He was much scarier to me than clowns were
I still retain a vivid memory from my early childhood about clowns.
I was never really scared of clowns, at least not in person. But somewhere around my 4th year, my parents took me to the movies to see The Greatest Show On Earth. I think it was at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. In that flick, Jimmy Stewart played a clown. He actually was a doctor in exile, hiding behind the clown personna and makeup in the circus that Charleton Heston ran. In at least one scene, they showed a closeup of Stewart in the clown makeup that he never removed the whole movie. That image projected onto a fifty foot movie screen was etched in my four year old mind...and, I remember that it scared me shitless! My Dad had to take me out into the lobby to calm me down. I don't know if we ever returned to the theatre.
The only other time I was that frightened at that age was in the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea "ride" at Disneyland. For those unitiated with early Disneyland fair, it was a walk-through exhibit of sorts, with diaramas from scenes in the move...including the giant squid part...a life-size squid viewed through the big Nautilus porthole. I lost it there as well! 'Nuff said?
And that brings us to Christmas and Santa. I don't think I was ever comfortable sitting on that guy's lap. Check him out in this photo of me from maybe 1955.
He's scary! He was also smelly, grumpy, grabby, and impatient. But, it was the tradition and I did it.
I really had no desire to sit on this old fart's boney lap and tell him what I wanted for Christmas. I'm pretty sure I believed in the whole Santa Claus deception...but I definetly never bought into these guys being the actual Santa Claus. In fact, I distinctly recall my parents telling me that these were Santa's Helpers, not the real Santa Claus. I must have asked my mom and dad about seeing his real (black) hair under the cheap, fake beard. Or questioned why Santa smelled like that bottle of liquid my dad kept above the cupboards...or worse, like an old ashtray!
Look at my face in that photo. Stark, raving, fear. When is this thing going to be over? Why do they make me do these embarassing, undignified rituals? I don't care about the candy cane in my hand.
I'm pretty sure that I will get all the stuff I asked for regardless of whether or not I sit on this "clown's" lap. Can I get down now?
I was never really scared of clowns, at least not in person. But somewhere around my 4th year, my parents took me to the movies to see The Greatest Show On Earth. I think it was at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. In that flick, Jimmy Stewart played a clown. He actually was a doctor in exile, hiding behind the clown personna and makeup in the circus that Charleton Heston ran. In at least one scene, they showed a closeup of Stewart in the clown makeup that he never removed the whole movie. That image projected onto a fifty foot movie screen was etched in my four year old mind...and, I remember that it scared me shitless! My Dad had to take me out into the lobby to calm me down. I don't know if we ever returned to the theatre.
The only other time I was that frightened at that age was in the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea "ride" at Disneyland. For those unitiated with early Disneyland fair, it was a walk-through exhibit of sorts, with diaramas from scenes in the move...including the giant squid part...a life-size squid viewed through the big Nautilus porthole. I lost it there as well! 'Nuff said?
And that brings us to Christmas and Santa. I don't think I was ever comfortable sitting on that guy's lap. Check him out in this photo of me from maybe 1955.
He's scary! He was also smelly, grumpy, grabby, and impatient. But, it was the tradition and I did it. I really had no desire to sit on this old fart's boney lap and tell him what I wanted for Christmas. I'm pretty sure I believed in the whole Santa Claus deception...but I definetly never bought into these guys being the actual Santa Claus. In fact, I distinctly recall my parents telling me that these were Santa's Helpers, not the real Santa Claus. I must have asked my mom and dad about seeing his real (black) hair under the cheap, fake beard. Or questioned why Santa smelled like that bottle of liquid my dad kept above the cupboards...or worse, like an old ashtray!
Look at my face in that photo. Stark, raving, fear. When is this thing going to be over? Why do they make me do these embarassing, undignified rituals? I don't care about the candy cane in my hand.
I'm pretty sure that I will get all the stuff I asked for regardless of whether or not I sit on this "clown's" lap. Can I get down now?
posted by James | 7:25 AM
1 Comments:
I looove your play-on-words; you must be from New Joisey. God bless you.
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