memoir – Letterfly Writes

April 7, 2026

Circus Winter Quarters

While driving south through Georgia, I noticed palm trees dotting the landscape as we neared the sunshine state. The terrain had a unique look. In spite of the frequency of rain, the green of the foliage had a faded look the result of relentless sunshine. The highway billboards became frequent. Ads attempted to lure the viewer with promises of mermaids, sunshiny beaches and water wonderlands along with sophisticated destinations for golf, amusements and sunbathing. My favorite billboard ads were for the Coppertone products. A reclining bikini clad beauty provided the focal point and was very effective at capturing attention and prompting my imagination.

My destination was Deland to respond to the request to decorate the entire fleet of the Clyde Beatty-Cole Brothers Circus while they were in winter quarters. I studied a map and found a route that went through a great forest. Florida wilderness is unlike other places. A unique charm exists as palmetto thickets in the midst of tall pine and oak trees thrive to provide a home for wildlife. Graceful birds and fleet footed lizards in abundance gave animation to the serene tropical forest.

As the trip progressed, directional arrows for the fleet started to appear on the posts of the roadside signs. I then realized my destination would be very easy to find. I would simply follow the arrows.

As I neared Deland, the arrows led me to an interesting show business mecca. Outside of town, near the railroad station were the old fairgrounds that now served as the winter quarters for the three circuses owned and operated by the Acme Circus Corporation.

Arriving at this location brought my experience with this show full circle. The annual visit of the Clyde Beatty Cole Bros. Circus during my childhood was like a holiday/festival/adventure all rolled into one. As I neared this special place, I spied the tall chain link fence that surrounded the place. I went through the gates in front. Palm trees lined the roads inside. Bright yet well-worn circus trucks were parked haphazardly, as if abandoned in a hurry. Only a few people stirred, and none were in any special hurry.

Superdog was anxious to get outside. The sight of the fleet meant he was at home. His life on a show was the only life he knew. As we rounded the driveway and maneuvered towards the travel trailer parking area, he became noticeably animated. Barely coming to a stop, the moment I opened the door, a white fluffy blur shot over my lap and went out the door.

His self-appointed job was to check out each new neighborhood. If you could take the course he took on these jaunts and straighten it out, the length would easily reach from here to the moon. Superdog had wisdom learned from being on many different shows for every year of his life. Now he carefully assessed the layout of this place, frequently looking back for me while determining his options. This dog was the perfect match for someone with an appetite for adventure.

Superdog was the only pup in his litter not currently in a dog act. All of his sisters earned their living sitting on pedestals and jumping through hoops. And his sister Fluffy even jumped off the high ladder into the arms of her trainer. Superdog was born to blaze a trail, seek distant horizons and make friends all along the way. His smiling face caused most people to melt. Many times, as I searched, wondering where he was, I would find him smiling in the midst of a group of girls petting and adoring him.

I would exclaim “there you are,” but inside I was secretly saying, “I’m proud of you.”

Here in the circus winter quarters he was in his element. He checked out the row of travel trailers ignoring the harmless yapping dogs. He appealed to the animal lovers that attracted him. Relentlessly he inspected this new home and disappeared around the corner of a barn on his quest to become familiar with every aspect of his new surroundings.

This was a mysterious place that the circus-loving public didn’t see. Gone were the musicians, performers, the sparkling costumes and the hoopla. No flags were waving or lights flashing. Other than the exotic smells of the animals, nothing was much out of the ordinary here.

I found my friend Billy Griffin, who had his travel trailer parked in one section of the vast compound. After checking in with him, I set out on foot to explore the grounds. Billy was a retired clown who now sold tickets in the office. He had a perpetual seven-ounce bottle of Coca Cola in his hand and had been around the circus since he was old enough to join as a teen. We met on the Fisher Bros. circus just a few years prior.

Large silver barns stood empty except for the piles of seat boards that appeared hastily unloaded from the nearby trailers. Now they accumulated the inevitable layer of dust, illuminated by long narrow bands of sunlight coming from overhead. Bundles of canvas were piled atop the stacks as if the elevation would offer some protection. A group of red trailers wait outside, each with its specialized task aboard yet dormant for a time. The splash of color emblazoned on the sides of each one in this setting seemed to stir little excitement.

The lions and tigers are gone, away at a compound in another county but the elephants were here evidenced by the activity going on in a large area at the very back. What was once the fairgrounds grandstand is now a stair stepped roofed barn that housed the pachyderms, all chained in a row. The picket line was not unlike when on the road, except here the chains are secured in the concrete of the floor. This is the only place where a full crew remained. The task of feeding, exercising and picking up after the bulls took place year-round and the nearby steaming mountain of manure was testimony to the magnitude of by-product these animals produce.

With throngs of people absent from this collection of brightly painted apparatus, a different kind of energy dominated the scene. I entered the main barn where a lone workman stood at his bench in the dim light of a solitary bulb. A jig had been made on the workbench to receive three grandstand chairs at a time. This facilitated the ongoing, much-needed repair of hundreds of seats during the winter months. Chairs stacked high dwarfed him as, one-at-a-time, he replaced damaged and worn chair legs, seat boards, and in some cases discarded the trusty folding flat, wooden seat that had easily seen enough loading and unloading for one lifetime. Three of these chairs were attached together with a strap of flat steel top and bottom. All this activity requiring drilling and bolting in addition to simple wood crafting. This lone workman had a pace that would, like the tortoise, get him to the finish line by the time the circus opened in the spring.

Among the plethora of interesting items stored in that vast hall was a Cinderella float. A pumpkin shaped carriage that had obviously occupied this corner for a long time judging by the thick coat of dust that all but obliterated the faded orange paint. Occasionally a scruffy workman, one of many society outcasts, filed into this great barn filled with interesting artifacts to urinate in the corner.

The big top pole trailer with the all-important center poles, quarter poles, side poles and a spare bale-ring occupied the center of this barn. Sacks of rigging and bundles of canvas were aloft in an area designated as a safe from critters and moisture, the two deadly enemies of canvas during storage.

A forgotten trapeze hung from high in the rafters; a silent testimony to one genre of this entertainment’s many art forms. Ticket boxes and trunks of all sorts were stacked nearby. The worn concrete floor had large areas of dried paint with footprints that lead away, evidence of an industry that had taken place long ago in this now fallow environment.

As I emerged through a doorway on the other side, the relentless sunshine bombarded the willing palm trees that separated us from the quaint brick railroad station. As I turned to make my way towards a large grassy field, my route caught up to Superdog. As he zigzagged a path ahead, he looked up to acknowledge me. With a slight hop in his step, he continued to blaze ahead.

As I crossed the field, I recalled that this as where they put the big top up in the spring. My mind began to wander. I pondered generations of circus history that had taken place on these grounds. I perused the preparations that took place decades ago, prior to the time I saw the show as a child and paused to appreciate the multitude of tasks that all blended into the finished product to provide pleasure and entertainment to throngs of people. As I stood alone filled with the wonder of it all, the sun warmed my face. The love of my furry companion warmed my heart. There is no activity taking place here today. It will be a couple of months before these semi-trailers began the annual process of receiving a fresh coat of red paint to get ready for the new season when my services as a sign painter were needed.

March 24, 2026

Uh Oh

Beaming with pride, my attention was soon distracted. I noticed a strange clicking noise coming from the engine in the rear. A glance at the dash was all it took. The oil light was on, so I immediately steered the bus to the side of the road and shut her down. An inspection of the underneath and the rear of the bus looked grim. Oil was all over the back dripping from the engine. My heart sank. Superdog would have to wait in the bus while I hitchhiked for help.

Standing on the side of the road, I studied the view of the grassy fields to the left and right as I waited for the next car to go past. Long amber shafts of grass with full seed heads waved rhythmically in a breeze as large olive and black grasshoppers flew lazy arcs overhead. Tired fences offered shelter to infant trees safe from the routine of mowing along the road and during the harvest of the hay. Clumps of mature sumac, maple and oak took a stand along these boundaries initiating a windbreak and providing shade.

Not much for standing still, my walk took me farther and farther from the disabled bus. A driver, seeing the curious vehicle on the side of the road and the tall longhaired guy continuing on foot figured it out immediately. He slowed down and offered me a ride. Pikeville was only a few miles ahead and yes, he knew of a garage he could take me to.

Soon I faced a shallow, faded white block building with the usual array of rusted car parts and shiny grease stains on the worn driveway. I made my way inside the dimly lit garage and followed paths between piles of worn tires and stacks of oily motor parts and found the woolliest man I have ever seen. He was bent over a car fender concentrating on the cold gray mass of metal under the hood. I began to speak.

As I explained my quandary, he began to smile, lighting up the place. He thought as he wiped his hands on a maroon rag. He then gestured for me to follow him out back. There, he told an enthusiastic youngster immersed in a repair job behind the building about our quest and that we would be back soon. We walked toward a rusty stout truck that, although it started right up, the sound was evidence that the mechanical components were in dire need of attention. Unspeaking, he seemed confident that the truck would make it, so after climbing in, I settled into the most comfortable part of the torn foam seat and held on.

With the help of a tow strap and with me at the wheel soon the decorated bus was rolling down the highway again. Knowing the value of having the vehicle sign work on display, I opted for parking the bus in the front of the garage next to the road. There I could stretch an electric cord and have relative comfort while I arranged for and then waited to get the mechanical work done.

My sign work became a sensation for the youngster working out back. He became interested in, not only my plight, but also my vocation. In contrast, my wooly savior seemed satisfied that his job was done. He didn’t seem to be able to communicate information about the services offered that I would have found helpful. As the result, a solution to my dilemma was not forthcoming.

I set out on foot to find some work. The Auto Parts store wanted their name lettered in an arc across the face of their block building over the front door. While doing this job, I found and used a long piece of quarter-round trim to assist laying out the large arc. When the project was almost complete, two curious sign painters stopped by and asked me how I laid it out.

I also found some glass doors that wanted some business names lettered on them and some trucks to letter. The local fire department/rescue squad became a friendly haven and an excellent place to network with people in this community. I became friends with an ambulance driver and during our chats, I found the same kind of genuine fellowship I enjoyed with my friend Hayes back in Michigan.

Although in just a few days, I had become a productive part of this community, my wooly host wasn’t making any progress on my broken engine.

One night after work, I was invited to go with him and his assistant. It was an evening of drinking and driving the old rusty truck. We went up and down the windy mountain roads that began at the edges of the flat plain and the activity seemed innocent enough. The good old boys were out for a joy ride. That is until the driver made a decision to do something heinous.

In the darkness, on a section of mountain road with a flat area between the curves was a large dumpster. He negotiated the truck in behind the large steel object and gunned the motor. With a loud scream the truck lurched forward and the steel box began to skid away from its resting-place. As I watched this activity in horror, my host purged a cynical laugh and we drove away leaving that large ominous object directly in the path of anyone attempting to use the highway. Although this deviation from the innocent joy ride created concern deep inside me, I was unable to voice my fear. What was I to do? Stranded without hope of escape, it didn’t seem appropriate for me to squeal. I began to fear the homicidal tendencies of my host.

My close friend at the Rescue Squad noticed that nothing was going on with my dead motor. He took it upon himself to retrieve my engine, take it to the rescue squad garage and tear it apart. With his help, we discovered the problem; a valve had dropped and broke a piston. He then found the needed parts and reassembled the motor. Grateful for the camaraderie and prosperous with sign work, now my mechanical needs were being met. I was once again mobile. With a few more sign projects to complete and the show date of the circus in Knoxville now well past, there was no need to hurry out of town.

One morning, I was alarmed to see the ambulance that my friend drove, hooked onto the back of a large wrecker. The front of this rescue vehicle was smashed flat. I found my friend inside the fire department with his head bandaged up and his arm in a sling. He then told me the story.

On a late-night emergency run with an injured patient on board, at a high rate of speed they ran right into something they couldn’t see. The object they hit was somehow sitting right in the middle of the road. I immediately had a flood of emotion grip the inside of the back of my throat rendering me unable to talk.

I was appalled, yet I didn’t know what to do. Should I tattle on the woolly one and risk the vengeance he is capable of? How can I be a friend to this man that is now hurt who took an interest in me when I was down. I was in a terrible quandary.

Like so many times when threatened with the cruel nature of the world, I did not know what to do. I stuffed this down along with the unanswered relational conflicts of childhood, siblings, girlfriends, family and home. This debacle went deep inside to a secret forgotten place and hopefully the episode would stay there forever.

An inner tension existed and I found myself reluctant as I interacted with my injured rescue squad friend. With the last few sign painting projects complete and motor integrity restored, soon I motored away from this place and toward another adventure.

A few weeks lapsed. I looked at the beautifully lettered sign for the circus. They would be long gone by now, headed for California. Sadly, there was no hope of ever delivering that beautiful sign to them. I still have it.

Life deals circumstances that often have no reasonable explanations. There are questions about events that nothing can be done to improve. Such was the emotional quandary that accompanied me as Superdog and I motored away from Pikeville and headed south. The engine was back to its optimal self and the routine of travel resumed, albeit with a different direction due to the extended stay in Pikeville. Plus, it was getting cold outside. I made haste and motored across the peach state.

March 13, 2026March 6, 2026

Circus Vargas

During the wonderful drive climbing the mountainous regions of east central Tennessee, I found many scenic overlooks. These afforded a place to pause, enjoy the vibrant autumn colors and reflect. I also noticed along the way, cardboard arrows to guide the path of a fleet of show trucks. I took a detour to follow the arrows to wherever they led. At the end of my effort, I found a grand tented circus such as I had never seen before.

Circus Vargas was from California and the grassy showgrounds was adjacent to a shopping plaza. The colorful fleet and the flags flying in the breeze atop the large canvas big top was an impressive sight to behold. I didn’t know any of the performers or workers on this show but it didn’t take long to make some contacts.

Thanks to my VW bus being decorated with sign work of all sorts and my habit of parking in a location with maximum visibility, the circus management soon noticed and responded by commissioning a sign. The project would take a few days to complete. I had to find a board and begin with several coats of paint. When the board was dry and ready, I began to letter the copy. The show would be in a different town by the time the sign was complete so I was given a route card. I would deliver the sign in Knoxville where they would play and give two shows the following week.

I found a board at a local lumberyard and had it cut to the proper size. I sanded the edges and began the process of painting front and back with several coats of white enamel to insure a long life. The colors selected for the copy were blue and red and when the board was dry, I was ready to lay out the letters.

A lettering man starts to draw the entire layout with a Stabilo or water-soluble crayon. Having carefully-formed guides for the letters helps prior to the tricky technique of using the brush loaded with paint to depict each letter.

Having an intimate knowledge of letterform is a big part of what it takes to be a lettering artist. Each character is individual and has unique features that must remain intact in order for each character to be recognized. Time-honored rules provide the foundation for re-creating these old lettering styles. Beyond a respect for what remains constant, the variety of possibilities for letterforms is endless.

I became fascinated with this art form partly because it is so vast. That and constant demand for lettering skills exist virtually everywhere.

Creating these forms with enamel paint and a special lettering brush is tricky. First, the paint must be thinned to the proper consistency, with the outside temperature and humidity playing a factor, to achieve proper viscosity. Then, loading the brush with paint requires a special technique. First, the brush is dipped to the hilt to get paint around every hair and after the excess is wiped off on the inside rim of the can, the brush must be palleted, or wiped back and forth on a flat surface to insure even distribution of paint. With the brush fully charged the lettering can begin. It is best not to wait too long because the paint in the brush is liquid and gravity is constantly playing a role. If you wait without doing anything, you run the risk of getting a big drip of paint on your shoe.

Once the brush touches the surface, the same rule applies. The motion of moving the brush across the surface unloads the paint in the area where contact is made using a gradual twist of the brush while lifting away from the surface, allowing one corner to make a sharp point. Round shapes are facilitated by dragging the loaded brush in an arc. Care must be taken not to double-stroke these areas with two layers of paint because the buildup can sag later when the next half dozen letters are complete.

Another discipline that made me efficient as a lettering man was to stop looking at what I had accomplished while I painted and only look where I was going. Adopting this technique increased efficiency and promoted faith in what was going on. Trust the process. Sure, I could glance at what was complete to make sure it was acceptable but my attention must remain focused on where I was going at all times.

Once all the red letters were intact, the time arrived to add some interest to the sign. A shadow is an effect that adds impact. Each letter appears to be an inch thick, standing off the surface. This is accomplished by visualizing where a shadow would fall. I would visualize a light source as coming from above right that would cast a shadow on the area below and left of each letter. By using the brush again to create these shapes I added interest to the sign.

The finishing touch is the border. I secured a pinline wheel device for such a purpose and was pleased with consistent results every time I used it. Once everything on the sign was completely dry, I wiped off the stray crayon lines and had it ready for delivery. Although completely satisfied with the results, I was also aware that my accumulating additional knowledge of letterform would be beneficial.

Soon the beautiful sign was lying on my bunk in the back of the bus. With Superdog smiling in the passenger seat, we headed south through a great valley in the middle of the state of Tennessee. The project was complete in plenty of time to rendezvous with Circus Vargas in Knoxville. All went well on this perfect, sunny day and I was filled with the joy of accomplishment. A comfortable breeze competed with the view of fertile pastureland that stretched out to the foothills of the mountains beyond. Ram Jam played an up-beat rock and roll tune on the eight-track player as Superdog and I motored toward the next town and the circus. I was smug as the accomplishment was sure to impress my customers on the circus and hopefully lead to more work.

March 12, 2026March 6, 2026

The Adventure of a Lifetime

Watching the trees turn color, starting from northern Michigan and traveling across to the central Midwest and on to the southern states in my VW bus during 1977 was perhaps one of the most outstanding events of my lifetime. The magical bus was the perfect conveyance to enjoy the early morning magic while finding another little town, and to peruse the sights around the countryside. I had begun the first autumn viewing and sign painting expedition of my life that wonderful year.

My intention was to start in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and head south through Indiana, Kentucky and Tennessee, as the color gradually shifted, with the eventual destination being Florida for the winter. The first jump of my journey after closing with the carnival in Allegan was straight north through the middle of the state. Although the color was about seventy percent in Jackson County, as I headed north the intensity of color became complete. The vibrant yellow and orange scenery whetted an appetite for more. The little bus meandered through quaint villages, stunning farm country, beautiful water and boating destinations that one by one were investigated my Superdog and decorated by Krazee Davee.

I had fallen in love with this state over the last few years while performing in most of the towns across its length and breadth on a tented circus doing one-day stands, doing two shows a day. After high school, I had joined the circus as a drummer in the band and began to live a lifestyle full of adventure. The microbus helped me trace some of the route the show had taken and allowed me to stop in to see a couple of the girls I had met.

Tourist destinations were all closed down by this time, yet apples and pumpkins were available all along the way. The hint of winter rode the breeze and an ominous overcast sky caused me to select a change in plans. I headed south before I arrived at the Mackinaw Bridge. I am continually amazed at how a hundred miles can influence comfort.

With cold weather looming, heading south became priority. Crossing the state line placed us back in the gorgeous autumn weather. As I headed south through Indiana on the interstate, I reached a point where the van started to run rough and soon thereafter, just refused to go any further. I had to hike to the next exit and get friendly with the mechanic that drove the wrecker parked at the gas station.

The first order of business once the van had been pulled to this establishment was to pinstripe and letter the mechanics toolbox as he investigated the mechanical issue. Scottsville, Indiana was the name of the community. I must admit, some of the most memorable times with my beloved bus were when she broke down. Call it divinity, serendipity or whatever you will, but the timing for being here couldn’t have been more perfect. It was almost Thanksgiving and while the VW was waiting for the parts needed, I walked into town to find some work. Literally every store I went to was ready to have Christmas decorations painted on the picture windows and glass doors thanks to the service having been provided for years by the local sign painter, who incidentally, had died the day before I broke down.

This coup allowed me to rapidly establish rapport with all the members of the business community. Not only did I paint Christmas wreaths, Santa’s, Nativities and holiday messages of all sorts for the next few weeks, but the contacts also led me to dude up hot rods, create extensive pen and ink artwork for a nautical themed menu at a local restaurant and fine sign-work for a jewelry store.

Because of the void being left behind with the passing of the local sign painter, I could have easily assumed his role in this town and moved right in. But a longing in my heart was to take me away from this place that could have become my home, but not before a few false starts.

On one occasion, finally complete with the last project, I was ready to head down the highway. An enthusiastic youngster headed me off before I got to the entrance ramp of the interstate. After begging me to paint one more painting, I then returned to his dad’s auto lot to paint a small mural on the glove compartment door in his sports car. I must admit this community had a lot to love.

My life would have fared quite different if I had stayed in that town, but the lure of the highway kept calling. Soon, I was driving along with the festive colors of autumn flanking both sides of the highway. I was headed into Kentucky.

I decided that the autumn colors would be especially pleasant in a college town so Bowling Green became my next destination. At the edge of a nearby town on the way, I stopped at a corner gas station. While looking at the Hot Rod magazines in the rack inside, I met a young fellow. The elaborate paintwork on the bus piqued his curiosity. He had a 40’s car he was making into a hot rod and wanted a mystical scene painted on the large trunk lid. I followed him to his family’s large sawmill and saw the dark blue vehicle in one of the buildings. On the car, I visualized a rugged mountain scene with a castle atop in the midst of subtle clouds and a large moon. The foreground would have a winding road that led to the ominous dwelling.

During the project, I was made part of the family. Meals took place in their large home in town, in an equally large kitchen. I sat at the biggest dining table I had ever seen and enjoyed the family style of passing large serving bowls heaped with southern vittles. Collard greens, fried okra, lima beans, cornbread, fried chicken and mashed potatoes with white gravy were among my favorites. In addition to my hosts siblings and parents, his grandparents sat at this large table for each meal.

I painted the castle a small size, leaving plenty of room for the rest of the vista on the car trunk lid. I wanted the architectural features of the structure to be accurate upon close inspection. Intricate details for this airbrushed castle were created with the help of cutting friskets or stencils. I carefully cut out interesting shapes from index cards and sprayed color through them. The tedious process produced stunning results that my customer, now my friend, found very pleasing. Finally, complete, I took the memories of this job, being part of his family and the Polaroid photo of this latest masterpiece and bid adieu and headed south into Tennessee.

March 11, 2026March 6, 2026

The County Fair

By august, the time for the Jackson County Fair had arrived. During a rare day off on the Fisher Bros Circus a few years ago I recalled a trip with Hayes to meet his friend Jim Elliott who was setting up his ride. He was now the manager of W G Wade Shows. I figured this would be another place to thrive. With my last twenty dollars, I bought a gallon of paint thinner, a case of beer and had enough left to pay my admission into the fairgrounds. I was then out of money. This situation became do or die.

Once on the fairgrounds, I put a sign under my arm that said “Signs, all kinds” and started walking. I walked around the midway until a showman named Eddie saw me. He hired me to letter “3 plays quarter” on his two Digger games 46 times. While I worked, word got around that I was here.

Next, I met Tim. He had a request to paint something very special. Tim had a stunning clown design and wanted a design embellished with scrollwork and his initials. In order to paint this on either end of his Skee-Ball alley trailer, I had to begin after closing at night and paint throughout the night. The alley was open for business all day. The next morning, my efforts were on display as the showmen awakened. Tim Bors was pleased and would become a steady customer and one of my favorite carnival showmen of all time.

An older man named Peg had a limp and owned a peanut company. He guided me over to where a cute girl was working in one of his lemonade stands. As he encouraged rapport between us, he mentioned that she would really enjoy having her name lettered on the entry door of the trailer. I was happy to oblige as I basked in the glow of her smile. The finished product promoted a sense of pride and even more of her grateful smile. When the project was done, I couldn’t find Peg anywhere to get paid for that name. I never saw him again.

Additional requests for sign work assumed flood status. Soon I was as busy as ever. Although falling for the slick manipulative ploy by Peg, I did go on to become the sign painter for his son and his adopted grandson who still tour with their premier concession operation.

Jack & Sid had the popcorn concession on the show. They had two brand new cotton candy booths. They wanted me to paint fancy Victorian scrollwork around the tops of these booths to imitate what was popular on the circus. They also wanted portraits of clowns holding a cotton candy painted around the base. I referred to an image of friend Bernie Kallman, a clown on the CBCB circus and created his likeness for them. They became not only good customers but great friends. From that humble start, I went on to meet more showmen who provided interesting artistic challenges.

Soon, as the sign painter at the county fair, I drove my little bus among the components of the midway in the morning, parked alongside my next project, behind rides and between concession trailers. All I needed was a little niche near my project. Then as the throngs of fair goers arrived to mill about, I became lost in the project at hand. I had found that perfect place to fit in.

I was encouraged to follow them to the State Fair, where I continued to be as busy as ever. Making money, producing a variety of decorative projects and eating the fun foods that this industry is famous for became my modus operandum. As I became immersed in this society, I also began to notice activities unique to this industry going on in the background – both during the fair and especially during tear down and set up.

I have always been fascinated with how the circus was able to accomplish moving all the components of a giant tented city every day. Here on the carnival, the equipment was much more sophisticated and engineered to perform amazing things. The engineering that went into, not only the ability to carry passengers on a variety of undulating circular ride paths, but the portability that allowed these steel masterpieces to fold up into a manageable size was amazing. During tear down, I was often studying how the crew worked together as the load was transferred from spindle to carrying rack.

These observations opened up a whole new world. I never saw this entertainment environment as the naive patron did. At first, I sought a huge canvas waiting to be enhanced with decorative paint. The I became savvy to why these components work. I studied the mechanics, the science of marketing, the seduction using music, art and lights. I also recognized the psychology of influencing behavior and developed my art form to create desire and appeal. In an effort to better serve this industry, I began to study and become fascinated with other forms of art. I studied comic books, magazine ad illustration, letter forms and color theory.

These showmen competed for attention. Each one seemed to be obsessed with “look at me,” and for good reason. The more effective their advertising, the more they sold. As they sought to out-do each other, requests for finer and more intentional work became an uncanny payoff that benefited us all. Split color roman letters with triple outlines and a double-shadow would tie me up for days, denying a competitor access to the sign man. As they competed, I thrived.

I learned quite a bit about effective visual marketing and how artwork adds to the entertaining environment of the fairgrounds that summer. After the last fair of the season, I received a request from the manager of the show, Jim Elliott. The final project would be on his living quarters/house car.

“I want elephants painted there,” he commanded while pointing at the side, adding, “and I want the paint real thick.”

His green semi soon received elephant heads surrounded by orange circus scrollwork. While I worked on this final project the crew parked the ride equipment in the barns at the fairgrounds for the winter. With the season over I returned to Clarklake.

Hayes reveled at the stories of my adventures and the photos of sign work when I returned to his home. I was motivated to continue with my career as a sign painter. I had an idea for a drawing table to use wherever I went. In an effort to be helpful, he gave me some nice cherry wood slats that I fashioned into folding supports for a portable drawing table that would pack away in the bus. That project was complete when the jacks were varnished and the slats pinstriped.

As the trees began to turn orange in the fall, I took my cue to start my next adventure. I planned to drive first to northern Michigan and then head south to enjoy the fall foliage change across Indiana, Kentucky and Tennessee. I would find sign painting opportunities all along the way.

March 25, 2025

Hugo, Oklahoma

The winter of 1973/74 found me in Hugo, Oklahoma as the understudy of Bob Grubb, who had a background of performing with circus liberty horses for many years. Now he was going to begin with my ambition of a liberty act of my own. Out of the original ponies purchased the year before, four matched up nicely. Once introduced to this group, Bob began to observe the minute distinctions that existed between them and comment about what he saw. He began to name them, handle them to find out about their temperament, and begin to visualize a logical sequence for them to assume.

He named “Buster” first, who had the most handsome conformation and attitude of the whole group. I named “Buttons,” who had the color of a new penny, after a favorite first grade teacher. “Tex” had a long back and Bob had a concern about his being juggy, whatever that meant. “Teddy” was a willing animal but seemed frail compared to the others.

Tie stalls were rigged for the comfort of the ponies in the ring barn at the fairgrounds, and my camper and trailer were parked nearby. Anticipating this project, Bob had his ring curb already installed in the central area of the barn and was eager to begin the training process. We quickly adopted a regular routine. After chores and breakfast every morning, training took place.

The result of Bob’s teachings and the universal attitude among the community of animal trainers around the circus is that the animals always come first. As I woke each morning, the first thing I did was go into the barn, grab a foot tub, fill it with water and offer each pony a drink. When they had their fill, it was time to feed. Nose bags received a scoop of feed each, a blend of oats and sweet feed. The ponies anxiously nickered and cavorted in anticipation, as I slipped the strap of each nose bag over their ears. The animated scene transformed as each pony became content to chew the sustenance that now hung conveniently under their lips.

Now I could retreat and fix myself something to eat. In the interest of efficiency, I developed a way to fix a Hearty Breakfast and only have to wash four items when complete. First, I would boil a potato in the coffeepot. When cooked, I would mash it in a frying pan and move it out to the edges. In the middle I put a few strips of bacon. A pot of coffee would then get prepared in the coffeepot and I would break two eggs on top of the mess in the frying pan. When the food was ready I would eat it right out of the pan. After my meal I only had to wash the coffeepot, one coffee cup, a fork and the frying pan. Then it was time to get the chores done before Bob arrived to begin training.

Bob arrived each morning with an agenda that was clear to him. As I watched, one at a time, Bob would gently coax each young pony into a sequence of actions at the end of a tether rope or lunge line. The pony was first encouraged to walk around the ring, out against the curb. Bob was constantly talking to them with a gentle demeanor that proved to be very effective. “Walk,” “git up,” “there now,” “whoa,” “come in line,” “good boy,” were all soon part of each ponies understanding and my verbal repertoire.

The whip was used to communicate with each animal as an extension of his arm and was only used gently as an aide to help push or suppress forward motion when needed. Introducing each animal to the whip involved letting them get acquainted by seeing, sniffing and getting touched all over with it. A variety of specific body gestures like pseudo semaphore signals accented with these extensions became a big part of communicating and asking for a variety of responses from each pony. Bob was careful to not scare the animal needlessly and was quick with a verbal reward or a lump of sugar when the youngster responded willingly to his cue. As the days went by, each pony began to grasp what Bob was teaching and the lunge line was discarded. Soon, two ponies were working together in the ring. Only three weeks into the process, the whole group of four was in the ring.

Repetition teaches. The sessions were at the same time each day, every day of the week except Sunday. The result of this consistency was a tremendous amount of progress in a short time. Also fortified with another form of reward was when they provided the correct response, we would often simply end the session. The behavior and understanding each equine accumulated soon proved his technique as being very effective. Those hours of observing the tedious training process were to prove valuable when it became my turn to do the training.

The most important concept for any liberty horse to grasp is something that is not seen when the audience watches them perform, and that is to stay in the ring. This is taught by; never allowing them to have the experience of being outside of the ring or, when they do jump over the curb and go out of the ring, make sure they have a negative experience while on the outside to cause them to desperately want to get back into the ring. Bob had a rope barrier elevated around the outside of the curb, at shoulder level to a pony, for them to run into if they did jump out of the ring. My job was to be the bad guy. During one point in the training, one of the ponies got the notion planted in his head that he was going to go somewhere else and would jump out over the ring curb at the same place in the routine every time we rehearsed. I was on the outside of the ring and with a whip in my hand. I would yell, chase and swish the whip in an effort to strike terror into the heart of this cute but misbehaving equine. The moment the pony jumped back in the ring, I stopped with the terrible animation and Bob was quick with an assuring word. He appreciated the fact that I was there and he didn’t have to be the bad guy. I was learning how these little guys would become predictable and how important it was to interrupt negative behavior before it became established.

Another important response to have firmly established with each animal is to halt whenever asked. This is especially important if the horse should become rattled, because from a halt, the trainer has a chance to personally connect, calm down and reassure the horse. I couldn’t believe it; here I was, in a dusty ring barn with aspirations of glamour and excitement, taking “Functional Relations 101” from an old cowboy, learning functional strategies that would prove to be helpful in many arenas later in life.

The circus ring is a special, highly regarded, almost holy place. In my role as drummer for the circus, I served in a capacity that complimented the other performer’s efforts. Now, as I assisted the training of my ponies from outside of the ring, I looked forward to the time that a rite of passage of sorts would occur placing me in the limelight for the first time. Not only would the duties as the trainer of the ponies be passed to me but also the transition of contributing to the show from the bandstand to graduating as a performer and working in this revered circus ring. I still recall the moment when the time came for Bob to have me join him in the center of the ring. At first I stayed behind him, as he demonstrated how to encourage them through their paces, allowing the ponies to get used to me. Then the time came for me to hold the whips while Bob instructed me, first from standing behind me in the center of the ring, and soon thereafter, from outside the ring. This was the beginning of a long, rigorous and rewarding experience.

As I look back, I realize the ponies were God sent, and an opportunity for this teenager to become functionally relational in the midst of being intensely emotional, perfectionistic and self-sufficient. Ponies don’t understand anger and erratic behavior. Very little representational communication means anything to them. Progress was only made with kindness. The ponies forced me to become functional, aware and consistent with my behavior. This must be the source of the term “having horse sense.” The animals learn through intentional repetition and functional consistency. For the sake of becoming a good horseman, I became proficient with my behavior around them, even though relationally with people, I still remained reluctant, isolated and often frustrated and angry. Over time, this role as a pony trainer became a segue that facilitated my connectedness to others.