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The First VW

   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.

krazee

       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.

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The Great Chalkmarksman

   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.”

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Finding Shiloh

       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.

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Smith Falls

  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.

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Calamity

    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.     

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Seeing the World

     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.   

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Sir Bingo


       The auction barn in the middle of the fairgrounds in Hugo, Oklahoma during the off- season of 1975-76 had become a familiar place. Now during my third winter, energy was invested as I learned to work the horse that Bob Grubb had not only trained to perform a circus act but had raised from a baby. Now as a five-year-old, “Bingo” could march, bow, side step, lay down, sit up, rear, volte, and do the camel stretch. Each rigorous session with this horse concluded when Bob saw an improvement in how we were getting along and instructed me to “walk him cool.”

       Part of what I enjoyed with this horse was to just get away and go for a ride. The streets of Hugo were used to seeing unusual sights around town because of the circus people who lived here. Occasional mornings we deviated from the rigors of practice and Bingo and I went sightseeing. This was a reward for doing well.

       His father was buckskin with a black mane and tail and his mother was a white and sorrel paint horse. The combination they conceived was a white and buckskin paint body with white legs and a black mane. Spectacular was his tail; white with a black tip.

Bingo Bow

       My time in the saddle became a time to think through the many other tasks that were waiting and to organize a plan for accomplishing them in the afternoon. This equine enterprise came with additional fascinating elements. Julie, one of the ponies, was pregnant. With Bob’s encouragement, we situated a foaling stall for her in the barn.

       One rainy morning we discovered a wet baby in the stall. As we watched, the little wonder struggled at first to find a way up to her feet. After a few wobbly attempts, she finally stood. Seeing this wonder cemented awe. This addition to the group, as the season progressed, would prove as yet another target for my affection and an ongoing source of fun.

       I had a challenge not predicted. The truck allowed great comfort for just the pony act. In order to haul the horse in the truck, I had to rearrange the floor plan. Instead of ample room for just them with the manger alongside an entire side, the interior of the truck received changes. Part of the manger was removed; the ponies were squeezed tight to the front and a standing stall was built along the outside wall for “Bingo.” The remaining area in the other corner was reserved for Julie and the baby. A small wall prevented Bingo’s front feet from stepping on anyone in front of him. I had to cross-tie his head up high to keep him from biting Finley, who now stood underneath and in front of him.

       Adding the horse pushed the limit of this truck over the top. As the winter practice session came to its conclusion, the time arrived to go. I headed toward another brief tour, this time across Louisiana. I would perform the horse act for the first time. Then my plan was for another tour of Canada. Starting in Louisiana in the spring with what was left of the old Fisher Bros Circus, I worked my new act in front of sparse crowds.

       The season of 1976 began with tire trouble. The pony truck was now overloaded. The leaf springs seemed to be getting tired.  To prevent the tires from rubbing the underside of the truck box, I placed blocks of wood as spacers between the overloaded leaf springs. At one time I thought the best way to see the country would be on a traveling circus. That is just not true. The best way to see the details that abound and get to know the locals in this country is to be broke down between towns on a circus. I would see plenty this season.

       At one location in Louisiana it was impossible to continue my trip without replacing tires. I was in picturesque bayou country. Spanish moss hung from Grandfather Oak trees. My rig stopped along a quiet road. I had room to unload.  The ponies were out on the picket line, with the baby and Bingo nearby. I awaited assistance from a tire service truck. While there I studied the details of the weathered surroundings bleached by the relentless sun.

       A long, low wooden building with large porch had no exterior indications to hint at what was inside aside from the neon beer signs in the windows. Completely open sided most of the year, a corrugated metal roof provided shade. Old wooden chairs invited comfort on the creaky wooden floor. A spring-loaded screen door with a porcelain “Tetley Tea” push bar across the middle would slam after each customer pried it open and went in or out.

       This was not a highly traveled road. My compromised parking site on the side of the road was not a big concern for the slow-moving people in this sparsely populated and pleasant area. When the tire truck arrived my ability to roll down the highway was restored. I returned to the pace of two shows a day for the remaining weeks of the short season.

        An oasis occurred when that short tour was over partway to the opening town. Those of us heading to Canada stopped at a family farm in Missouri to lay over for a few days. At that place I had an opportunity to paint the red stripe around the truck box. I also saw the remains of the hippopotamus semi that I took care of a few years prior. Ava had died. It was rusting, unused in the woods. We left in plenty of time to make the long trip to Alberta for the opening of season 1976 with Royal Bros Circus.

       Prior to Memorial Day, the long jump to western Canada was complete and we were ready to open early summer. In addition to the six-pony liberty act and my new horse act, I played the pre-show calliope concert on the midway and became “David McDavid” the bagpipe player in the side show. I also worked the magic act as taught to me by Dennis Michael where I had the bird whistle pitch.

       The baby pony, only months old, had begun to prefer hanging around Bingo, who was loose while other ponies were secure on the picket line. With increasing bravado, the baby’s territory increased. The baby began to follow us while I rode Bingo. The performance each day started with Spec, the parade of all the performers around the three rings in the big top. While I rode my horse, the little baby trotted along behind to the amusement of everybody.

BINGO Liberty Ponies

       The Royal Bros Circus opened the 1976 season in southern Alberta. The route took us up into the foot hills of the Rockies to several spectacular resort towns. In the midst of this rugged splendor, a flat place large enough to put up a circus was rare but, there we were. The raggedy old big top with our curious collection of rolling stock was pitched between the imposing mountains that dwarfed us and our specific intention. One day was especially memorable.

       One sunshiny day prior to the matinee with the mountains looming all around us, I remember standing on the bally platform with the others during the side show opening. A sudden gust of wind blew way up in the mountains. A few moments later we were lightly dusted with the snow dislodged from the high altitudes. A chill of delight passed through the crowd accompanied this surprise. In a few moments the sun warmed us back up.           We were immersed in some of the most picturesque country I had ever seen accumulating vivid memories.

One magical, dark morning, I drove into the tempering horizon with the foothills at my back. The roadbed leveled onto a long flat stretch. Ahead I saw a layer of fog that looked like a lakebed settled on the lower altitude. As the jump continued, I descended into this foggy area and became immersed in dense, misty surroundings. Visual access to the surrounding terrain disappeared. This was the fog of the cliché about your hand in front of your face.

       Mile after mile I drove with utmost caution. Unknown to me, the sun began to rise. Accumulating light slowly illuminated the surface of this layer of fog, just above me. A visual sensation began and became a magical dance of light. An ocular rhythm occurred due to moving forward underneath the surface of this sea of fog. The light interacted with the irregular surface of the cloud and combined with a slow turbulence as it responded to the warming rays of sunshine. The visual experience that morning was not unlike the mystique of the Aurora Borealis.

       On the other side of that long low stretch, an incline allowed me to emerge from the fog, where I witnessed the most splendiferous sunrise I have ever seen, in a sky so huge it must obviously have some of Montana’s mixed in with it.

       This spectacular wonder was just one of the many visual sensations that mixed with the joy of being a performing horseman, creative in many ways that also served to validate the original decision to join the circus. To this day I remain on the lookout to continue seeing new wonders in this world that God has created. This life I have been gifted with continues to fill me with awe and zeal for each and every new day.

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Circus Horses

    On the big spectacular three ring circus of yesteryear, horses commanded the performance tober.  The lavish warm-up display prior to the presentation of the elite dancing horse act, was a massive pageant of Manege horses filling all the rings and the hippodrome track in front of the audience. Among the circus equestrian performing arts, the Manege horse is an entry-level performing animal that the novice rider soon fulfills. Famous for the lay-down, sit up, bow, march and camel stretch, these poses are manageable by most riders, thus the name.

Camel stretch old time circus

       Dozens of horses were choreographed to perform these movements in time with the music prior to the introduction of the true star of the show, the Haute E’cole or High School or horse schooled to the highest level.

       With that spectacle over, all eyes were directed to the highest-ranking equestrian performer of all. Classic horsemanship movements, the result of years of training and rehearsal, were then demonstrated to the audience. Passage, piaffe; high trot, march, canter changes, even the backwards canter with one elevated foreleg.             These remarkable movements qualify as poetic and gymnastic and share the echelon populated by opera, ballet, orchestra and Shakespeare virtuosos. I had recently witnessed this rich tradition at Chuck Grant’s farm and my creative mind began to dream bigger dreams.

       I had been saving my money during season 1975 to buy Bob Grubb’s horse “Bingo,” a Buckskin Tobiano Paint Horse with spectacular markings. Standing at 15.2 hands, his stocky quarter horse frame would provide me with a handsome steed. When the season was over, the riding lessons with Clarence gave me a foundation for beginning. Now back at the fairgrounds in Hugo, the time came for the purchase and to begin to learn how to work my new horse. I started learning another circus act.

       With my six-pony liberty act, I had created a wonderful career with a promising future. Once the startup hurdle was over, the animals became seasoned performers. This package was perfect in many ways. The magnitude of work to get to this place had been rewarding and the experience would help me in ways I would realize later. Now the business of having this pony act settled into finding opportunities to perform on a regular basis and the ongoing maintenance on the road.

       Another aspect that made this small business perfect was that I had options other animal handlers did not have. For extended periods I could place them on pasture during the off season, freeing me to pursue other opportunities. I actually credit these ponies with making me a better sign painter. No matter what, they kept right on eating. That motivated me ongoingly to find and secure sign work.

       Now I was adding a Manege horse to the lineup. I still had plenty to learn about this genre of horsemanship. The success of this enterprise required developing relationships with others. Networking within the circus industry is how one kept an act booked. Established circus families had strong connections that resulted from many generations of activity. The upper echelon of circus performers was a close-knit family that trusted only time-honored generational links to the industry. I was the new guy and because of my childhood I was reluctant.

IMG_4553 (1)

       During the five years I provided the palomino liberty act to big top circuses, the most I ever worked in one season was twenty-seven weeks. Compared to the lucrative experiences enjoyed at the beginning of my career, the pay I received for this attractive collection of performing ponies did not match the investment.

       I had been lucky right out of high school with Mel Silverlake, who wanted my creative skills. I had been in the right place at the right time, landing a lucrative role with his show. I had not learned several valuable social lessons in this industry. My mind was always on, but I was lost in the creative realm of visualizing more of what I wanted. I hadn’t developed an interest in others. Booking employment for horse acts and negotiating pay required skills and knowledge I did not possess. I was taken advantage of by shrewd producers and selfish circus owners. I was an outsider, not coming from a circus family. This promoted a skepticism and an aloofness that I didn’t understand or know how to break through. But it didn’t seem to stop me. I added a horse to my line up.

       Perhaps the writing was on the wall in regard to horses in the circus of the future. Regardless, I continued with my plans to become bigger and better than ever. I had found another way to thrive. I was fortunate that when the ponies were loose on pasture I could chase and secure sign painting to do.

       As Bob showed me how to make my new horse bow, stretch, kneel and march. I utilized the riding skills that Clarence had taught me. I began to speak the language to my horse that came through my seat, hands and attitude from the saddle.

       Bob continued to teach me how to get this new horse through the paces each morning. Each morning our routine was to practice with supervision, covering all the movements. Then rehearsing a possible routine, striving to maintain the proper posture and attitude the whole time.

       While learning the lay-down starting with a kneel, from where the horse would roll down onto his side, I had to make sure to keep my leg away from his side as he laid over, or else I would become pinned to the ground with a half-ton laying on my leg. I was taught to hold my left leg out when the barrel of the horse became steeply inclined, and this became instinctive.

Bingo Bow

        After an intense session Bob would encourage me to go on a leisurely ride around town and along the country roads to get familiar with my horse and to give him a quiet reward. I had grandiose ambitions and while immersed in this learning curve, I would also find out there was a lot to love with having a horse. A horse is a magnificent and wiling animal and the reason that mankind has been able to accomplish so much throughout history. Once the horse understands what is being asked, he is willing to comply. He develops a work ethic that is directly related to the consistency of the rider or trainer, forcing an honesty to the surface. Results don’t lie.

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Clarence Hastings

       At one time, a fighting warrior mounted on a horse wielding a sharp saber had the most advantageous place on the battlefield. Automatic weapons changed all that.            Overnight, the cavalryman became the prime target for the machine gun. Realizing this shift in advantage promoted phasing out of these centuries old tradition of discipline, pride and honor on horseback.

       Clarence told me a story from his younger days, during his early career when he was with the cavalry. He was an officer and riding instructor up until the time the cavalry was abolished. The story he told was about that historic moment, on a sunny, postcard perfect afternoon in the midst of acres and acres of horses and mounted men, assembled for the last official order of the US Cavalry. Thousands of men were on horses, the groups delineating precise shapes across the rolling landscape in Virginia. Also significant was that this was the only time the entire force had ever been assembled in one location.

Once these thousands of horses and men were assembled all around him and the ranks became quiet with only flags flapping in the breeze, horses snorting and stomping, sword sheaths clinking and leather creaking can get, he heard the order given from the general in chief over the loudspeaker.

       “Prepare to dismount,” echoed several times.

       The order filtered down through the ranks, repeated by the subsequent ranking officers until the order was finally repeated to those in the outlying areas of that great assembly a full twenty minutes later. Then, after an appropriate moment had passed by, the final official order of the United States Cavalry was issued.

 “Dismount,” echoed out over this massive collection of men and equine.

        With that seemingly insignificant order, the historic tradition of fighting men on horses as part of military strategy in the United States came to a close.

       By autumn 1975, my six-pony liberty act was working well, having completed the recent summer tour of Canada on the Royal Bros Circus. The next logical step to augment my ambition as a performer was to have a dancing horse. The Ganiard home in Michigan offered respite between tours and Hayes enjoyed hearing my strategy. Frequenting Clarklake had become a regular pattern of my behavior.

       Earlier that year, the topic of having a performing horse occurred in conversation. My idea was met with encouragement and a surprise resources with which to start. I learned Hayes had a friend who was a riding instructor who lived nearby. For my lessons I was welcome to ride the family horse Coco, a black mare that had helped dozens of 4-H kids learn how to ride. Hayes equipped me with the bridle and saddle I needed, and soon thereafter, my riding instructor showed up to get me started.

       Clarence Hastings had a snippety proper air about him. He had a curious upward hook on the edges of his smile, and a radiance that beamed from the sculpted features of his face. He had a specific way of standing in repose with one arm behind his back, palm out, holding the other arm at the elbow. This is the way I remember seeing him stand at the edge of our riding area, as he gave me instructions to follow. Clarence drove out frequently to give me these riding lessons in the fall of that year.

       During the visits before and after these lessons I got to know more about this special man. His career began, first in the cavalry and then as a huntsman in charge of stables for the affluent. Like Hayes, he had a love for anything circus and had even dabbled in the theater.

        Between riding sessions, I tended to the ponies, worked on sign work for the Beach Bar, and built improvements for my rig.

        As the years went by, Michigan remained a regular stop to share tales of circus adventures with, not only Hayes, but now especially Clarence, as my circle of friends with positive influence on my life expanded. During these visits I became especially close to Clarence and listened to many stories of when he was in charge of hunt stables for the affluent. He had a big job. As the master huntsman he was in charge of the staff who provided care for the stable full of horses, the maintenance of the surrounding property and the care of saddles and tack. He also purchased hay, feed, blankets, special accouterments and everything else that went into the reason all of this existed: the hunt.

       The master of the hunt rode first in the group of mounted owners, guests and support persons, following the pack of dogs on the trail of a fox. Tradition dictated hierarchy amongst the participants in the pursuit. The guest of honor rode up front. This person also received the cherished prize when the hunt was over – a forefoot cut off the dead fox. This was presented in a ceremonious way by the master of the hunt. Specific anecdotes from numerous hunts provided fodder for our evenings full of reminiscing. These fascinating stories from a privileged echelon of society revealed another dimension of my friend and added to the richness of what I admired.

        In addition to the lessons, Clarence was able to give me a peek into the world he was introducing me to. During a special excursion Clarence took me to nearby Brighton, where he served as the director of a group of horsemen aspiring to give an exhibition performance. I rode along with my new friend to witness the rehearsal of “Horse Capades” at the farm of Chuck Grant, a garish horseman who also had a background with the cavalry.           Later in Chuck’s career while running a fine riding stable in Chicago, he met and worked with the Konyot family of circus fame during their winter layoffs. Arthur taught him the finer aspects of classic horsemanship. He took what he learned to become the Grandfather of Dressage in America, and an esteemed instructor of riding and the trainer of upper level dressage horses. The best way to describe Chuck Grant is brassy. He was always first to call your attention to that which was good, especially if it was some aspect of himself. “You gotta toot your own horn, or else someone is going to use it as a spittoon”

       As I watched from the seats at one end of the arena, the group of eight riders and horses began to rehearse their precision drill that showcased classic horsemanship. The group first began to parade around the indoor arena in single file following their leader. One by one, they imitated the example Chuck provided, assuming a similar posture going around the outside and then through the diagonal path across the arena, where two-tracks or side-stepping was demonstrated.

       The rehearsal also included canter departs and changes, reversing direction by riding half a loop and walking the center line with alternating horses bent in either direction all staying on the same path. After this precision riding, more fun took place. One by one, each rider and horse found a place side by side across the center of the arena to stop. Then, all together, they asked their horses to tuck up one fore leg, lean back and put one knee on the ground for the bow.

       Later, more amazing things happened with this group. I saw all the horses march, lay down, sit up, and after getting back up on all fours, do the camel stretch. As I watched in amazement from the plank I sat on at one end of the arena, Clarence was helpful with explaining what was going on. This glimpse at classic horsemanship gave me a new direction for the focus of my attention. The accumulation of knowledge and this new discipline would become both a passion and an obsession.

       One winter, I made a road trip with Clarence to a circus fans home where a pre-shrine circus party was going on. Here I saw him in his element amongst an advantaged portion of society. His magnetism was apparent as the ladies gravitated around him to bask in his mystique. Active and entertaining, the conga line benefited from his zeal. He never married but did confide to me that one widow of a wealthy family wanted to cement their union and that perhaps he regretted not actually doing that. I suppose that his being a bachelor was established. His example revealed a hint at the flamboyance and the regard he had for others that radiated from his rich personality. We had many a get-togethers over the years and shared many facts about ourselves. I came to know and love this horsemanship icon from a unique industry and savor to this day, the influence he had on my life.

       Autumn gradually turned colder. Our regular riding lessons became a situation where I was riding in deep snow and Clarence was sitting nearby in the comfort of his car. The miles I practiced sitting in the saddle properly, posting to the trot, guiding my horse through corners and making transitions – from walk to trot, trot to canter, canter to trot, trot to walk and walk to halt and stand – were all preparing me for the next logical step in my career. But the time had come to head south.

Escape from the snow took me on a track towards Hugo, Oklahoma. Bob Grubb had “Bingo” the horse waiting for me. He had raised and trained this colt to perform a circus routine. I immediately began to practice the exercises introduced to me by Clarence on this new horse, and learn all the motions that would result in his circus repertoire with the supervision of Bob Grubb.                 

Soon I was rehearsing in the practice ring in the barn the routine I would present on the circus that included march, lay down, sit up, camel stretch and rear.

I opened on a little touring circus in Louisiana in the spring. Bingo had become attached to the string of ponies. I could simply turn him loose while the ponies were on the picket line and he would remain close by. Julie had a foal in the spring, who was loose all the time, nursing on her mother. She learned to hang around the horse because he was more interesting than staying with mom who was tied up all the time. Soon the baby was following the horse into the big top for spec, the beginning of the show parade around the interior of the big top. Many people marveled at the sight of this little baby following that big horse.   By Memorial Day I was headed northwest to open in Alberta, Canada with the Royal Bros Circus for the summer.

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A Land of Extremes

The show entertained Canadian crowds all across Ontario and the next three provinces with route that went as far north as one could drive. We went west into farm country. Long, straight flat roads sliced through vast fields punctuated with occasional grain elevators. These farms counted size in increments of sections or square miles.  

While the Royal Bros Circus enjoyed the vast breadbasket of western Canada curious regional characteristics required adaptation. There were no feed stores. As the show consumed hay and feed, those of us who required these commodities learned to interact with the locals who had vast farms. I learned to keep my empty burlap feed sacks and make my own deal between towns at one of the farms along the way. This is where I could shovel oats from their heap to fill my bags. The procedure as I spied a farm complex was to find the main buildings, pull into the compound, meet the personnel and make my own deal. I learned to keep my feed barrel full. In each province the show went as far north as the roads would take us. We went to remote places where these commodities did not exist.  

After hop-scotching around and through this vast flat area, we headed for the northernmost town in Manitoba. Flin Flon is a mining town that grew where the geologic features that are normally deep in the earth are convenient at the surface making the mining of nickel, copper and other valuable minerals relatively easy. Prior to the trip we were warned to have our fuel tanks full because a hundred miles of the trip had no gas stations.  

Billy Loter was the grandson of the organist Marie, who I played for as sideman during my Fisher Bros days. He was on the show here in various capacities and we became friends. During leisure time between shows, we adopted a style of making rhythmic sounds using almost nothing except our bodies. We experimented with slapping, clicking, snapping, popping, clapping, stomping and the like, often while walking somewhere. Some of the distant, exotic communities we played with the circus warranted investigation. Flin Flon was no different. After the show was over, we headed for town.  

In this curious land of the far north, the surface of the earth had no soil, only rolling boils of solid rock. Because of this no utilities were underground. A curious infrastructure of boxes that contained the electric, water (and steam to keep it warm) utilities linked all the houses and buildings together. Every so often a stair-style led up and over the system of boxes. On our hike we went downtown and among the sights we found was the historic railroad station. While regarding this ancient structure we learned that this manner of transportation was at one time the only way in or out until the highway was built. While there we spied two pedestal steps used to assist passengers on and off the railroad cars. They resembled the pedestals used by many acts on the show. 

On our return trip, heading back to the circus lot (the only flat place around where they gathered to play baseball) we took a route that placed us on a high overlook. From this perch we stopped to continue our rhythmic hamboning fun. As we looked down at the web of lights that delineated the streets and dwellings of the town and continued our fun, we became completely captivated in the magical moment.   Suddenly in the midst of this merry making, we noticed something different. But as we looked around we couldn’t quite put our finger on what it was. Then the lights of the town came back on. We then realized that we had witnessed a blackout. Confident that the interruption had been caused by our riffs, chops and the ripple effect of our enthusiastic rhythms radiating outward, we vowed to keep the volume down in the interest of being good community stewards. 

  Bonnie Bonta also clowned on the show. She was an older widow with a circus background. She had a slight misshapen mouth that did not interfere with her enthusiasm. In the cookhouse, I heard her tales about being on shows in the past with her husband and how her son has carried on the tradition with various acts of his own. She had a slight handicap, a hitch in her giddy-up, I guess you’d say, that affected her gait. She drove a tall pickup truck with a camper on the back. The climb getting into the back of the camper was a struggle for her each day. I was able to be a friend and appreciated forever when I gave her one of my pedestals. 

The rest of Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and finally Alberta slowly crept underneath our tires. The show continued west with the relentless rhythm of up and down through the ever-changing terrain of this vast country with occasional pockets of humanity that became our quarry. Because of our regular routine, there is a zone that all the people on the show get completely immersed in. At the beginning of the season, the metal stakes are rusty, the side poles and seat planks are dusty, and the canvas is musty. Little nuance, like anti-lubrication, seemed to interfere with initial efforts. But with each set up, not only are brain synapses getting connected in virtually every mind with the completion of every task but motor skills merge with instinct to make each successive set up more efficient, approaching what qualifies as a marvel while momentum is established.  

Much like being wired during a long drive, the entire psyche of the collective humanity maintains this momentum that only takes the slightest stimuli to alert the body to go forward again. Up early every day to drive to the next town compromises sleep, so a pattern of rest after set up meant a regular quiet time on the show was part of the pulse. We all got quiet in the afternoon prior to the matinee, that is if everything went well. 

A long jump or the breakdown of a crucial element of the circus meant redirecting energy to overcome the obstacle first. Then resume the regular rhythm often at the expense of that valuable segment of sleep. Then, between these challenging episodes, during long stretches of the season, all went well. That was what we remember and cherish.   

Beautiful weather occurred as we traversed picturesque terrain, arrived at a perfect grass lot, enjoyed a seamless set up. Each nourishing meal in the cookhouse made the showman happy. A good turnout for the afternoon and evening shows with enthusiastic audiences promoted the premise of the quest we were on. With their envy of what we do. They see us traveling, doing amazing things and poring forth enthusiasm in spite of what happens. This is the zone that feeds us. We experience something as a collective living entity that became real one day at a time. With each successive day going forward relentlessly turned into yet another season. 

Teamwork is what it takes, yet a flaw existed in the hierarchy here. Typically, when the combined effort of all is perfect and something occurred to reveal the true nature of an individual personality that, up until now, had been wearing a mask. With this close-knit society, there are few secrets. The business partner of the Canadian owner of the show was difficult to read. Using a slick demeanor, he was able to manipulate, handle and fix most beefs that occurred on the lot and was clever enough to repair mechanical malfunctions on demand. Yet there was a reserved reluctance with anyone attempting to be his friend. He maintained a narcissistic obsession with something unseen by holding his cards close and away from everyone.  

At the top of the stairs that led to my living quarters, I had created a small area filled with shelves for cigar boxes filled with fastening devices and a small work bench. Here I had my assortment for ongoing building projects. One day rounding the corner of my truck, I found him standing at the top of my stairs with my door open. His head inside and he was helping himself to some screws and bolts. This violation of what was mine was never followed with anything that qualified as cordial. In a silent disbelief I resigned to use caution around his questionable ethics from that point on. He would fortify my concern about his decency as I observed his treatment of others on the show.     

My friends, the Michael family had a hiccup in their tour late in august. During the school year, Dennis and Lynnie are assembly program marionette puppeteers in the Chicago area, plus the girls had to be back in school. Near the end of the season, Dennis went to John Frazier to announce that in order to be back in Indiana in time for school they would be leaving prior to the end of the season. John fired them on the spot.  

Prior to leaving, Dennis lent me his side show magic tricks and his supply of bird whistles so I could become the magician and sell whistles for the rest of the tour. Being that far west in Alberta with two weeks off turned into the vacation of a lifetime for the Michael family, who then enjoyed a vacation in Yellowstone National Park and a leisurely trip back to Indiana.  I enjoyed being the magician in the side show and when the season was over, planned a visit in Indiana to return his magic stuff. 

Late in our season, off in the distance the silhouette of rugged Mountains loomed ever closer. We performed in front of Alberta audiences near the foothills of the Rockies until we closed late summer. The plan was to winter the show equipment at a carnival winter quarters in Alberta and have everyone return in the spring to reverse course and troupe back to Ontario. 

The Loadstar, originally intended to carry an eighteen-foot box, now supported twenty-four. I kept customizing the rig, adding features that gradually overloaded the truck. I still had a plan to add a horse that weighed 1250 lbs. to my repertoire. As the season came to a close, my plans for the rest of the year were full. Before heading back to Hugo, to become acquainted with my new horse, I had the plan to take riding lessons in Michigan.  

At seasons end, the long trip east included driving through a blizzard that slowed my drive across Montana. By the time I made it to Wisconsin. the truck was running on five cylinders. I limped in to the International dealer in Janesville on a Sunday and put the ponies out on their lawn with the picket line.  

Monday morning, I had the valve covers off the engine and saw several broken valve rockers. I went to the parts man inside and explained my predicament. I could only afford to buy the parts I needed and put them on myself. They had none of what I needed in stock but they did let me take some rockers off another engine in the shop to get me going.  

What motivated their decision was the ponies eating their lawn. Once I was able to load up and head east, the first stop was to see the Michael family in Indiana. Then I headed to Michigan to visit Hayes and start my riding career. 

That winter, while preparing to perform with my new horse act, I built my own magic props and planned to add a magical talking rubber chicken act to my side show repertoire for the upcoming season. There is always something else.