Sunday thoughts on a long afternoon
Know thyself!
Tim Torkildson writes: “Subject: Me, myself, and I.
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“Mommy, why were you making kitty-cat noises?”
memories of my old clown companions, Steve Smith
Till death them do part
And: Not exactly what (if anything) he had in mind
Reports Fevered Rabbit: “Subject: Sometimes one is all it takes.
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They went southeast looking for an early taste of spring. And what did they find?
My memoir of Bill Ballantine, Dean of Clown College.
Our theater of seasons
Mid-Atlantic Division
Mounds View Swede reports: “On a visit to relatives in Silver Spring, Maryland, we took a late-morning venture into D.C. before the snows started later that day. The cherry blossoms were starting to bloom, hooray!
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From Palatka, Florida, to San Juan, Puerto Rico: where the boys of summer used to spend their springs.
Musical notes from clown alley
It happens every spring
Sleepless from St. Paul (in Minneapolis) has sent us “an interesting spring-training tidbit I came across a few years ago:
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Has Daylight Saving Time just begun? Or did it just end?
Forty-five years ago a newspaper editor interviewed me about my LDS faith. What I told him then I still believe now.
Everyone’s a copy editor!
PH of Maplewood: “Subject: Editor Desperately Needed.
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A goose in the air, mingling with the scent of skunk: It happens every spring!
Read more of my clown memoirs at Tim Torkildson’s Clown Alley
Our theater of seasons
Al B of Hartland: “A lone Canada goose flew overhead, honk-a-lonking at a good goose speed. It’s head turned from side-to-side. I hoped it would find whatever it was searching for.
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Life as clown alley knew it — or: When a white clown fell in love with a black showgirl . . .
Clowning around
Including: Then & Now
Another circus memoir from Tim Torkildson (which we urge you to read, even if you aren’t so big a fan of these circus tales as we are — we know you’re out there!): “The Ringling clown alley in its heyday was an uninhibited bedlam, but with an underlying bedrock of showbiz professionalism. It really didn’t matter who you were, what you did or thought, or how often you sang ‘Ridi Pagliaccio‘ to no one in particular — as long as you showed up fairly sober for each show and didn’t steal from a fellow clown. Just about everything else, in clown alley parlance, was ‘jake.’
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