The family circus

My career in show business began and ended in the mid-80s when my father installed new soffits on our house and repainted any of the exterior wood with a new coat. I was less than 10 years old. In his customary way, my father turned the job into a family party, which was rather smart. When your brother owns a construction company and your son is an independent contractor, food usually suffices as payment for a job well done.

Too little to be of much practical use, I latched on to my older cousin, who just got a new video camera. The thing was the size of a news camera you had to carry on your shoulder. It had a side load for a VHS tape, a veritable boom mike sticking out the top, and what looked to be Coleman flashlight mounted on the side for extra lighting. Advanced technology. Talk about cool. My older cousin and other family members had enough sense to not let me shoot with it, but I made sure to be in every scene, and I was always glad to take center stage.

My favorite commercial at the time was Meineke’s “I’m not going to pay a lot for this muffler.” If you remember, big, burly men tore down doors and smashed through walls, angrily proclaiming to the desk clerk, “I’m not going to pay a lot for this muffler.”

In five minutes, I planned a remake of the commercial, using a couple saw horses and an old coffee can with spare screws, nails, nuts, and bolts for sound effects. I managed to get my cousin’s attention and, camera rolling, realized I was without a production crew. No one volunteered, despite my pleas, and soon my cousin’s camera found more interesting scenes to record. The “commercial” ended with the saw horses being thrown and the coffee can being kicked with amazing clatter but not for any homemade commercial. The film industry just wasn’t dependable, I decided, and gave up on the whole business.

But my career as a performer was far from over.

When I was nine years old, I realized I had, at least what I considered, a rather cool and mystical talent. I found three golf balls and started juggling. I had no prior instruction. I just picked them up and tossed them hand to hand. Finally, a natural-born talent! I was looking for one. With two siblings who could draw really well and another who, at 14, built a clubhouse that rivaled a home in its construction, you couldn’t blame me for wanting something I was good at. Best of all, no one in my immediate family could juggle. Not only did that mean I was the best, I was the only one. My time to impress!

I learned soon after discovering I could juggle that both my closest cousin and her father (my uncle) also juggled. And both were exceptionally gifted, which I didn’t mind. Apparently marital lines were enough for them not to steal my thunder. On the contrary, my uncle took me under his wing and helped me hone my skill.

When I mastered balls, I moved on to pins. When I mastered pins, I moved on to devil sticks (not to be confused with mystic sticks, which is a straight, narrow rod with small leather pom-poms on each end; devil sticks are much harder to juggle). Devil sticks became my forte, but soon I found these instruments rather mundane and boring. Much to my mother’s displeasure, I moved on to torches, knives, machetes, sickles, and fire devil sticks. Now those were dangerous and cool.

Around 12 years old, I was deep in entertaining family members at a party with my devil stick skills (not the fire ones due to my mother’s protests that I could set grandpa ablaze) when I my juggler uncle approached me, clearly impressed, and informed me he and my cousin joined an amateur circus that performed out of Triton College in River Grove. He asked me if I wanted to join with them. At the time, I didn’t realize how prestigious the Triton Trouper Circus actually was. But the show’s been performing annually since 1972 and is a part of the historic Midwest circus cluster. To me, it was simply my time to shine.

But that’s not exactly what happened.

I was accepted into the circus fold easy enough but, by all accounts, was an amateur by comparison. There were young and old kids in the circus that juggle rings around me, and they did. It was part of the show.

Eager to test all my circus abilities (who knows, I could have been loaded with them), I gave my hands a rest and set my feet to the balance ball, which is like a humungous croquet ball that looks like it rolled out Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

With little confidence and a lot of bravado I hopped on the ball, trying to impress a girl I had a crush on. I watched this girl for week, and she walked everywhere on the ball. How hard could that be, if a girl could do it? Apparently hard. Soon as I got on the ball, I fell off…repeatedly. The girl first rolled her eyes then quietly rolled her ball away from me.

My other circus apparatus attempts proved to be equally as humbling, and more death-defying, but less humiliating without the added pressure of young love to measure up to.

Head hung low, I wandered back to the jugglers’ corner.

After months of rehearsals and practices, it was show time.

The lights dimmed, the circus music played, the ring leader roused the crowd, and when it came time for the jugglers to take center ring, I ran out with gusto, shaking my devil sticks at the roaring fans. When the music started, it was like I’d never juggled in my life. I could barely keep two balls afloat, let alone three, and my devil stick maneuvers looked more like I was trying to start of a fire in the woods than dazzling audiences. But at least it looked flashy.

I ultimately returned for another three seasons. The girl kept on rolling, I kept on juggling because, as they say, the show must go on.

The highlight of this experience for me was that I got to do it with my family. My uncle was a juggler, my cousin was a juggler and gymnast, I was a juggler, and, customary to him, my father was a clown.

Most families think they’re a circus, but not all families were actually in a circus.

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