Creative Aging: Family Clowns
“You don’t stop laughing when you grow old; you grow old when you stop laughing.” –George Bernard Shaw
When my sons were young, my sister Jan contributed to family reunion fun by putting on bright lipstick, calling herself the Phantom Kisser, and putting a red lip imprint on the cheeks of her nieces and nephews. There were squeals of delight and mock fear as she chased them and kissed their cheeks.
Now she does the same on the rare occasions when she sees my grandchildren. They don’t remember all of their great aunts and uncles, but they know the Phantom Kisser, and they wonder if she will pounce the next time they see her.
That’s not Jan’s only clowning. She has a gorilla costume, complete with a hairy and grinning head. The gorilla has shown up at her grandchildren’s homes, peeking in through the windows and ringing the doorbell. The younger children have been scared, but the older ones have consoled them, “Don’t worry. It’s just Grandma being silly again.”
Jan puts a lot of silliness in her life. This past Christmas, she dyed her hair red and wore an elf costume to work, complete with a hat, bright red cheeks, and green shorts with suspenders.
She added tights. “Legs the age of mine do not belong on display,” she said.
Last fall when she got a haircut, she put on more makeup than Phyllis Diller, including the false eyelashes, and went to her job claiming to be Janiese, Jan’s sister, filling in for the day because Jan had to miss work.
She inherited her clowning from our father, Henry Addink. In his eighties he bought my mother a six-foot teddy bear as a Valentine gift. It sat in a rocking chair in their living room in the years that followed.
Much of the time, Dad’s clown moments were unintentional—and a bit dangerous. Once, in midlife, he was alongside the raised hood of his car, trying to start the engine. The car started—in gear. His arm caught on the hood, and he ended up running alongside the car until it was stopped by a house.
He once tried a joke demonstrating his quick draw with a pistol. The joke was supposed to be:
“Want to see my quick draw?” Dad has his hand on the pistol but doesn’t move it.
Then, pretending his draw is so fast it was invisible, he says, “Want to see it again?”
Dad executed the first step fine, but when he said, “Want to see it again?” he accidentally pulled the trigger and shot a hole in his shoe.
“Yes, yes!” teased his sons and nephews gathered around him. “Do it again! Do it again!”
They were clowning, but Dad didn’t think they were funny.
Neither did he see the humor in the gift they subsequently gave him: a drawing of a target with a toe drawn into the center of the circle. They labeled the poster “Henry Addink Pistol Target.”
As for me, I am neither an accidental clown like my father nor a clown-on-purpose like my sister. I am the serious clan member who sets goals and works toward them. I’m good at getting things done, but lack a single ounce of circus performer.
I laugh whenever I read the Jenny Joseph poem about getting old and wearing purple, wearing a red hat that doesn’t match, going outside in slippers in the rain, and learning to spit. Of course, I would never do those wacky things. I only laugh at the idea of someone doing them, in the same way I have laughed at my sister and my father.
When Jenny Joseph wrote her poem at age 29, she suggested she might “practice a little now” so people wouldn’t be too surprised when suddenly she was old and started to wear purple.
I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I am suddenly old. I didn’t practice unconventional living when I was young, and suspect I won’t start now. I shall not make up for the sobriety of my youth: I shall continue on the path on which I began.
Once, though, at around age 35 or so, I stepped out of my conventional role. My husband was working in our backyard vegetable garden. I checked around for onlookers. There were none, so I pulled down my britches and mooned him through the patio door. He stopped weeding in total shock, guffawed, and came to the house, still laughing.
“I cannot believe you did that!” he said. Neither could our friends and acquaintances when he told them the tale.
I may be the plain-Jane, serious member of the clan, but a single clown gene was hiding in me somewhere. Maybe that was my “little practice” before I turned old.
However, I don’t intend to wear purple and learn to spit. A clown moment will likely never surface in me again. I’m not the family clown, but that’s ok. I’m the family narrator instead, telling the clown stories to share the laughter and the fun.
Adapted from Creative Aging by Carol Van Klompenburg, published 2023, available from Amazon and for Pella-area residents at Pella Books, the Curiosity Shop, or directly from Carol. Carol has an MA in theater arts and is available for reading performances of her writing on aging, moments in her gardens, memories, and other topics.
Good one!