Clown School Dropout

I just read a news story about a local jewelry store that was robbed by people dressed as clowns. I just want to say: I didn’t do it. I do have a clown nose. The fake red bulbous kind, I mean, not my real nose. But it’s packed away in a box somewhere. Or, actually, I think I let the kids play dress up with it when they were little, so it is probably long gone now. As are most of the accoutrements of my days as a clown. It is probably for the best. I made a lousy clown anyway.

I don’t often think about my clown school days. But, once in a while, something reminds me that I did, actually, attend clown school. I don’t really know why. It was the 80s. I didn’t have any idea what I wanted to do with my life. Could have been the influence of the era's make up styles. Perhaps I had a crush on Boy George. I don’t know, maybe it was because Ronald Reagan was President and it seemed the whole country was becoming clownish. Whatever the reason, one day, on a whim, I enrolled in clown school.

Anna was telling some friends about my clowning adventures the other day. The way she put it made me laugh. “My mom went to clown school once. But she hated it so she decided to get a PhD.” It didn’t exactly happen that way. The clowning came in the year between graduating with a bachelor's degree and starting work toward a master’s degree.

The whim to get a PhD came a few years later.

Anyway, I truly don’t have any idea what possessed me to go to clown school since I didn’t even like clowns. But there I was, at the local community college, sitting in a florescent-lit classroom with a small group of people, all eager to learn how to apply clown make-up, properly attach a butt cheek prosthesis, and juggle.

Our teacher was Whistles the Clown. Which I’m pretty sure was the name of my college biology professor too. Regardless, Whistles taught us everything we needed to know about being a clown. Our homework was to come up with a name, design a costume, and adopt a clown persona. I became the shy, unassuming, Collie-Fleur the Clown.

I made two friends in clown school. Kapoodles and Izzy. Both were young men close to my age, and both wanted to become professional clowns. It probably goes without saying that these were not your typical men in their 20s. But I liked them because, as unconventional as becoming a clown was, they were pursuing what they wanted to do.

I, however, was not.

Whistles lined up a few clowning gigs for us and I faced each one with utter dread. I truly hated being a clown. I truly hated clowns. My juggling skills were abominable. I couldn’t blow up those skinny balloons for balloon animals. I’ve never liked slapstick comedy; the whole Jerry Lewis thing escaped me. The make-up itched and whenever I took on my Collie-Fleur persona I experienced this strange transformation and became self-conscious, introverted and shy. Things I rarely experienced in my non-clownish form.

It was all just too weird.

So, after two semesters of clown school I kissed Kapoodles and Izzy goodbye, and hung up my clown shoes. Shortly thereafter, with the same lack of direction and reasoning, I applied to grad school. Fortunately, that was a much better fit.

I am grateful for my clown school days, though. In spite of it all, I had fun. I learned some things about myself. I met interesting people. And it makes for a good story. If I had it to do over again, I’d still go to clown school on a whim!

All of life is a collection of experiences. It makes us who we are. Granted, with a bit more forethought I could have figured out I wasn’t clown material. But, with too much forethought I would have missed the experiences I had. I wouldn’t have met the interesting people I met. I wouldn’t have learned how to wear a butt prosthesis. Too much analysis makes for too little whimsy. And oh, the joys of whimsy!

Whimsy brings spontaneity to life. Whimsy gives us the unexpected. Whimsy adds color.

I probably wouldn’t have liked being a clown any better if I’d adopted the name Whimsy the Clown. I just wasn’t meant to be a clown.

I was, however, meant to regularly engage a bit of life’s whimsy.

Siblings Unrivaled

I am aware that I’m quite blessed, and I try to take notice of my blessings regularly. Of course, like everyone, some days I become ridiculous and whine about inconsequential things but, for the most part, I try to be thankful for each day and all that comes with it. I’m sure there are people who find my intentionality about life annoying. I won’t name any names. Regardless, I find that most days bring something about which to be thankful.

And even whole weekends.

The past weekend was one of the best of this year. My siblings came to visit. Actually, my siblings, my niece and my great nephew all came to visit. I was delighted to have them here. Although that Great Aunt thing makes it sound like I should have my hair in a bun and knee-high hose rolled down to my ankles. But, maybe that is just my overactive imagination.

The purpose of their visit morphed over time. The original reason for their visit ended up not having anything to do with why they were actually here. But in the end, everything about their visit was perfect and necessary…and a blessing.

My siblings and I truly appreciate each other. This wasn’t always the case. My sister revealed that that she dropped me on my head not once, but twice, while we were children. Of course, she says neither time was deliberate. But, I’m fairly certain she wasn’t exactly sorry when it happened. Nevertheless, in adulthood, my siblings and I have discovered that we have a wonderful relationship, enjoy one another’s company, laugh a lot, and all survived our crazy childhood intact.

Well, if you don’t count my misshapen head.

Maya Angelou says that every woman should know that her childhood may not have been perfect…but it’s over. I would include men in that sentiment. And I think my siblings and I have been able to view our childhood from that perspective.

I am grateful that my brother and sister were able to be here and visit our mom. In just a few short days they were able to experience the health roller-coaster we’ve been riding for the last five months. One day she was really good and the next day she was strapped to a gurney being hauled off to the Emergency Room. They were able to help me have a conversation with Mommie Dearest about how much more of this drama she wants to endure and when to say enough is enough. Together we made the decision to have her over on Sunday afternoon, knowing that would mean she’d be in bed for the next couple of days. We weren’t wrong. But we all felt it was worth it.

And they cheerfully ate lots of squash.

We looked at old family photos and discovered unknown resemblances. Some a little spooky! It took all three of our brains to recall the location of three houses we lived in Aurora and all day to find them on GoogleMaps. We drove to them and tried to remember our lives there. We were only marginally successful, each remembering some little snippet. Two of the houses were across the street from the runway at Stapleton Airport and Karen remembered sitting in the front yard awaiting the arrival of The Beatles airplane. We discussed the absurdity of moving from one house to the one next door. And the fact that the shabby little houses looked pretty much the same as they had looked all those years ago when we lived there.

We admitted that returning to childhood memories can sometimes conjure up unsettling feelings. And celebrate that we have one another to share both the memories and the discomfort. Mostly, we are happy to have friendship with one another.

It is a blessing to spend time with my siblings. These are the people with whom my earliest memories are shared. And my worst. These are the people who love me no matter what. People I am like in so many ways and people I’m vastly different from. We share DNA. And concern about our elderly mother. They think I’m funny. Sometimes. Other times they patiently tolerate me.

I adore both of them.

I am blessed to have them in my life. For years I longed for what I now have. So much craziness in our family made it seem impossible. One day we discovered we didn’t have to perpetuate the craziness and the result was a delightful sibling relationship.

It is every bit as wonderful as I imagined it could be.

Filling the Void

I’m very fascinated by relationships. I probably should have been a psychologist or something. Well, maybe not. Psychologists aren’t supposed to cry with people in distress, drink with people who are confused or tell depressed people to ‘snap out of it!’ Regardless, I am always amazed at how friendships start. What unlikely series of events occur that connect people. Or, how is it that old friendships, once drifted apart, are brought back together.

For example, my former college roommate, Kathy, and I lost touch right after graduation. We didn’t really mean to. She moved to Atlanta. I moved to Los Angeles. We didn’t communicate for over 10 years and then, one day, both of us ended up taking our husbands to the emergency room of a hospital in Aurora, Colorado where we saw one another and immediately rekindled our friendship. It turns out we even lived in the same neighborhood! We might have lived within a mile of one another and never know about it if our husbands hadn’t both needed critical medical attention at the very same time.

I admit, relationships come easy for me. Anyone who knows me would say that using the word ‘outgoing’ to describe my personality is something of an understatement. But aside from the fact that I talk with just about anybody, I have also become acutely aware of how people’s lives intersect with mine.

When I was taking the train to work I met an interesting man who, most days, took the same route. Our acquaintance began when, due to schedule changes, the train ran late and RTD gave $5 Starbucks gift cards to everyone. He said he wouldn’t ever use his and asked if I wanted it. I did. And we started talking. We chatted on the train home from work several nights a week for many months. When I stopped taking the train, I stopped seeing him. I have no idea why we met and chatted all those evenings but I’m sure there is some reason.

Or, there is the woman who I’ve run into for several years, here and there. Sometimes I remember her name. Sometimes I don’t. I’m pretty sure she never remembers mine. Mostly because she always asks. When I worked at the library she came in and visited with me frequently. Years later we happened to ride the same bus. Just this summer she wandered into Steve’s booth at the art market while I was there. Usually we just chit chat. But, for some reason, our lives intersect every so often.

I’ve met people with whom I felt an instant attraction. An instant desire to know and become friends. Others I could take or leave. Still a few that I’d just pass on, thanks. But, I always wonder why I either feel a connection or I don’t. What is it that attracts us to others? I read a book about limbic resonance a few years ago. The limbic region is the place in our brains that resonates, on an emotion level, with other mammals. The book never explained why I could feel that resonance with some people and not others, though.

In fact, I’ve actually had a resonance with a woman I never met.

When we bought our house there was a little bedroom downstairs that we didn’t need at the time. I thought the wallpaper in the bedroom was unattractive but it matched a quilt that my grandmother had made so I kept the paper up and used the quilt as a bedspread in the guest room.

A few years later, as our family grew, we moved Charlie into that bedroom. But before we did, I stripped the ugly wallpaper. As I painstakingly tore sheet after small sheet from the walls I thought about the person who had chosen it. I pondered who she was and the fact that she had lived in my home. She called it her home at one time. In spite of her poor taste in decorating, I wondered what kind of person she was. Truthfully, I became a little obsessed with wanting to know about her. I found out a few weeks later.

I loved my house but, every so often as our kids were growing up, Steve and I would decide that it was just too small and embark on a house hunting venture. Inevitably, we would come home and decide that we didn’t want to move. I could never make up my mind that we really needed a bigger house. Leaving mine would feel too much like leaving an old friend.

Except once.

We were driving through a neighborhood, dropping one of our kids off somewhere, and a house caught my eye. It had a ‘for sale’ sign in the unkempt yard and something about the house just called to me. I was captivated. I had to see inside.

We had a realtor take us through it and, in spite of the immense amount of work it required, I was absolutely enthralled with the house. If ever I was going to leave my current beloved home and buy another one, this would be it.

But Steve had other ideas. He didn’t share my enthusiasm for the house at all. Yes, it had a nice floor plan. Yes, it had more room. All Steve could see, however, was the amount of work necessary to make it habitable. His point was that the house we currently lived in needed a lot of work. Why would we buy something that needed even more? Eventually I acquiesced, content to stay put in our crowded, little house.

A few days later I was visiting with my neighbor, Trish. She had four little boys who always reminded me of characters from Tom Sawyer. Blond, freckled, sunburned and barefooted. To tell the truth I thought they were hooligans. Anyway, she told me they were moving. While I secretly cheered, I asked where. She told me the address. That was my house! The house that called to me out of the blue! The house I had wanted to buy!

I immediately told her I knew exactly which house and how much I loved it. She went on to tell me that her best friend had lived in the house with her husband and children but had fallen on the ice in the driveway, suffered a brain aneurysm and died the year before. Trish, wanted to buy it and live in it to feel close to her friend.

Well, okay, when she put it that way, she could buy the house.

And then, in the most offhanded way, she added, “Oh…she used to own the house you live in.” Wait. She was the one who had put up the hideous wallpaper? She had owned the current home I loved? This person I’d never met, moved out of the house I loved and into the only other house I’d fallen in love with? And then she died?

I didn’t really like the pattern.

But what were the odds? Probably about the same as the odds of meeting my long lost roommate in an emergency room 10 years later, I’d guess!

That night I sat in the downstairs bedroom and thought about the woman I’d never met but whose spirit must have had something kindred to mine. Sure, they are just houses, but the only two houses that I’ve ever loved and desired to make a home were the same two that some woman I’d never met had loved. And now, she was dead. I’d never meet her. But somewhere our spirits met.

Since that experience I’ve become acutely aware of the people I meet. Even in passing. Why do we connect with some people, and not with others? Why do we fall in love with some people, and not with others? Why do our paths repeatedly cross with some people, and not with others?

Mysteries.

I don’t think I’ll ever know the answers to my questions. But, I can be intentional about paying attention to the people whose lives intersect with mine. I can show them kindness, and caring, and love. We might not notice the void in our souls before crossing paths with others. That doesn’t mean the void isn’t there.

Waiting to be filled.