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Men in our profession occasionally get bombarded with a proverbial request. People point at a sign or a portion of their truck with some paint missing or damaged.

They ask, “can you touch it up?”

The first time I heard this request at the Sign King was while the boss fielded a request over the phone from one of the tourist gift shops at the other end of town towards Disney. I was sent over to a particular ticket kiosk in their mall that nobody at the shop had seen with the request to “touch it up.”

When I got there, I found an old faded Formica covered cabinet structure covered with hand painted signs. The Formica color layer was worn revealing the brown inner layers. Both the extensive lettering work and the background Formica was extensively worn and damaged.

Trusting that complete repaint and touch it up were distinctly different, I started to follow the instructions that I had been given. Touch it up implies touching. This was going to be a challenge.

I started mixing small amounts of color, attempting to match each color of the faded work. I proceeded to dab the places where the paint had chipped off. Due to the multiple color sign work, this process was time consuming. The repair had a spotty, measly look. Faded and dull sported vibrant and shiny. The Formica was a jade green. The color was difficult to duplicate with sign paint and had a sheen difference. The end result of having me touch it up was a beat-up sign with various colored dots all over it. I found out later that this was not what the customer had expected. Some people must believe in magic. They thought that touch it up would completely restore the sign work to its original luster.

I learned from this episode to respond to any query about touch it up with an explanation that you want the finished piece to appear like it did originally, then all the steps that went into the original process would have to be duplicated. Today I use my imagination to create another strategy. More effective for both the customer and myself is the creation of an element that will camouflage or hide the damage.

The investment learning this contemporary manner of making a living and living a conventional life exposed me to another way of interacting with the community far different from being an entertainer performing one day stands. I began to grow a new awareness, a sense of connection, expanding on the way I could be of service and introducing me to a sophisticated manner in which to thrive. I had a plan. Gary appreciated the enthusiasm with which I was obsessed with learning and developing my abilities in this trade.

The boss knew what I was doing. Even though he was gruff about the speed with which I painted, he noticed that I was dedicated to forming pretty letters and when the occasional job came through that wanted nice letters, he put it next to my bench to do.

One day he casually confided, “you’re almost ready.”

In those days the bread and butter of the sign business were the pesky instructional signs such as; “do not park,” “reserved for authorized vehicles,” and “no dumping,” etc. Most of these signs didn’t need to be pretty and the sign men who had an awkward or clumsy style of letter would get these projects. Ed was one of those sign men. His “O” looked like the flat-sided track around the football field. Sometimes in the morning he would be so shaky that he would excuse himself to “get some bitters.” In those days it was acceptable to bring a six pack to work. Many of the sign painters’ sipped beer as they lettered each day.

Another man my age joined the ranks who was an otherwise talented sign painter with a gorgeous script and a kind heart. He liked the fact that we could bring beer to work. One day after consuming his entire six pack before lunch and getting mad and telling the boss off, he lost his job. A few weeks later he showed back up and begged for his job back. He then borrowed a brush from one of us, and resumed working but with no more beer. I found out later that he was alcoholic and was a member of a fellowship that supported each other in not drinking. I wasn’t drinking during the day but I did have a regular pattern of beer after work every day.

While Beth was on the road with the circus, I worked regular hours at the sign shop. My evenings were free and my commute took me across the edge of metro Orlando. I discovered many opportunities for my leisure time. I recalled the virtues of the path of music education established in my youth. I also remembered the quick climb to the top of the rudimentary heap in band class my sophomore year and the intensity with which I applied myself with skills as a teen drummer. These were all recollected when I found out about one appealing option.

Once a week a symphony orchestra made up of people of all ages rehearsed. We met in a high school band room and I soon became the first chair snare drummer.

My ability to sight read sheet music came right back, as well as the rebellious jocularity required of anyone in the percussion department. One evening every week I would participate. We even had a full-fledged recital concert planned as a logical goal.

I stood at the snare drum during those weekly rehearsals. I once again became familiar with the standard musical masterpieces a full-fledged orchestra plays. When the occasional song had no snare drum part, I sat down for the whole thing. Week after week, we rehearsed many numbers and zeroed in on the pieces planned for the concert.

As the evening of the concert loomed closer, I mentioned the event to my friend Lynnie who lived nearby. Her enthusiastic reception couldn’t help but infect me and I too started to look forward to the performance.

The evening of the concert was a fun night out. A surprisingly large crowd gathered on the high school campus.  After guiding my friend to a seat in the audience, I made my way backstage, and to my place in the formal orchestra layout in the auditorium. Various instruments were tuning up and a cacophony of sounds filled the place until the house lights went down. Then all became quiet. When the conductor made his entrance, the audience responded with enthusiastic applause.

After the formal introduction of the maestro, he gave everyone a rhetorical hint of what was to come. Then he took his place at the podium. Tapping his baton on the music stand was all it took to capture our attention. He then began the first number, a lively tune to get everyone’s blood flowing. The series of songs we had been practicing took flight, played beautifully, one by one. My snare part with its familiar rudiments joined the other voices to blend into our version of these familiar masterpieces. The evening’s repertoire finally arrived at one tune that had no snare part. I took my seat in the back. I could then take a break, zone out and enjoy the song with everyone else.

This final number was one that everybody loved. The conductor started with a gentle swaying that invited the voices of the first row of violins to begin their soothing melody. The conductor then added depth by inviting additional strings to join the chorus. The movement had a slow rhythm that, if one actually wanted to monitor the beats in each measure, he may actually risk hypnosis as the result of the soothing time table. I was actually glad for the vacation from counting. I could join the rest of the audience and allow the soothing strings to work their magic on my emotional condition.

Soon the woodwinds were invited to contribute, they echoed the stanza established at the embarque. Suddenly my drift off into a peaceful, meditative state was interrupted. True to form, the other members of the percussion department, who equally abhor this percussion-less tune, were up to no good. Halfway through the song, one of them came over to me.

“Hey Dave,” one of my colleagues whispered, “we don’t have anybody to play the cymbal part”

I came to, suddenly realizing perplexity, “but I haven’t been counting.”

The conductor signaled the brass to add their version of the melodic ebb and flow. My colleagues knew I was a team player and laid a thick coat of what it took for me to take the job. The tympani player at the far side added his deep contribution in harmony with the woodwind bass voices.

Like a dummy, I stood up and poked my hands through the straps of the cymbals.

“I still need to know which measure we are on,” I whispered as I stood.

I then poised myself and looked at the music. The sheet music is simple; rest 137 bars, then one note triple f (loud) on the second beat, then the double line ending.

By this time all the instruments had been awakened and commanded to play. The overture was transformed from passive and peaceful to engaged, invigorating and increasing in magnitude with every beat. As every instrument engaged in their contribution melded, the decibel level was commanded to increase as the rhythmic conclusion garnered closer and closer to an ending that I knew nothing about. The staccato accents plagiarized from Sousa struck an adrenalin spike in every soul in attendance. Like the concluding thrusts that bring about sensual explosion, the final beats doubled in intensity and as I sought a clue of some sort, the final great staccato beat from everyone in the orchestra had struck.

A moment of silence was next. Then after the audience got over the stun and realized the composition was over, exploded into applause.

Now picture what my friend Lynnie saw from her vantage point in the auditorium. A series of wonderfully played orchestra songs culminating with one peaceful, melodic opportunity to showcase the concept of beauty and wonder to promote the experience of all in attendance. As the song continued, this bewildered tall guy rose up from the back holding two large cymbals. As the melody continued, many unknowns fueled curiosity both from the observer and the lost. The tune slowly built, adding all the voices of the array of instruments. The entire orchestra was awakened and belted out what doubled at first, then multiplied into a musical equivalent of an orgasmic precedent. As the crescendo consumed all of the energy of all of the participants, the last few beats reign unsurpassed in brilliance, command and exemplaration.

As the maestro raised his frame to the apogee of his command, for the final effort from everyone, the conclusion peaked into an unprecedented spike. The spike of the final measure. The spike I had been looking for all this time. The next moment everything was over. I remained standing with a quizzical expression in the silence for one moment before the audience, now moved, erupted.

Lynnie told me later that at that moment of the applause explosion, the man sitting next to her turned with laughter on his face and said “did you see the cymbal player?”

I would discover the twenty-mile commute to and from the Sign King had advantages. I worked far enough away from where I lived that the shop was unaware of the sign work I did on the side. Driving the sixty-four VW bus to Longwood each morning took me through Sanford, a community built on the side of Lake Monroe with the St Johns River going through. The marina became a regular stopping place after work to line up work each weekend. I soon adopted the routine of being available every Sunday to letter boats.

I made a “boat lettering” sign, and the Harbor Master placed it on display in the marina showroom. I would check in with Chuck periodically and find out which boats wanted a particular name. I became friends with the couple that ran the office for sail boats at the marina. They would commission names for the boats they had for sale and refer me to their customers. I made it a point to be at the marina every Sunday.

After work during the week, the marina was a great place to break up the jump home and hang out with the people that lived and played there. The concept of living on a boat was very similar to the traveling lifestyle I was used to. I met many interesting people in this floating community. The long docks had every kind of boat imaginable. There were power, fishing, party, sailing, house, sports, yachts, whalers, schooners and other boats of all sizes, even dinghies. They were my quarry. One result of lettering boats and making friends with this community was being invited out on the lake with them many times.

The result of being at the marina every Sunday lettering on virtually every kind of boat imaginable was also being challenged to letter in every conceivable contortive manner known to sign man. I sat on the dock and leaned forward to get a name on the back of a floating boat. I have leaned over the rail to paint a name upside-down on a transom. I have stood in water up to my waist, squatted on the rear dive platform and stood in a dingy under the bow of a large schooner to letter the name on either side. After all these experiences I made a decision. I prefer to letter a boat either in dry dock or while loaded on a trailer.

One Sunday afternoon, I was sent to letter the transom of a boat midway down the central dock. The large house and power boats were moored out at the end and the smaller craft that navigate easier were closer to the marina seawall. This one had a lower platform for me to sit on as I painted. Immersed in the project, my attention was focused on making graceful strokes that would end up being the nice script name to personalize this watercraft.

“Excuse me mister painter,” interrupted my focus.

I looked up to see an eleven-year-old girl holding a tray with a tall glass holding a beverage.

“The boat over there sent you a drink,” she directed my attention to a boat halfway down the dock. When I saw the handful of people all congregated on the upper deck and acknowledged them, they let out a roar and waved.

I enjoyed the highball on that hot, sunny day and when my task was complete, returned the glass and joined the party. Each Sunday was always different. I never blanked out. There was always a boat or two to letter. This regular part of my life while learning this trade remains among my fondest memories.

Occasionally, while working as an apprentice sign painter at the Sign King, I was sent out to a remote location to work on site. Some stores wanted graphic stripes around the interior of a showroom along with product names and specific logos. There seemed to always be a block wall that wanted a big sign painted on it. One such project was special and coincided with the confidence the boss had in my developing ability.

 A business with large display windows commissioned a special sign scene on glass. At one time the sign painted on glass was considered the ultimate, especially when gold leaf and various other special effects were utilized in the process. Now illuminated plastics and computer driven illuminated boards command attention. The traditional epitome seems to have been forgotten.

 Gary, our shop foreman, was helpful explaining to me what I would need to know before I tackled this job. During the explanation of the procedure, I received his prediction of how the finished product would look on this substrate. He did caution me that any stray drop of paint or flaw in the preliminary stage of the project would be pronounced by the same characteristics of the glass that made this style of work sensational. I would have to be careful.

The first phase took place in the shop. I made a full-size paper pattern with his supervision.  Because the painting would take place backwards on the inside, my pattern would get transferred on the outside of the glass.

When making a spectacular sign on glass in reverse, outlines and highlights are accurately painted first. After a close inspection from the outside any stray paint and fingerprints are removed. Then additional decorative features are completed and the interior of the letters are filled in. The final step is to apply the protective background over the whole thing. With the quarter inch layer of clear glass on top of the various colors of sign work the result is unsurpassed in beauty, clarity and especially longevity. Gary had provided a detailed, adequate primer. I was excited. I knew this sign on glass would be unsurpassed.

On the morning this job commenced, I drove my VW to downtown Orlando. I found a parking place behind the big building where the location for the upcoming work matched the instruction sheet I was following. I then opened the cargo door to get my supplies.

The tall stone building made long shadows that engulfed the surrounding street. I made my way inside to the designated window with the first box of supplies I would use. After spreading my drop cloth, I began to clean the window with a bar of Bon Ami, a wash cloth and a bucket of water. Soon the hazy swirls of my sweeping, cleaning action temporarily obliterated the transparency of the glass. As the haze began to dry, the final wipes finally revealed the transparent substrate, now surgically clean, that would soon receive the fruit of my efforts.

I went out to the sidewalk with the rolled-up pattern and a roll of masking tape. With the large paper pattern secured to the outside of the glass, I had a visual guide to follow. Plus, the paper prevented the visual confusion of the busy street outside from distracting my ability to concentrate on the task at hand. The next step was to carefully make accurate brush strokes on a clear surface that is difficult to see. Because of the sheer size of this project, I had the luxury of having the paint completely dry before going to the next phase. This made two trips into town necessary.

Care was taken to not let my fingers touch the clean glass while I worked. The oil from my fingers could cause an adhesion problem in the future. Keeping my fingers off the surface was facilitated using a mahl stick, which is a length of dowel rod with a cork affixed to the end. With this device I had a bridge to rest the heel of my painting hand on, held just off the painting surface by my other hand. I had watched Gary use this technique at the shop.

I held the pallet between the first knuckle of the index and middle fingers which also surrounded my paint cup along with my thumb. The last fingers held the mahl stick which was also somewhat wedged under the heel of my hand. Although awkward at first, while utilizing these techniques that Gary so capably challenged me with opened new doors of opportunity and skill.

As each facet of the elaborate project was completed, additional synapses connected brain cells as I imitated the specific tasks of yet another skill. The many procedures of this specialty filled two days. When the background layer that is also a protective backing layer was applied, this job was complete. The results were startling. This knowledge and experience would benefit me immensely later in my sign painting career when I created even more spectacular signs on glass.

       I weighed many options after discovering that my anticipated job on the circus didn’t exist. Last minute upheaval seems to be a constant part of this business. Ultimately, I would use this hiatus to my advantage. But at first I panicked. Beth and I had been planning to troupe together again. Her job existed so I had to make other plans. I did want to learn fine sign lettering skills, so after investigating many opportunities, I made my selection. Instead of going to the Great American Circus, my job in the spring of 1979 at the Sign King started immediately.
       This was a busy shop. Orlando had no sign regulations and clusters of gaudy advertising flanked all the roads. Real estate and building was booming and sign work was in evidence everywhere. This was a good time to be a sign maker. The Sign King was a sign store with many examples on display in the showroom in a shopping plaza. Consumers beat a path to the door. Forrest the owner, an effective businessman from Connecticut, wore a pleasant face up front and was gruff, precise and demanding in the back. His wife was the receptionist/secretary and had a curious, slow manner of talking, doubling the number of syllables in each word as her intentional manner of talking may have been influenced by a stroke. The work took place in the back. Several work bays were filled with easels for the lettering men, sawhorses and woodworking tools for the carpenters, screen printing tables and racks for the production runs and space for sign board painting preparation.
       In this environment, I started as the low man on the totem pole learning new skills. The other sign painters told me that a good sign man has at least five alphabets memorized that would handle most sign making situations. Many good font reference books existed. I began to get familiar with the variety of lettering styles and additional sign making skills from these men at the shop.

       The boss was always nagging us to hurry up. I was immune to his impatience. All I wanted to do was paint pretty letters all day. Being next to the other busy journeymen painting signs at the bench was the perfect placed to learn. These men who possessed the skill and knowledge of not only brush manipulation but letterform began to rocket me into the next dimension of my developing abilities. Some of them were fast and sloppy and others made better looking letters. I zeroed in on the men with a handle on what I wanted to learn and a personal style that I admired.
       Crisp letterform occurs with the right brush, trained by the way it is manipulated to maintain its chisel edge shape. By using the proper handling techniques, the natural tendencies of the brush influence the style of the letters formed. By starting each stroke with deliberate contact with the surface and traveling through the stroke consistently, additional natural behaviors of the brush bring about subtle variations that end up qualifying as an individual style of letter. I was making the big signs, with five inch and up letters. I began by drawing each letter in its entirety and then “building” the letter with brush strokes and paint. The journeymen were painting vast collections of small copy on menu, informative, rules and regulation signs using a “one stroke” alphabet, knocked out fast. As I admired what was going on around me, I was also noticing and being encouraged with the nuance that would eventually develop into my personal style and ability to letter in a new way.
       While I developed my individual fashion of block, script, casual “quick stroke,” serifed roman and modified old English, an additional opportunity for rapid growth occurred.
       One day, a new guy showed up at the shop. A tall guy with a confident air and a “Joisey” accent who soon became our supervisor. Gary Herpst had grown up in New Jersey, with a father who was an excellent sign painter and started this trade as a youth. Because of his background and ability, he was assigned to a role at the top of the shop hierarchy.
       Compared to the others, I was still struggling as I formed letters using my hand over hand technique with a lettering brush. This manner of painting took both of my hands as I would rest my lettering hand over my left hand. Plus, I had to use a little cart to hold my paint.

       One day Gary walked over to where I was working, still holding his lettering brush, with pallet and paint cup in the other hand, and gave me a command; “Start painting with one hand!”
       He then gave the half smile of a person containing a laugh and gestured for me to follow him to his work bench. He then demonstrated to me what he was talking about, using the brush with one hand with an extended pinkie finger to steady.
       “Learn to paint with one hand and you will become faster,” he encouraged me, “Plus, you can hold the paint and pallet with your other hand.”
       I attempted this style of painting immediately. Although awkward at first, I soon became comfortable painting this way. I credit Gary as being the most influential of all the sign men I ever met. Another thing he mentioned would influence my future.
       He asked me, “Do you know the difference between a common sign painter and an excellent one?”
       When I tumbled, he answered,” whether they drink or not”

Thank goodness our trip back to Florida was uneventful. Beth and I landed first at the circus winter quarters in Deland and parked near our old friends Captain Freddy Logan and his family. After getting settled, in an effort to make a good impression when asking for a job at a local sign shop I had my long hair cut off. I borrowed Beth’s station wagon and drove into town and found a local sign company and went inside. I showed the owner photos of my work and expressed an interest in learning more about the sign painting trade. I immediately landed a job at ArtDev Advertising. I had plenty to learn. 

I became part of a trio of men in the back of the shop that got the work done. Bill was the carpenter, Carroll the crane truck operator/installation man and I became the sign painter. All of our duties overlapped. I also learned how to use crane trucks and help with installation. 

Each day began to resemble a routine different from what I was used to. I was up early each morning. After my drive into work I spent the day at the shop accomplishing a variety of duties. The work mentality here revolved around providing a specific number of hours at the shop each day, instead of the timeless, all-consuming aspect of life at the circus. 

I found and bought an old tomato soup colored VW bus that became my commute to work vehicle. By Christmas time, Beth and I were encouraged to find an alternative place to park the trailer for the winter. A nearby fish camp near the river had trailer sites and room in the woods for Beth to put up her rigging and practice. Working close to where we lived was handy when Beth wanted to see what I was doing. One day the sixty-five-foot service ladder truck was up against a tall building downtown, Beth, the aerialist, climbed the ladder in her clogs, along with the rest of us, up to the roof to see the project underway. 

Among the sign making projects going on at ArtDev was the creation of large hand painted billboards that utilized the talents of a local retired pictorial painter named Pete. He arrived at the shop one day with his kit to tackle the waiting blank billboard.  

Once he got settled in, he came over to where I was working and looked down at my kit.  

“I know some shops that would not hire you,” He said flatly, “because of the condition of those brushes.” 

He was referring to my bristle fitches, the stiff brushes used to paint a rough surface like a brick or cement block wall. My fitches were rounded off from wear on all sides. Fortunately, Pete showed me his fitches and how a properly worn brush is supposed to look. He taught me how one corner was reserved from wear and also showed me the discipline of how to hold the brush for cutting in, like with a sash brush. Most painters know to use it flat either way in its entirety but when on edge for crisp lines and points, go one direction, reserving one corner for a sharp tip. Then, that corner is available for a precise point. By using this technique, the rounding wear only occurs on one side and the remaining corner stays sharp. 

The manner in which large pictorials were created in those days was referred to as wet-blended and included the use of oil colors that dried slowly. This would allow the artist a long window of opportunity to merge the colors.  While Pete was up on the catwalk painting large letters and images on the boards, he was always telling a story about his days as a pictorial man for a large outdoor advertising firm in Las Vegas. His wife would drop him off at the shop in the morning and before going home, she would grab a broom and sweep his work area clean. He would be talking the whole time.  

He told stories about painting large portraits of the famous stars appearing in concert at the various theaters in Vegas, often returning to the same billboard before the paint had even dried to paint another portrait on top. 

I still laugh every time I think about one story. One day Pete was up on the cat walk lettering five-foot letters with the name of a home builder – let’s say the name he was painting was James Robinson. That day Pete was telling a story about a sign painter he used to know. As he worked and shared this anecdote, his mind went blank as he struggled to remember his old friend’s name. As each letter assumed its finished condition from our vantage point in the shop we could see the large name revealed that I mentioned earlier. As Pete neared the last letter he paused, due to the revelation occurring. Out of the blue we heard him blurt out, “James!” 

“I just remembered his name,” he announced, “James Robinson “  

  Pete took me under his wing and taught me many things including the basics of scaling up from the comp, or composition sketch. He taught me how a sign man enlarges a design using math and a yard stick.  

The routine at the sign shop was far different from the around-the-clock routine on the traveling circus. I was only at the shop eight hours a day and every evening was free. Beth and I still continued our regular consumption of beer, and each evening I was expected to bring home a supply on my trip back from work. With little to do in the evening to keep my hands busy, the evening routine soon involved little more than beer and conversation. 

I had observed couples that had a relational style of arguing and had never understood it. I recall while lettering a circus trailer on Gopher’s circus years ago, listening in on the conversation between Snooks & Kennedy, who were taking a break from being the band between shows. Their relational style was an argumentative banter that had grown to fill their leisure time together. It sounded like arguing but they seemed to stay calm about it. I hadn’t grown up around such a style. Beth and I began to display a similar argumentative rhetoric fueled by our mutual inebriated condition.  I’m sure that a fly on the wall would wonder about our sanity due to the topic of those conversations. I admit that while driving home after working all day, my creative imagination would begin composing rebuttal from where our conversation had left off that morning. So I was certainly a player. I recognized that consumption was part of the problem but didn’t have an alternative to suggest. So, we continued our disruptive doggerel. 

Henry Thompson lived nearby in his travel trailer that winter too. The circus used him in the winter time to paint pictorials for the side show banners along with festive clown and animal images on the show trucks. As he drank more and more, he became filled with happy recollections that inspired an attempt at singing the lyrics of a popular song. As he belted out “only yooouuuu,” the stanza would inevitably be followed by drunken laughter. I would often find him and Beth laughing about this at the little tavern near the railroad station after my workday was done. 

Beth and I were counting on our jobs with the Great American Circus for the 1979 season that spring as promised by Jim Silverlake. But at the last minute, I was told they didn’t have room for me and my livestock. It was too late to find another circus, so I planned to remain in Florida to continue as an apprentice sign painter for that year while Beth went out on the road. A friend at a neighboring shop to ArtDev, who made dental bridges, had a neighbor who needed a roommate. I could live there. Beth found a pickup truck to pull her trailer and replace her station wagon. At the sign shop, I welded a trailer hitch on the back. I got her on her way and then paused at the brink of the year ahead to consider other opportunities to learn this trade.  

I began to do some research, expand my territory, visit other sign shops and ask questions. At a big outdoor advertising place, I saw where the Coppertone billboards were painted. The owner was confident about my emerging career and predicted that he would see me again.  

I worked a short time with a talented man creating visual masterpieces for the amusement parks and discovered the stereotypical alcoholic sign man. I heard about a busy shop near Orlando that had a grumpy owner with several journeymen lettering men inside at the bench. Curiosity piqued, I went to the sun-bleached metal building in a strip plaza, met Forrest Brown and his wife, and saw the work that was taking place. I made my decision. 

Due to the amount of work I was doing around the King Bros Circus as the drummer with two horse acts, I qualified to have the show provide a groom to help me. In the spring of the year, I was still trying to recruit this helper. As our path of one day stands crossed Georgia, a young black boy came looking for a job and I was ready to hire him. Once they caught wind of my plan, the mechanic Charlie Rex and the canvas boss came to me and told me not to hire him. They said that there would be no blacks on this show. I had never heard of such a thing. On all the other shows I was on, we always had them. Blacks are good luck. 

Historically, on the big canvas shows, groups of these workers came with a patriarch. They worked hard and kept to themselves. I recall on Clark and Walters Circus while showing through the deep south, we had a trio of them on the big top crew. They had an interesting pastime when their work was done and it was time to relax before bed. They would gather to unwind. One would play the harmonica and the others would sing their cultural genre of music. I was being introduced to an attractive facet of another ethnicity. 

Prejudice by the members of this show was perhaps an indication of the spiritual health of the circus or an ignorant defeatist condition that I hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps this was an omen. 

I recall hearing colorful stories from the old timers in the cookhouse about the jigs on the other shows in the old days. I am not on the quest of offending anyone here. I do seek to share this rich part of the history of the old-time circus for the sake of sharing their humor.  One tale had to do with how they exaggerated one another as tales were swapped.  

A classic came from the old railroad days when gangs of workers familiar with rival shows would seek to impress their peers with what they knew. Back and forth patter would start about a variety of topics. Among them; how the components they had to handle were heavy. Just set aside any question of ethics and visualize in your mind’s eye, a group of working men sitting in the canvas cookhouse after breakfast, finishing their coffee. 

“Wall, I nevah in all my born days seen so much heavy,” one would start off, “those poles is heavy, those planks is heavy, and those ring curbs is heavy” 

Oh you think these poles is heavy? Why I been on a show where evrah-thang is real heavy, a lot more heavy,” the orator is seeking to make an impression; “Evrah-thang on that Sells Floto show is heavy!” 

“That’s right,” another would agree, “Evrah-thang on that show is heavy” 

“I been on dat show too and evrah-thang is just plain heavy,” He says while holding his coffee cup aloft. Then he thinks of something else to fortify his claim, “even da coffee cups in the cookhouse weigh fo-teen pounds” 

Another good luck characteristic typical of the big top circus is gay clowns. The clown alley is notorious for flamboyant gay funsters. That year on King Bros Circus our clown alley was populated with hetero funsters – a married couple, an Indiana guy with a French persona and Rollo, a simple but straight energetic personality. We did have a gay organist, with an ironic name, Budd Manley. With a bass player and me at the drums, we were the trio that provided the music for the big three ring show. 

Circus families are another circus tradition. Generations duplicate teaching the children as toddlers to participate in the family act, not only adding the element of cute to the routine but imprinting the youngster with qualities that give them an edge with the closely guarded family secrets. Many outstanding trainers zealously guard their techniques. The families had strict rules that the young people had to stick to, especially when mixing with the other people on the show. Circus families wanted their children to marry into other circus families and discouraged any alternatives. 

The caste system was an old tradition with rules that kept the laborers, the dregs of society, away from the artistes. This system was relaxed on the smaller shows. On the King Bros Circus, we all had the privilege of getting to know one another.  

The Campa family provided a bevy of beautiful girls that added many acts to the show. Father Carlos did the traditional funny musical act. They were mom, dad, three girls and a boy. Elizabeth was a stunning beauty but reluctant socially. Sonya bubbled with personality and connected with others. The youngest sister was a fiery redhead. When strict met rebellious, the defiant sometimes left for the other side. These girls filled three rings as jugglers. Having this bounty of beauty added immensely to the show. 

  For our two-ring horse display, Frank Bumm had a white horse that did a few rodeo tricks in the other end of the tent while I provided a demonstration of what a Manege horse can do on Sir Bingo, the Painted Wonder. The demonstrations included marching, two tracks, the bow, pedestal mount, lay down, sit up, camel stretch and rear.   

Patti Antaleck had a huge group of performing dogs that jumped, danced, barked, cavorted and did an animated and pleasant act. Francesca had married a candy butcher (concession guy) and broke away from her performing family. She was one of the show girls doing aerial acts.  

Dirty Neck Klein was the elephant boss. He stayed busy with his two charges, helping set up the tent, performing in the show and pulling stakes at night. I kept a bottle of bourbon in my rig just for him, knowing that on cold, wet rainy nights, while he was busy with an elephant pulling everything off the muddy lot in inclement weather, he would appreciate an occasional swig. Whenever he did stop by to get a sip, was also the time he would demonstrate his appreciative Oklahoma stomp. 

The show moved at night.  As the second show each day concluded, all the components were dismantled and loaded. As soon as our contribution to the show was over, the horse and ponies were loaded, the awning came down, stakes were loosened and loaded, ramp and steps went inside and the doors were closed. By this time, Beth had loaded her wire rigging, rolled up her electric cable and was ready to go. We started up the rigs and followed the trial of tail lights that were also leaving the lot. 

The big top floated to the ground as the elephant emerged from underneath, pulling the last of the center poles. The workers quickly untied the ropes from the stakes and threw them on top of the canvas. The elephant began to go around the perimeter of the where the tent had previously stood and stopped to pull the stakes up one by one. The canvas crew folded the tent into a long bundle that the spool truck could then consume. As the last remnants were loaded, those trucks also began to head out to the next town. The mechanic was last. He followed the fleet to make sure everyone made it. 

  The last loads were also the first ones needed in the early morning. Depending on the length of the jump, the crew would get their sleep during increments throughout the day.