Mayberry High School used to have a clown troupe. During four years of high school, I spent innumerable evenings and weekends painting my face and donning my costume to entertain any group that invited our merry band. We went to nursing homes, homes for the mentally and physically limited, school classrooms, Rotary Clubs, Lions Clubs, bank Christmas parties . . . you name it. We marched in parades across the state while proudly carrying the Mayberry banner.
One of the fellows on the back row was known for his athletic ability and could do a standing back flip. One of the girls on the front row could do endless backsprings and came very close to riding the unicycle. Several of us learned to juggle. We all mimed. And aped. And sang. And parodied. And made balloon animals. And danced and tumbled until our feet hurt and our wigged-heads itched and our pancake make-up smeared.
I know a lot of people, adults and children alike, who think clowns are creepy. Or weird. I guess because I’ve been a member of the very tiny fraternity of performing clowns, I admire their talent and respect their craft. And the really amazing thing about the Mayberry Clown Troupe? It was created out of fairy dust. What business in the world did this little two-bit town have sponsoring a Clown Troupe made up of a bunch of kids? If not for the vision and resourcefulness of our drama teacher, Mrs. Patton, Mayberry might never have dared send in the clowns. Her husband made the boxes we were photographed sitting on (and hauled our gear in), and she single-handedly conceived and choreographed every number we performed.
I still contend that being a performing clown was the best professional training I’ve ever had. In my occupation, that line usually gets a big laugh -- but I mean it most sincerely. It taught me to put my fears and insecurities aside and get over myself. There are plenty of days I don’t feel like putting my game face on, but I learned at age 15 the show must go on. And in reaching out to the young, and the old, and the ill, and the disabled, and the needy, and somebody who just wants a laugh, I learned to look outside myself and consider the needs of those around me. I probably don’t do it as generously or as well now as I did then, but I’ve never forgotten the glory of giving of your talents, no matter how meager, or corny, or imperfect. And by glory, I don’t mean Bruce’s kind. I’m not talking honor or praise or admiration. I mean worshipful thanksgiving. Bliss. Gratitude. Contentment.
Not a bad lesson in return for a little clowning around.
