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Not that I realized it at the time. I only knew, two years before, as I read in a national recreation magazine about an amateur clown club in Sheldon, Washington, that I was instantly intrigued by the possibilities of such a group. As I looked at the pictures of five of the members putting on makeup I thought to myself, "I'll bet it's' fun to be a clown!"

Not, I hasten to add, that I am the playboy type, exactly. Happily married and the proud father of four, I take very seriously the dignities and responsibilities of my position as executive director of the Greater Vallejo, Recreation District in Vallejo, California. Maybe I'd never quite outgrown the almost universal little boy desire to run away and join the circus. Could be I was conditioned for the role by my years as cheer leader at Olympia High School and the University of Washington. At any rate, the idea of donning foolish garb and spreading laughter in this all-too-serious world appealed to me so strongly that I couldn't put it out of my mind. Would anyone else feel the same?

I DECIDED to find out. Placing an item in the local newspaper to the effect that an amateur clown club was under consideration, I set a time and place for those interested to meet with me. That night there were only four of us, but at the second meeting there were eight enthusiastic would-be performers, and my dream of establishing the Vallejo Clown Club had become a reality.

At least, we called ourselves a club, for purposes of reference. Actually, we have never had dues, constitution, minutes or other formal folderol There are no entrance requirements, no officers, and no committees. We are simply a group of widely diversified personalities brought together for one single purpose—fun. Fun for ourselves, and fun for others. The fact that our hobby eventually paid off handsomely was a pleasant bonus we never expected. But that came later.

Those first meetings were a little chaotic. We didn't know exactly where we were going, but we were eager to be on our way. We brought in and studied pictures of clowns which we found in magazines, posters and programs. We discussed costumes, characters, and props. Make-up, we decided, was number one on our problem parade and so I went to Goldstein and Co., 989 Market Street, San Francisco. There I purchased clown white for 50 cents, large sticks of carmen red, blue, and black at 60 cents each, and a dollar jar of theatrical cold cream.

WE BEGAN to practice the fine art of applying make-up on ourselves and on each other. At first we made almost as many errors as trials, but after much hilarious experimentation we gradually evolved the following workable procedure:

1. Cover face, ears, and around the neck with cold cream and then wipe clean. This allows the grease paint to be more easily applied and removed.

2. Apply clown white to palms of hands and rub together, then apply generously. Don't forget the insides of the ears. Pat areas with palm of hand until they are even. There must be no streaks.

3. Using facial tissue, wipe off areas where the clown eyebrows, mouth, nose, or other markings are to be.

4. Powder over face, neck and ears. We fill a white sock with baby powder and apply this way.

5. Dust off excess powder with powder puff or cotton.

6. Using lipstick brushes, paint on eyebrows, mouth, and facial markings as desired. Powder and dust each area. This acts as a hardening agent and protects the clothing.

When you are creating your clown face, don't be afraid to let your imagination really take over. Naturally you won't copy any other face; this is both unethical and unnecessary. You will be amazed at the variety of facial expressions you can achieve. Don't be in a hurry to adopt any particular marking. Spend a lot of time before a mirror studying the different effects. Your make-up and your costume will become your trademark and you want them just right.

I GAVE my own costume a lot of thought. Being more than a little proud of my Scottish ancestry, I decided to build my clown character around, the Scotch theme. Not that my kilts are representative of the Macdonald of Glengary or any other clan. Far from it! I wrote to a clothing mill asking for scraps of every plaid material they had around. Back they came, in every conceivable color and shape. Luckily I have a clever wife with nimble fingers. She put the jig-saw pieces together to fashion the most colorfully kaleidoscopic kilts imaginable. With them I wear a fire engine red jacket and a long tartan that flaps incongruously behind me as I walk.

Just as my hat is ridiculous because it is so tiny, my shoes are ludicrous because they are so big. Exaggeration, we found, is the keynote to success in every costume detail. It isn't enough that trousers be ill fitting; they must be the saggiest, baggiest, flappiest trousers ever seen to get a laugh. A big bow tie is good, but a grotesquely mammoth bow tie is better. In working out our costumes we searched for the loudest colors, the boldest prints, and the flashiest color combinations.

It is possible, of course, to buy costumes ready made from such companies as The Costumer, 238 State St., Schenectady, New York, or Al Wallace, 2416 N. Halsted St., Chicago 14, Illinois. The Costumer, for example, will deck you out in a cotton clown suit for $15 or you can pay as much as $125 for one of heavy satin. You can also buy wigs from them, and accessories of every description. The members of our club, however, substituting ingenuity for cash, came up with some really clever costume details.

We found that we could make wigs out of mops. We dyed them pink, orange, lavender, and other outlandish colors and then sewed them to the crown of old sailor hats to give a baldheaded effect. One fellow painted a Ping-pong ball with bright red fingernail polish and used it for a false nose. We had our shoes made for us, after pricing commercial clown shoes at $30 to $60 a pair.

What we did was to go to a tannery and buy scrap leather a quarter of an inch thick. It cost us 25 cents a square foot. We got enough to make each shoe six to eight inches wide and twelve to twenty-two inches long, as desired. We took one of our regular shoes for a pattern, laid it on the leather, and marked an exaggerated outline. Then we took the two pieces of marked leather down to a shoe repair man along with some inexpensive, flexible canvas. He did a fine job of improvising on what must have seemed a very unusual order, charging us less than $5 a pair. After we had painted them, purple with yellow stripes for example, we had shoes that were larger and more novel, and certainly a greater source of pride to us, than the "boughten" kind.

We began collecting gimmicks and props. Exploding cigars, rubber money, clacking false teeth, and the like began to appear at our meetings. The greater the element of the surprise, we found, the greater the impact of the gag. One of our women clowns purchased from a novelty house a trick box that cranked out a string of hot dogs after a toy dog was put into it. We had gay times at our meetings, with lots of nonsense but all of it with a purpose.

OUR CLUB had been organized only about six weeks when we received an invitation to perform at a Cub Scout circus. We were dismayed at the prospect. Of course we expected to appear in public eventually, but it was much too soon, we felt. We weren't ready. We weren't good enough. Laughing at ourselves was one thing but attempting to entertain strangers was quite another. We talked the matter over carefully. Finally we decided to risk a failure, if only for the value of the experience.

There were four of us who took the initial plunge. Our group included, in addition to my own clown character of McScotty, Dick Rasmussen, a Mare Island draftsman, as Koco; mail carrier Ray Chandler as Happy, and Mercedes Griffin, a fiscal accountant, in her get-up as Officer O'Toot, a lady cop. It's just as well our smiles were painted on; beneath them we were scared stiff. But the wave of laughter that greeted us gave us self-confidence, and we quickly forgot our fears with such an appreciative and encouraging audience.

That was in June, 1951, and our doubts as to our reception and success were swept away by the deluge of invitations that followed. We made four more appearances that same month, eleven in July, and the requests for our performances grew more and more numerous as word got around about us.

I am confident that an amateur clown group in any community will have a similar experience. Your local newspaper, will be more than cooperative. Just the formation of such an unusual group is news, so don't be bashful about keeping the paper informed. Pictures of your members in costume will probably be printed and this in itself will stimulate interest. If you end your newspaper stories with the announcement that the group is available for public appearances upon request and include a telephone number, you will probably find the response overwhelming. If not, contact by phone or postcard the local P.-T.A. units, Red Cross, youth organizations, lodges and clubs offering your services. Recreation therapists in hospitals and institutions will welcome the opportunity to book your group. Every appearance you make will lead to three or four others; before long you will probably be receiving letters, telephone calls, and even telegrams as we have, requesting performances. We have often had two or three engagements for the same day, making it necessary to divide into small units in order to fill the demand.

We have appeared before audiences of all ages and all interests. We have entertained veterans, orphans, and patients in mental hospitals. Our antics have helped sell bonds and raise funds for the March of Dimes and cerebral palsy victims. We have appeared at the openings of gasoline stations and drive-in theatres, and cavorted between halves at football games. At Christmas time the Vallejo clowns have outshadowed in popularity the venerable figure of Santa Claus himself at group parties and community functions. We have taken part in fairs in at least ten different counties and have pranced untold miles in parades of all kinds.

In the first year of its existence, members of the Vallejo Clown Club made more than 250 appearances in three different states. By now we've lost track of the actual number of performances, but the demand for our clowning has never decreased. Not even when we began to charge for our appearances. This move was strictly in self defense. It had never been our intent to realize profit from our hobby, but we found it was difficult to keep up with all our engagements. Most of us were holding down full-time jobs, such as our welder, saleswoman, cabinet maker, carpenter, and teacher; the others were housewives or students. The popularity of our clown venture, while it was stimulating and gratifying, threatened to engulf our personal lives. It was not unusual to have appearances scheduled for Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons, in places separated by many miles.

AT FIRST we asked only for traveling expenses. Then as the requests kept pouring in, we began to receive fees. We have no set rules about this, and are very flexible in regard to the amount charged or even if there is to be a charge made. On one occasion a dozen of us may appear without charge before a ward of disabled veterans; another time just one of our number may receive $25 for a performance. It depends a great deal on the occasion, such as whether it is only a few hours or an all day affair, the type of group staging the function, and even the day of the week and the time of the day as well as the distance from Vallejo. Sometimes we are given a trophy or plaque designating our group as "the most comic entry," or some similar recognition. We are proud of the many letters of genuine appreciation sent to us, especially those from charitable institutions and the handicapped. The amount of the fee, however, or even the absence of one has never influenced our participation in any event. Considering the fun we have, payment for our hobby certainly falls in the category of "having your cake and eating it too." Still, our membership is made up of average folk and the money that our hobby, has brought in has been a real help.

Fifteen dollars per clown is a reasonable fee for a parade or an evening appearance. When we are asked to participate in an event lasting all day, the rate ranges from $20 to $35 per clown. Usually a county fair will engage one or two clowns for from one to four days and we divide up these assignments.

WE ENJOY all our appearances, but we particularly like to play the fairs with all their opportunities for clown tomfoolery. We have been asked, "Where do you get ideas for your acts?" Well, the truth is that mostly we make them up as we go along. No two of our appearances are exactly alike; certainly we don't memorize lines or practice stereotyped situations, and if there is any printed material on "How to Be a Clown," we don't know about it.

Mostly we make up impromptu gags on the spur of the moment, and we find that most people enjoy the attention of being kidded in public by a clown. For example, as the grandstand is filling, we may come up behind a woman who is being escorted by her husband and take his place without her knowing it. Everyone watches as we make our way down the aisle, breathlessly awaiting her realization of what has happened. Her inevitable shriek of surprise when she finally glances up into the grotesquely painted face so close to her own never fails to bring an appreciative roar from the crowd.

Or supposing a group is standing around in earnest conversation. A clown breaks into the group and although he doesn't say a word, his facial expressions, as varied and numerous as limbs on a tree, register exaggerated joy, doubt, sorrow, and so on at each remark until the conversation is completely broken up with laughter. Our sitting on the laps of pretty girls pleases the crowd, dancing the Charleston with elderly ladies, or pretending to powder your nose in the reflection of some gentleman's shiny bald head is always good for a laugh.

Of course, the situation is a little different when you are on a stage, but still the most important thing is pantomime, and the more confused, hectic and jumbled the act the better. One clown may start to sing a song, like "She's Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage," with elaborate histrionics. Along comes a clown would-be juggler, with four or five tin pans that clatter all over the stage. No sooner has the singer chased him off the stage, throwing the pans after him, than in comes another clown who is completely overcome by the sadness of the ditty. Racked with pantomime sobs, he reaches in his pocket for his handkerchief, pulling it out by the yard, hand over hand, until he finally blows his nose with an explosive racket that completely drowns out the disgusted singer.

As I mentioned before, the more gimmicks the better. Lots of our acts are built around them entirely. Like the clown photographer who has difficulty posing his subject (possibly because he keeps turning his head to flirt with a pretty blond in the front row). Then, when all is ready, he presses the bulb, only to have the camera shoot a stream of water or blow up in his face.

A fake banana with a zipper on the skin will make a hit, especially if the clown offers bites to the people in the audience, zipping it shut just as they lean forward.

This is illustrative of one of the most important aspects of amateur clowning, a close physical contact with the people you are entertaining. Mingle with the crowd as much as possible and be sure to shake hands with all the children. Most people, if they have seen clowns at all, have seen them only from a distance. Young or old, they get a thrill out of meeting one face to face.

Another factor is that we like to share our fun by taking the audience behind the scenes of clowning. They never fail to be fascinated when we put on our make-up before them, showing them step by step how the transformation takes place. Sometimes we go even further, taking persons out of our audience and making them up as clowns. I remember particularly our experience at the De Witt State Hospital near Auburn. The patients there not only had a marvelous time when costumed and made up as clowns but turned in a really fine performance. "Best medicine they've had in months," was the doctors' verdict.

CLOWNITIS IS catching, too. One woman, not too impressed with our project, came to one of our first meetings to help her husband with his costume, and stayed to become one of our most enthusiastic performers. Another time we made up a whole Girl Scout troop, to entertain them, and now they are getting costumes and practicing make-up with the intention of putting on clown acts for others. We think this is excellent. We are delighted to see the clown movement spreading in just this way.

We encourage the amateur clown idea everywhere. Not everyone, however, makes a good clown, and oddly enough the "show-off" type is the poorest. We have had a lot of people drift in and out of our club who haven't made a success of clowning for one reason or another. Maybe they aren't willing to give of themselves, being interested only in what they can gain from the group. Or maybe they aren't willing to take the time and trouble to work out a good costume, or practice until they're proficient in applying make-up. It isn't just a matter of talent, although a knowledge of ventriloquism, or the ability to play the accordion or put over a comedy song can be an asset. Mainly though, the people who have a sincere interest in their fellowman, who are sensitive to the moods of others, and who are unselfish and outgoing make the best clowns.

Maybe you are such a warm, genuine person. Maybe you will even be inspired by our success to start a clown club in your community. I hope so. Happiness is one commodity for which there will always be a far greater demand than supply.