Author: letterflywrites

Intensely creative, I am mostly a visual artist who does things the old fashioned way; by hand with paint. Among the other outlets for expression, writing is one of them. I live the life of adventure having been imprinted at an early age with my fathers love for the circus. These musings capture the turbulence of an exciting life filled with surprise turns in the road that revealed, one at a time, opportunities that segue into the life I have found today as a traveling artist serving the motorcycle community with the ages old tradition of pinstriping, lettering and painting images using skills developed over four decades.
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Two Trips

The greatest risk taken daily is when we get behind the wheel. Many of the experiences on the highway made circus workers into safer drivers. Yet, there were many mishaps along the way with the variety of specialized vehicles coupled with their unusual cargo. The fleet on a circus included many truck and trailer configurations and each had their own peculiar handling and safety considerations that often were learned on the job. Aside from tearing the downspout off the side of the house with the family car, I had little time behind the wheel in the suburbs before I hit the road. That would change.

Going across the endless expanse of this country, the open road is where I feel at home behind the wheel. But getting there was not without mishaps. Gratefully, I am alive to tell you about these experiences.

At sixteen years old, I spent the summer playing drums in the circus band between my junior and senior years.  Each morning I rode shotgun in the truck that hauled the elephants, an old gasoline powered semi-truck with a multiple-speed standard stick-shift transmission.

I was content to experience those early mornings as a passenger, listening to the colorful stories of show business experiences that my host accumulated due to being born into this business.  I was taught trucker’s etiquette and other rules of the road.  I learned to go down a mountain grade in the same gear as you went up to utilize the compression of the engine to assist with braking, rather than taxing and overheating the conventional braking system. These and other skills were learned through observation during these early mornings with an experienced driver.

During that summer away from home, we played one-night stands in the mountains of Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia and the Carolinas.  By paying attention to the procedure for climbing and descending mountain grades, the drivers of the show trucks went painfully slow, but made it safely to each location.

One morning as I gulped down my coffee in preparation for a long ride to the next town, I learned one of the drivers had quit.  The manager was one driver short when he came to me.  I explained that I didn’t know how to shift the gears on a multiple-speed standard transmission. After additional deliberation the manager elected to put another kid in the truck with me. He wasn’t old enough to have a driver’s license but was familiar with the mechanics of shifting the manual transmission.  Although reluctant, soon I sat behind the biggest steering wheel I had ever seen in my life! The load was a cargo of wild animals, the side show tent and related equipment – all dependent on me to get them to the next town.

I was instructed to follow the elephant truck.  As we inched our way off the circus lot and onto the road, the younger kid did display a working knowledge of shifting gears and in no time, we were keeping up with the pachyderms. Entering some rugged inclines, we had to gear down to match the pace of the heavier vehicle we were following.  At a snail’s pace, there was plenty of time to see the sights.  As our altitude increased, the occasional gap in the trees that lined the road yielded breathtaking views of the Appalachian scenery.

When we reached the top of the mountain, the elephant truck pulled over to the side of the road.  As I waited, the driver walked back to give us instructions. 

“Leave it in low gear as we go down this grade” he said, “and when you see me start to go faster, just mash in the clutch and keep up.”

All went well going down that long curvy mountain road.  The compression of the engine held the rig in check so the descent was slow and safe.  When we entered the bottomlands, the elephant truck began to pull away. I did as instructed and mashed in the clutch.  We were freewheeling.  The jump to the next town now involved a faster rate of speed.  Soon we would be sitting in the cookhouse.  The road resembled a roller coaster. At one point I became concerned about our excessive speed. I let up on the clutch pedal that I had been holding to the floor, as per instructions: “mash in the clutch and keep up.”

My passenger noticed an unusual noise.  His expression of eyebrows up and down while looking around caused concern to arise in me.

“We had a blowout!” he exclaimed.

I looked for a place to pull over.  At a wide area on top of a hill, I parked the rig and he jumped out to look at the tires.  In a moment he got back in the cab of the truck. With no change in his facial expression he reported, “All of the tires are fine.”

I attempted to move the truck by shifting into first gear but the truck wouldn’t move.  I tried again, frantically retracing steps I had recently learned.  Mash the clutch pedal down and push the stick into first gear, then let it out slowly and give it some gas.  Although the engine ran, none of my efforts would make the truck move forward. I experimented.  I soon discovered I didn’t need to engage the clutch to get the truck into gear- any gear for that matter. The truck would not move.

My sidekick disappeared to flag down the next show vehicle driving by.  When the rig arrived, our situation was assessed. Since the kid was on a set up crew he was taken along to go to the next location to go to work. I was left alone on the side of the road with the disabled truck.

To find comfort in this awkward situation, I climbed up to the top of the rig and reclined on the roof over the wild animals. From there I could look back up the highway. I sought a glimpse of the mechanic’s big red truck pulling his house trailer. I had plenty of time to see the sights, study the trees and watch the birds in flight.  I waited for Ralph who would know what to do.

As each far-off sound grew into a recognizable tire roar, I strained to see if it was the mechanics rig.  Countless times, I heard a monotone crescendo that would raise my hope.  But a car would emerge from around that distant curve in the road, and I would melt back into my original position to wait for the next vehicle.

When the red nose of the tool truck finally rounded the bend, I immediately stood up on the roof of the broken-down rig and waved my arms frantically. Ralph the mechanic guided his rig to a stop behind the cage truck.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“I don’t know, Ralph,” I offered, “but I can get it to go in any gear without using the clutch.”

Ralph first looked into the cab of the truck to familiarize himself with this symptom. As he manipulated the stick shift his facial expression changed and he gave me a menacing look.  He then got out and looked under the truck at the transmission.  Recognizing the culprit, his diagnosis was swift and silent. 

He offered, “Wait here, I’ll have to double back with another truck to tow this in.”

Frustrated and alone, I watched Ralph’s rig inch away and disappear over the distant hill.

Once again, I had plenty of time on my hands.  I climbed back onto the roof of the cages and sat there.  Ralph would get his rig to the next town and unhook one of the other circus trucks to double back. Doubling back consumed lots of time.  Of those remaining miles ahead of this disabled rig, Ralph would have to travel them three times.  I waited.  I missed the hot breakfast at the cookhouse and would be unpopular with the side show crew who needed this equipment before their tent could go up.  The animals on board would be hot and hungry too.  The plywood doors that covered the cage bars wouldn’t be removed until the rig arrived at our destination.  Then the animals would receive their food and water.  They waited in the dark, on the side of the road, just like me.

My usual exuberance eroded further as I sought to understand what had happened with the truck. The minutes blended into the height of day until Ralph’s return jostled me from slumber.

Ralph wasn’t at all happy. When a fleet makes one day stands, the mechanic, out of necessity, must stay with the broken-down vehicle non-stop until it is fixed so as to not interrupt the momentum of the caravan.  Ralph would stay up all night working on this truck if necessary to have it ready for the jump in the morning.

He had brought along another driver to steer the broken truck as it was towed behind the bobtail semi-tractor. Harold the elephant man had a grin on his face. I was no longer needed.

As I slipped into a blend of grief, guilt and shame, I tried to understand what I did. After all, I had followed the instructions that I had been given. 

I recalled Melvin’s instructions,” Leave it in first gear and follow me down the mountain, when you see me pull out, mash the clutch in and keep up.”

So that’s what I had done. Exactly.

When we arrived at the circus lot, all the tents were erected and everything was ready for the afternoon show.  I began to carry my black fiber drum cases into the eerie silence of the Big top and hoist them onto the bandstand.  As everybody got their much-needed rest, I set up my drum kit.  I lifted each drum from its protective case and clamped it into position. I reviewed once more the truck instruction scenario: “Leave it in first gear…”

When the last wing nut secured the final cymbal, all that was left was for me to arrange my sticks. As activities on the midway began to stir, I was hungry having missed all the meals. I would make a meal out of a box of popcorn.

Soon the hub-bub of ballyhoo began. The gathering crowd became the reason why we are here. The audience filed into the tent and the seats began to fill. A whistle blew. This was the start of yet another show. I settled into drumming. I provide the heartbeat and punctuation for the performers. At last, comfort returned. 

I made my contribution to the show my very best. Drumming adds a lot to the live show of the circus and drums provide the heartbeat and sets the pace that audience and performer rely upon. My job was to creatively emphasize key portions of the acts to create moods, heighten audience awareness and to accent achievements. My responsibility was to make the show even more lively and entertaining.

As the drummer, I add new heights, create suspense, and call attention to the subtler aspects of each performer’s routine. As they take their bow and style for the audience, the riffs created just for them increase the response they receive. When I was successful, the audience had more to appreciate and the performer received a bigger applause. Later, at the cookhouse the performers would mention their appreciation to me.  As a drummer I was constantly creative, experimenting with countless fills, licks and rhythmic combinations of sounds available from a set of drums.  Never bored, my aspiration was to be one of the best in the business. And with that, another show came to an exciting conclusion. Finally, it was time to go to the cookhouse. 

The portable tables found everyone fussing about the broke down side show truck. I felt alone as I stood in line for my food. Still very much the rookie, I didn’t understand what it was that I did that caused the truck to breakdown.  While I ate, the mechanic entered the cookhouse tent. Ralph had grease all over him that provided contrast to his white gap tooth smile. He also had a foreign looking disc in pieces, in his hand. He sought me out recognizing an opportunity to make the entire crew laugh.

“Drummer boy,” He said good-naturedly but sternly in front of everyone, “you made two trips in one: your first and your last!”

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The Circus

“It takes courage to grow up 

and become who you really are.”

e. e. cummings

Cherry Pie

Bill imprinted his son with a love for the circus due to the experience he had as a boy. The primary reason for this fascination was the enormity of the tented city and the swiftness of moving every day by rail. Several trains brought attractions from all over the world, the infrastructure to support hundreds of people, and the venue for the audience along with an amazing number of animals.

The amount of work accomplished rapidly on the giant tented circus during the golden age of the big top, utilized many clever devices unique to the culture to facilitate these accomplishments. For those brave enough to join, in the midst of this staggering amount of work getting done every day, every new rookie was asked a question, “Do you want some cherry pie?”

Have you have ever been the greenhorn? Perhaps you remember the anguish of learning a new job, wondering “will I ever fit in?” and the struggle to learn an unfamiliar skill from a new boss. The offer of a delectable confection interrupted those distractions for a moment, and promoted a predictable response.

“Yeah!”

He next received instructions to announce this eagerness to the nearby canvas boss, menagerie superintendent, side show captain, or prop hostler overseeing part of the many set-up processes all going on at the same time. Once this eager worker announced he wanted some cherry pie, that was the inside cue to give him an additional task.

Assessing the workload, available labor and balancing progress, the boss looked around and evaluated tasks that needed additional help; driving stakes, unloading and carrying ring curb, arranging prop trunks, moving seat planks into position, or any part of the many routines going on. The expectant rookie was assigned an additional task, followed with instructions to get it done every day and at night make sure he got it loaded onto the right wagon.

This creative way of assigning specific tasks was just one of the reasons the circus was able to accomplish so much each day. The rest of the troop then had a laugh at the expense of the bewildered recruit. They welcomed him to the crew, and the tented city went up a little faster from that day forward. 

The year was 1970. I spent fourteen glorious weeks, from June until September, on the Clark and Walters Circus. The Silverlake family operation had been purchased a few years prior from a showman in Oklahoma. Brownie was the Patriarch of all things circus. As was typical with circus families, all members of the Silverlake family had an act and a specialty task. They all pitched in with the operation of the show and worked together as a team.

I was eager to learn all I could in order to become a valuable showman. Franklin taught me how to splice three strand manila rope. I learned the proper way to install a twist lock plug on the end of an electric cord from Jimmie. And Melvin showed me how to solder a damaged microphone connection. I also learned how to sew a baseball stitch to repair a hole in the big top from Jack, the canvas boss, and even how to twist a whip-popper, the special part on the end of the whip that makes the noise, among other specialties.

 Brownie had time to share stories as he took care of the animals, so I typically followed him around as his helper. I learned about his wagon show days on the M L Clark Circus when he was a boy. I remember his story about when the Mighty Haag Circus was confronted with a steep and dangerous highway grade. This is when the elephants were literally walked over the mountains through to the other side, even though the teams and wagons kept to the roads.

Brownie tutored me with the same kindness he showed the animals in his care. As a newcomer to the show, my job was to play the drums during the show to accompany the calliope music of Bobby Green.  The rest of the time I was all over the circus lot involved in a litany of creative tasks. These included the set-up, maintenance, caretaking of animals, but my creative drive found expression with paint as I lettered Tickets, Jungle Beasts, Alive and decorative accents on the rolling stock. While we toured Appalachia, they tried the cherry pie trick on me, but because I was motivated and eager, the trick was irrelevant.

That summer whet my appetite to live a more interesting life. It filled me with an enthusiasm and a decision to continue my career in show business. Returning home at the end of the summer, I took welding at night. In January, after graduating from high school early, my fascinating career began. My creative drive, ambition and gift as a painter took precedence over all else and, I began to combine being an artist with travel.

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Drummer (part 2)


I was obsessed with becoming a better drummer as I began my sophomore year. I had taken lessons at Indiana University and practiced every day during the previous year.

                Bloomington High School had a gifted band teacher who motivated his students to pursue music as a career. At the beginning of the year Mr. Traub placed me in the band room during an hour the classroom wasn’t being used so I could practice and he monitored my progress. He noticed my improvement and by mid-football season he started me through the ranks. I was placed in the marching band as a tenor drum player and by the beginning of the second semester I was the first- chair snare drummer for the Symphonic Wind Ensemble. This was the equivalent of joining the college orchestra.

I met Karen while in the band that year too. She was an aggressive red head. She knew what she wanted. I had been a sheltered, reclusive and socially clumsy kid. A whole new world opened to me. Karen always had something in mind and she knew exactly what to do. After school and all summer long, she taught me all physical aspects of relationship between the sexes. Eager to be with her, I would do almost whatever she wanted me to do.

This university town had no jobs for a fourteen-year-old because of the abundance of college students. It was early summer when the Deggeller Shows brought a bunch of carnival rides to the university campus for the Fun Frolic. I was there early looking for a job. Despite this not being a traveling circus, it did qualify as show business.  I got a job helping set up the Merry-Go-Round, working with a man and his son with whom I became friends. Together we worked and eventually hung the last horse on the ride. We then started to assemble the kiddie rides. Unloading the specially-shaped steel components from trucks with broken bulb glass on the floor revealed an interesting contrast to the form of show biz I was familiar with. Behind the scenes, I was seeing the amusement business as it really was. Once the rides were ready, I returned home to clean the dirt and grease off of me. I was told to return the next day, so I must have done a good job.

When the festival started, I ran one of the kiddie rides. My job was to stand at the controls, welcome the patrons, and make sure they were settled into their seats before turning the switch to start the ride. If no one was waiting in line, I gave my passengers an extra-long ride. I was grateful to have employment for the week and it filled me with a feeling of accomplishment.  Karen hung around while I worked, but something was clearly bothering her.

“I think it’s terrible,” she wailed, “that you work all the time.”

Her inability to empathize with the value of this opportunity combined with a feeling of frustration that grew in my gut. This strong sensation literally reached up inside me and grabbed me much like the reaction that took my voice when I watched bullies pick on my brother. Karen maintained this negativity all the time I did my job. She insisted that I take a day off and accompany her around to all the rides. Reluctantly, I did what she asked.

The next day, I explained to my boss my plans to escort her around the festival grounds instead of returning to my post. When I returned the following day, I discovered my job had been filled. I learned two valuable lessons on one day; never let them discover that they can get along without you, and career always comes before girlfriend.

While excelling at math, John learned the machine language computers spoke. At Bloomington in high school, he wrote elaborate programs using punch card sequences that would solve mathematical problems. He understood and developed a mastery of complicated systems using binary code.

My father’s climb through the ranks and his ambition with newly acquired graphic skills landed him a job in the Lutheran synod offices in downtown Chicago. The family would move again, this time to the suburbs of a sprawling metropolis. My family moved twice during my high school years. First to Bloomington, Indiana so Dad could expand his skills at Indiana University with a second Master’s Degree. Then, two years later to Chicago, Illinois so he could fill an important role downtown. He used the Airstream to move the bulk of our possessions, with the exception of the piano.

John graduated from high school as the family moved from Indiana to the Chicago suburbs.  John stayed behind and began his college years at Indiana University. The students were older but still mean to John. He chose to withdraw and excel academically. He took classes for many years until exhausting the curriculum. From there he launched his career as a computer programmer.

All the summer school college students eventually went home. A short window of opportunity existed so I started looking for a job. I went into the Lucky Steer Steak House. The boss asked me if I could start immediately. He then showed me the dish room with hundreds of dirty dishes piled up to the ceiling. I started immediately. Three days later I was cooking steaks. Dad learned of and appreciated my ambition. He was busy moving the family’s belongings to Chicago with the airstream and waited for the last minute before taking me with him.

I arrived at our new home late at night and slept a few hours. The next day was my first day of school. In the morning, I was dropped off early in front of an unfamiliar school. I received my class assignments at the administration office at Arlington Heights High School. I searched up and down the hallways for the room numbers on my list, and finally gave up. I could not find them.

Not knowing which way my home was, I had no options. Frustrated, all I could do was sit down on the front steps of the school while the classes were going on. A friendly counselor saw me from a distance and came to sit down next to me to find out what was going on. He looked at my admissions card and he too realized that I had been given room numbers that did not exist. Confusion at the Chicago school system started with this debacle on my first day and spiraled down from there. As I entered my junior year, the tainted perception of my new school and surroundings bred a new-found apathy and defiance.  Expecting the same positive experience that I enjoyed in band in Indiana, I soon realized that Fritz Shmoyer, the band teacher, was incompetent and simply coasting along on tenure. He was apathetic about his job and didn’t encourage any students. Because I made this comparison, I knew he was a slug and began my defiant response to his pathetic efforts.

Fortunately, John stayed in Bloomington. Paula and I were relieved that none of our new colleagues would ever know about our brother, but we found a new set of frustrations. The big city pace of suburban Chicago, the dysfunctional school system, and the beat among our fast-paced peers had its own mix that led to a new exasperation for myself and Paula. 

Also fortunately, the art department at my new school was outstanding and far better than any previous art classes. Mr. Pink became an advocate for my ambitions. He encouraged my emerging skills and created many artistic opportunities for me.

Posted on

Drummer

I was obsessed with becoming a better drummer as I began my sophomore year. I had taken lessons at Indiana University and practiced every day during the previous year.

                Bloomington High School had a gifted band teacher who motivated his students to pursue music as a career. At the beginning of the year Mr. Traub placed me in the band room during an hour the classroom wasn’t being used so I could practice and he monitored my progress. He noticed my improvement and by mid-football season he started me through the ranks. I was placed in the marching band as a tenor drum player and by the beginning of the second semester I was the first- chair snare drummer for the Symphonic Wind Ensemble. This was the equivalent of joining the college orchestra.

I met Karen while in the band that year too. She was an aggressive red head. She knew what she wanted. I had been a sheltered, reclusive and socially clumsy kid. A whole new world opened to me. Karen always had something in mind and she knew exactly what to do. After school and all summer long, she taught me all physical aspects of relationship between the sexes. Eager to be with her, I would do almost whatever she wanted me to do.

This university town had no jobs for a fourteen-year-old because of the abundance of college students. It was early summer when the Deggeller Shows brought a bunch of carnival rides to the university campus for the Fun Frolic. I was there early looking for a job. Despite this not being a traveling circus, it did qualify as show business.  I got a job helping set up the Merry-Go-Round, working with a man and his son with whom I became friends. Together we worked and eventually hung the last horse on the ride. We then started to assemble the kiddie rides. Unloading the specially-shaped steel components from trucks with broken bulb glass on the floor revealed an interesting contrast to the form of show biz I was familiar with. Behind the scenes, I was seeing the amusement business as it really was. Once the rides were ready, I returned home to clean the dirt and grease off of me. I was told to return the next day, so I must have done a good job.

When the festival started, I ran one of the kiddie rides. My job was to stand at the controls, welcome the patrons, and make sure they were settled into their seats before turning the switch to start the ride. If no one was waiting in line, I gave my passengers an extra-long ride. I was grateful to have employment for the week and it filled me with a feeling of accomplishment.  Karen hung around while I worked, but something was clearly bothering her.

“I think it’s terrible,” she wailed, “that you work all the time.”

Her inability to empathize with the value of this opportunity combined with a feeling of frustration that grew in my gut. This strong sensation literally reached up inside me and grabbed me much like the reaction that took my voice when I watched bullies pick on my brother. Karen maintained this negativity all the time I did my job. She insisted that I take a day off and accompany her around to all the rides. Reluctantly, I did what she asked.

The next day, I explained to my boss my plans to escort her around the festival grounds instead of returning to my post. When I returned the following day, I discovered my job had been filled. I learned two valuable lessons on one day; never let them discover that they can get along without you, and career always comes before girlfriend.

While excelling at math, John learned the machine language computers spoke. At Bloomington in high school, he wrote elaborate programs using punch card sequences that would solve mathematical problems. He understood and developed a mastery of complicated systems using binary code.

My father’s climb through the ranks and his ambition with newly acquired graphic skills landed him a job in the Lutheran synod offices in downtown Chicago. The family would move again, this time to the suburbs of a sprawling metropolis. My family moved twice during my high school years. First to Bloomington, Indiana so Dad could expand his skills at Indiana University with a second Master’s Degree. Then, two years later to Chicago, Illinois so he could fill an important role downtown. He used the Airstream to move the bulk of our possessions, with the exception of the piano.

John graduated from high school as the family moved from Indiana to the Chicago suburbs.  John stayed behind and began his college years at Indiana University. The students were older but still mean to John. He chose to withdraw and excel academically. He took classes for many years until exhausting the curriculum. From there he launched his career as a computer programmer.

All the summer school college students eventually went home. A short window of opportunity existed so I started looking for a job. I went into the Lucky Steer Steak House. The boss asked me if I could start immediately. He then showed me the dish room with hundreds of dirty dishes piled up to the ceiling. I started immediately. Three days later I was cooking steaks. Dad learned of and appreciated my ambition. He was busy moving the family’s belongings to Chicago with the airstream and waited for the last minute before taking me with him.

I arrived at our new home late at night and slept a few hours. The next day was my first day of school. In the morning, I was dropped off early in front of an unfamiliar school. I received my class assignments at the administration office at Arlington Heights High School. I searched up and down the hallways for the room numbers on my list, and finally gave up. I could not find them.

Not knowing which way my home was, I had no options. Frustrated, all I could do was sit down on the front steps of the school while the classes were going on. A friendly counselor saw me from a distance and came to sit down next to me to find out what was going on. He looked at my admissions card and he too realized that I had been given room numbers that did not exist. Confusion at the Chicago school system started with this debacle on my first day and spiraled down from there. As I entered my junior year, the tainted perception of my new school and surroundings bred a new-found apathy and defiance.  Expecting the same positive experience that I enjoyed in band in Indiana, I soon realized that Fritz Shmoyer, the band teacher, was incompetent and simply coasting along on tenure. He was apathetic about his job and didn’t encourage any students. Because I made this comparison, I knew he was a slug and began my defiant response to his pathetic efforts.

Fortunately, John stayed in Bloomington. Paula and I were relieved that none of our new colleagues would ever know about our brother, but we found a new set of frustrations. The big city pace of suburban Chicago, the dysfunctional school system, and the beat among our fast-paced peers had its own mix that led to a new exasperation for myself and Paula. 

Also fortunately, the art department at my new school was outstanding and far better than any previous art classes. Mr. Pink became an advocate for my ambitions. He encouraged my emerging skills and created many artistic opportunities for me.

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The Move

During the years of evolving in his profession in Springfield, Ohio, my dad became aware of how rapid graphic technology was developing. Changes were taking place with photography, film making, sound technology and education. His beloved boss was retiring and that would change his position in the hierarchy. He recognized a possible opportunity. He desired additional education to augment his skills with new audio-visual knowledge. That meant change.

The family moved to Bloomington, Indiana as I entered junior high school. Dad attended classes at Indiana University. The move into a compact home in a neighborhood with a dense population of kids also required us to ride a bus to school.

Moving away from the environs of childhood in Ohio at a tender age, we had to make new friends in another town. This disruption frustrated our meager attempts to fit in. The home situation remained frustrating and my sister and I realized being associated with John was a detriment. As we advanced through the grades, we formulated a way to stay far away from him and be safe. When Paula and I passed one another in the hall at junior high school, rather than acknowledge each other, we remained anonymous in an effort to avoid the risk of association. We would resume being fast friends at home in safety.

At that time, I was on fire to become a good drummer. The music department at IU provided me with an opportunity to take lessons from a great drumming college student. After my junior high school classes each Thursday, I went over to the IU campus to take my lesson. Afterwards I met dad, who was working in the graphics lab. He would show me what he was doing with photography and sometimes set me up in an empty darkroom with an enlarger and show me how to make my own prints.

By this time my circus producing abilities matured. By summer I would put on an even larger production, adopting the name my dad and his friend Fred used many years ago; Spark Circus.

I began building cages for chickens, rabbits and the turtles I accumulated. While I painted promotional signs, Paula began making hats and necklaces out of packing peanuts and paper bowls. The neighborhood kids were curious about what we were doing and were recruited one by one to help. Soon we had two crews; the boys helping me with manly activities and the girls making prize and craft items under Paula’s watchful eye.

The masculine duties were pounding stakes into the ground and setting up and climbing the center pole we erected in the backyard. Stretching a rope tight enough to walk across became a challenge that required accumulating ever larger stretching-devices. We practiced Indian dancing routines, acrobat tumbling and hanging upside-down from the trapeze bar on the swing-set. We rehearsed these acts until we achieved an admirable level of perfection.

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During the girl’s production of a mountain of prizes, Paula would pause to rehearse one of the skits she created. We had learned about skits on family vacation. The Lutheran church had a family summer camp near Lakeside, Ohio. While there, mom and dad would compose a clever skit and the entire family would act it out in front of the others. Paula had begun writing stories in her Pinfoot the Pony comics. Now inspired by our family vacation skits, she created routines for her peers to perform.

One routine Paula created for our circus utilized a chorus line of her girls pointing in rhythm, one at a time, and then changing their pose and repeating a cute-over-there dialog that ended with all of them falling in a heap.

Thanks to an abundance of Beatle wigs and a neighbor kid with a buzz haircut, the circus had a barber shop skit that began with a very furry head and ended up with a faux surprised kid with a bald noggin.

All this rehearsing united us on circus day when, like a real show, all of our equipment and our big top (a converted army surplus parachute) was marched, carried or pulled to the vacant lot next to the local swimming pool to be set up. We arranged the set-up to occur in the morning by our team of kids, followed by presenting five shows. The activity brought the entire neighborhood together. My circus benefited the community pool and produced a considerable profit for my investment. It also gave me the idea for a career path to pursue.

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Family Vacations

Every summer, our family took two vacations, one to the sand dunes area near Lake Michigan – either Ludington or Muskegon, just to relax and the other was a road trip to a different destination. We started these camp outings with a borrowed tent packed into the family station wagon. Once together at the national park, after setting up on our site, we then marveled at the other camping configurations. Sleeping on the ground only happened once. This ordeal was not something my mother savored or wanted to do again and that introduced the idea of finding a travel trailer.

Once home, they researched the best camping trailer to purchase and began a search for a good used one. There were many to look at. Frequent short trips around the area included a foray to look at an old trailer. We had to go along, I’m not sure why. They finally did find one to buy. An Airstream trailer that could house us all.

Mother often asked a question at the end of the day, “What did you enjoy most about today?”

On that particular day, all three of us answered in unison, “Not having to go look at another trailer.”

Equipped with this Airstream, many faraway destinations became achievable in comfort. Dad made several improvements to the trailer over the years. Our trips took us to places we could not have seen without it. We camped near the New York World’s Fair, Colonial Williamsburg, and attended the Centennial of the battle at Gettysburg. One trip took us to see cousins in faraway Connecticut and one year we even made it to the Smokey Mountains.

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The Newspaper Business

When my brother became eleven, he secured a paper route, on which I helped. This gave us responsibility, income and introduced us to some of our neighbors. John finally found a safe way to interact with others as he provided this service to his customers. Rather than becoming more social, I became adept at rolling my papers so I could throw them while pedaling my bicycle along my route to accomplish this duty in record time. The element I did not like was collecting the money at the end of the week. That part required that I become social and interact with others. One week I failed to collect enough money to pay for my papers. Instead of my payment envelope containing the full amount, I wrote an angry note to the man who collected the money. When I returned from my paper route that day, he was waiting with my mother in the living room.

“David,” my mother asked, while the man looked on, “what does this note mean?”

“I don’t know,” I sheepishly replied.

“You agreed to do every part of your responsibility when you took this paper route didn’t you?” She inquired and then added, “This note isn’t very nice. Is it David?”

“What are you going to do about it?” she asked. 

I turned to the man who had been waiting with my mother and apologized, “I’m sorry,”

I said, “I will go and collect all the money tomorrow after school.”

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The Chemistry Set

What began as a Christmas gift to encourage my scientific aptitude expanded when I found the opportunity to augment the chemical contents on the university campus. The ability to purchase additional ingredients at the chemistry building expanded all my possibilities. Research revealed the components found in explosive formulas. Once acquired, I began conducting experiments that were not listed in the entry level chemical science handbook. 

I discovered a recipe for making a contact explosive. The mixture was stable when wet but when the concoction dried, the directions stated that, “any slight movement” would trigger an explosion. Perfect. I began to follow the instructions, first making a soup of the specific chemicals listed and then running the concoction through filter paper. After discarding the paper cone filled with chemical mud into the trash, I carefully poured the filtrate onto layers of paper towels intended for this purpose. This would be my unstable situation once dry. Now to wait.  

After school the following day, I went back into the basement for the obvious next step. My dad was in his darkroom. Taking a yardstick, I stretched it out in front of me to tap the now dry paper towels. Nothing. Another tap. Nothing. Disgusted with the whole attempt, I crumpled up the paper towels and threw them into the trash. KABOOM!!! Hearing the noise, my dad peeked around the corner to see what had happened. Apparently, I was supposed to keep the chemical mud in the filter paper that I had discarded.  

In the coming years, I would hear the story over and over of what he saw. With the words of a storyteller, he would crisply describe the visual snapshot of a room filled with smoke and a little boy with eyes as big as saucers.   

“A surprised Oh Boy, expression filled his face,” he would say with delight. 

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Racing

During the many excursions throughout the Midwest while working as a supply pastor, my dad frequented a particular Dog n’ Suds drive-in along the way. He repeatedly entered their drawing to win their contest. Can you imagine his thrill when he discovered he had won the prize? And what a surprise we had when he arrived home with a gasoline powered go-cart in the back of the car!

Since dad was a fan of the Indianapolis 500, he soon infected all of us with the racing bug. Occasionally on Saturdays, the whole family went to a vacant parking lot where we created an oval track between parking pylons on which to race. We had the time clock that he used in the dark room to time each other. With each contestant, the procedure was always the same. We would first take a warm-up lap, and then after crossing the start/finish line, go full speed and drive three timed qualifying laps.

My older brother had compromised motor skills. He and my sister used caution as they drove their best. They were no match for me. I learned to put the accelerator pedal flat against the floor the entire time I was in the cart. I learned how to drift and slide around the corners, resulting in the fastest time of any kid who drove that cart.

My dad’s exuberance for racing took him to the Indianapolis 500 several times. In his duties, back in Indiana as a supply pastor, he had met the famous driver Johnny Rutherford and his wife. Dad was privileged to be the minister who baptized their daughter. This led to a friendship with a true gentleman of racing that led to several outings with the Rutherford family that my parents enjoyed.

One story dad loved to tell took place during one of the rare excursions away from the children. The wives were in the backseat of Johnny’s new Lincoln enjoying their freedom from motherhood for a while.

Dad asked Johnny, “how can you possibly drive around a curve so fast?”

John explained that every car had a set or a speed that a tight curve could be effectively negotiated. He explained that his Lincoln had a set of about sixty-miles per hour around a tight curve. He proceeded to demonstrate on the expressway while negotiating the exit and entrance ramps of a cloverleaf. In the midst of the turn, Johnny signaled to my dad to look at the speedometer. The ladies in the back seat were chatting, unconcerned about what was going on. As my dad peered over to look, he noticed that the gauge on the dash indicated sixty miles an hour.   

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Piano Lessons

As we grew, our mother began to give us piano lessons. One at a time, we strained to sit erect, hold our hands out straight over the keys, with fingers curved just right, but not look at them. We learned to read musical notes, as we performed the practice exercises and attempted to play the appropriate keys in perfect time and in rhythm. Between lessons, there was regular practice at the piano that seemed worse than torture. This routine advanced our sensitivity to sounds, coordination and our ability to sight-read. We also had deadlines for recitals held in the big music hall on campus. A foundation in music with dexterity and discipline was being established in our young minds. 

After much deliberation, Paula and I found an audience with our mother.  I was designated as the spokesman.

 “Paula and I have both decided,” I proclaimed, “that we are no longer going to be taking piano lessons.”

Our mother paused for a moment and composed her response:

“Your father and I have both decided,” she then exclaimed, “that you are going to continue to take piano lessons.”

Our fate had been determined.

Although our mother continued to provide us with music lessons, John, not being physically coordinated enough to learn piano, became better at singing. He became a regular in the church choir and years later, he went on to enjoy singing with area barbershop quartets.    

When John discovered the private world of the comic book, he found relief from his social frustrations. Superman overcame all evil. The fantasy of an unstoppable hero gave him something to believe in. John began studying and collecting ten-cent comics. He soon became an authority on the history of each character and all aspects of the subject. John found his bevy of superheroes to believe in, live vicariously through and admire.

The TV show “Batman” became an obsession for John that sometimes interfered with his other responsibilities. John was needed at choir practice on Wednesday nights and this schedule conflicted with him seeing this popular show. At the end of one cliff-hanging episode, Batman and Robin were in a pickle that there seemed to be no way out of. John could not imagine how or if they were ever going to get out of that one, and did not want to miss the next exciting episode. The following week, he waited until the show came on, watched them get out of the scrape, and then rushed to church to join the rehearsal underway. He was fifteen minutes late and received a quizzical look from mother but as he sang, he was satisfied that his heroes were safe.