraction. To this day, I remain grateful for his display of regard. The genuine interest radiated by this fellow human being was an example of being a friend. I sought escape from shame through alcohol. With my new friend, the new distraction was most welcome.
Through Pete, I was introduced to the party culture of Canada. In the center of every Canadian city was a hotel. I was already familiar with this feature in every community from the several circus tours I participated with across several provinces. This was party central. Just a short walk from their apartment was the Smiths Falls Hotel with its large dark area inside for drinking and listening to the rock bands that regularly came to town. I soon became familiar with the cross section of people in attendance, the echelon that partied with the band afterwards and joined in with the insatiable appetite of the crowd that wanted more, more, more. Now I was part of the rebellious youth that flocked to the laughter, excitement, the loud beat, the alcohol and chemistry induced frenzy, seeking mutual self-indulgent emotional peaks, romance and reveling in continual amazing achievements. But this couldn’t last forever.
Up until this time I was too ashamed to call my mother and father to admit what I had done. Two months had gone by and I hadn’t called home. Having run out of options with resources depleted, I called to ask for help. I met enthusiasm. They sent funds which were to be used for my exodus, although a portion went for the riotous living taking place.
In the middle of December, the temperature took a tremendous dip. One morning, some of the guys showed up to take Pete and his roommate Tom with them. They all put on their snow suits and were going to go help a man put up a log cabin outside. I wanted to go but was forbid to leave the apartment because of my lack of winter clothing. This was an indicator of the serious nature of this predicament I was in that motivated me to make my move.
I told the man at the U-Haul store that I needed a truck to move some musical instruments for a rock band from one hotel to another over the weekend. I secured a truck big enough for everything. I then drove the big box truck to the fairgrounds. After loading everything left over from my wrecked rolling monument to circusdom, I left my new friends prior to the threat of more snow and headed for Michigan. I cherish what I had learned and vowed to stay in touch. Retracing the hitchhiking path, I found this form of mobility a big improvement.
I crossed my fingers. I went across the US border at 4 AM. They flagged me on by, without having to stop. I entered my country without hassle. I went straight to Clarklake to see Hayes, where the ponies were lodged. After a good night’s sleep on his couch, I created a bulkhead out of a palette. This created a way to leave the cargo door open on the back for ventilation for the ponies. After loading them in the truck, I began driving toward an unknown destination in Arkansas where my parents were. I left Bingo the horse behind at Hayes farm in Michigan.
Intensely independent to a fault, I wasn’t receptive to the suggestions of some of my fellow showmen who saw a problem with the engineering of the trailer hitch I had built myself. The challenge of putting a trailer behind a big truck is with the highway pounding that is amplified by a hitch that is far from the rear axle. I had stretched the frame on the truck for this big box, creating a hostile environment behind for the trailer to withstand. In an effort to solve this problem, I built a swinging hitch stabilized with a leaf spring. But rather than compromise the storage area over the hitch and allow for movement needed to negotiate severe driveways, I inadvertently created an up and down stress magnifier. Any severe angle I drove through transferred tremendous strain through my hitch into the trailer frame, promoting breakage.
The rigors of the jumps promoted breakage on the frame of the calliope trailer hooked behind this monster rig. Sometimes the breaks were so drastic that I couldn’t continue. Staying behind to get the cracks in the frame strengthened took time away from performing. I was instead parked next to a welding shop with my livestock unloaded nearby.
During this respite, I would often saddle up the horse and go for a long ride. Also tagging along on the trail ride was the baby pony and my two dogs. In addition to my trusty companion Superdog, I had adopted a Samoyed, who I named Imanova.
As a group of five, we would head one direction for a mile, then turn north and continue for another mile. While on these outings, I not only bonded with these critters, but while in the saddle I had yet another opportunity to study the details of this foreign land. Repeating this pattern of change in direction yielded a continual visual assessment of my new surroundings. We made a curious sight along the way. Tall guy, big horse, small pony baby and two white dogs on parade in the country.
There is a rhythm, as I have mentioned many times before, that takes place with the population of a circus doing one day stands. As the energy is expounded, the routine is not unlike controlled fusion. But when an interruption comes to the routine of continual effort, time alone can become a foreign experience and the wheels keep spinning. I already consumed beer on a regular basis, burning off the effects as energy was invested throughout the day. Now with idle time, waiting for repairs, the same consumption rate expanded to produce other consequences. Mixed with an inclination to explore, with my guard down, I sought interesting places to mix with my environment and consume.
While broke down in Dauphin, I attended the Ukrainian festival, a drinking festival. The aftermath seemed to be streets sprinkled with the broken glass of many beer bottles. When the repairs were complete, with a head full of cobwebs, I caught up to the show. Then it was time to resume the insane pace of working all day and continue to party every night.
Near the end of the season at one town in northern Ontario, situation created a new scenario. All day rains made the lot soft. After the elephants pulled everything off the lot, there was no place to park the fleet. The decision was made by management to drive that night to the next town, 250 miles away. I had already made plans that night to see the band at the hotel and eat some pizza. I figured after the party I would do my driving.
Never occurring to me that this wasn’t very smart, while driving late that night, I nodded at the wheel. Hearing the rumble strips, I woke abruptly to see that I was going off the road. Panicked, I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right in an attempt to get straight and back on the road, but the angle was too steep. I watched the horizon rotate clockwise to assume a vertical stance as the top-heavy rig laid over on its side. Once the huge thump and the skidding stopped, I was stunned. I had to stand up in the now sideways cab, reach up to open the passenger door that was over my head. After crawling out, I stood on the side of the rig to realize the predicament I was in.
Feelings sank as I heard the ponies clamber helplessly inside the rig that was now on its side. I was now wide awake. Not knowing what to do in the depth of night on this forlorn road in the middle of the desolate wilderness of northern Ontario, I began to walk. After what seemed a significant hike, I came to a house and went up the long drive to the front door and knocked. I awakened the couple that resided there who then became helpful and called the police.
Then a series of interactions with rescue personalities began. Back at the accident site, I saw how narrowly my truck missed going down a deep ravine instead of resting against the telephone pole that prevented its further decline. As I assessed the damage with the rescue crew, I saw my horse lying on the side of the road knocked out. He had slid up the inside wall and burst through the metal roof. Jagged metal edges now surrounded him. Being knocked out was a blessing that prevented him from flailing and shredding his legs against the jagged metal.
A group of us dragged him away from that danger. The sun was just coming up as the wrecker arrived to upright the rig. A local horseman had been called to show up with a stock trailer to take the ponies and horse off the roadside to his farm. I would discover, only a few days later, that he wanted an exorbitant fee for his troubles, validating a suspicion that what he really wanted was to keep my ponies. Miraculously, only one pony had a splinter in his neck. The entire troop was unhurt.
The wrecker took the rig first to the circus grounds. My fellow showmen were shocked at the sight. I was filled with an immense shame for what I had done. There on the lot, after the show left for the next town, I began to attempt to get the wreck ready to roll again. I wrapped a long chain around the burst box to keep it closed and pried the bent metal features of my beloved pony truck into a useable situation. Then I started it up.
With steam and motor fluids coming from the engine, I drove to where the ponies were turned loose in a paddock, paid the extortionist his fee and loaded the livestock, except for the baby who he received as part of his pay. I crept toward what I hoped was a friendly town, where the show planned to winter the equipment at the fairgrounds. There I found a man with a trotting horse stable who let me put my stock in an empty paddock.
I was lost, not knowing where to turn. I hitchhiked back to the show, and after eating at the cookhouse, John Frazier revealed his true nature to me. To him I was just a commodity. I think that Al Stencell was inclined to want to help me but was quieted by his partner. John realized without means to get my enterprise to the next lot, I was no longer useful to him and eating in the cookhouse cost money. He became a belligerent, unfeeling monster and ran me off the show.
I went from that place dazed. On top of the shame that compounded with disbelief for what I had done, a myriad of other feelings propelled me into an emotional bottom. Doubly tragic was the premise held that the circus was my family. I was learning through this predicament the hard way that my value to this family is conditional. I had learned as a child that I get my value from what I produce. This explained why I obsessively added to my repertoire.
Without my ability to produce, I was alone. Now with an aggregation of bent up, useless equipment and livestock stranded in a foreign country, I am rejected by my people. In the midst of a deepening grief, I realize the magnitude of what I had done. I was alone with this mess. In the depths of depression, I slowly began to attend to immediate needs. One of which was to try to extinguish the deepening grief. Somehow.
During the season of 1976, I began to have additional opportunities to study my surroundings. Unscheduled retreats to peruse picturesque places occurred while I waited for tire repairs. And later, when the structural features of my trailer began to break, welding repairs. The year unfolded to become a series of leap-frogs from show towns to repair places, and then back to the show. As the result, I am not of the contention that the best way to see the world is while traveling on a circus.
It is true that the entire troupe of a big top circus doing one-day stands is involved with canvassing a large area but while doing so, they remain involved in accomplishing repetitive tasks that often require being surrounded by the same environment each day. Sort of like the potato peeling navy man sailing the seven seas.
One jump across the vast grain belt area of Saskatchewan, I had a concern about my fuel and thought perhaps I could make it to the next community with a fuel stop. Wrong. As I coasted to a stop alongside the long straight road that sliced through vast grain fields that stretched toward both horizons, I had an opportunity to truly study this broad country.
Once the noise of the engine stopped, I was immersed in silence. The first thing I noticed as I scanned my situation was the feel of the gentle breeze massaging the pale jade young crop in the field. As I walked around the rig, I saw wild flowers hugging the only surface not commanded by farmer or highway.
The sky was large and had a mauve tone close to the horizon even though the sun was well up. Off in the distance I saw a miniscule motion that piqued my interest. As my attention zeroed in on this activity, I saw a large tractor pulling an even larger device designed to cultivate a huge swath as it passed over a section of land. While watching, I saw it go a tremendous distance and made a U-turn to travel parallel to the area just covered. I was then able to predict where the giant device would be going next.
I watched his long slow dance across the field and reviewed my options. I was inspired. I started a long walk, stepping over the rows of young plants and headed for the middle of the field where I predicted the farmer would pass. As the place where our paths would cross loomed closer, the driver saw me and when convenient for him, stopped that massive machine.
Double sets of high ridged tires stood higher than me. The driver had to exit the glassed-in cab and descend the steps that hung between the tires to get to where he could greet me. I told him about my predicament that seemed almost self-explanatory anyway and he laughed. He pointed towards the far end of the field where his pickup was parked. He would retrieve the gas can inside and fetch it to me on the return pass.
Standing in the field, I watched as the massive machine resumed its task of pulling an enormous device over, but not harming any plants, and considered my rig now off in the distance. A beautiful rig that now seemed tiny, dependent on my consistent maintenance. Yes, this was the way to see Canada.
On the return pass, my friendly host brought me a gas can with fuel inside that soon rocked my engine back to life. I drove forward to the lane where his farm truck waited and placed the can in the back. I was then able to continue my trip. From that intimate peek at this facet of a wonderful land, I resumed the juggernaut of activity that yielded entertainment for the people my rescuer probably knew.
Letterfly Writes 