My Daughter Sent Me to the Clowns, and It Turns Out I Belonged There

Somewhere around 2001, a circus clown in Osseo, Wis., made a terrible mistake. He invited me from the audience to join his act. The poor fellow had no idea he was about to encounter a dangerously sleep-deprived father who had absolutely nothing left to lose, including his dignity.

My oldest daughter, then about six or seven, had just undergone a tonsillectomy. She was frightened, hurting, and wanted Daddy to spend the night at the hospital. Naturally, I stayed. Sleeping in a hospital is mostly a rumor, especially when your little girl needs you every few minutes.

We finally got home around noon the following day. I was operating on caffeine, parental obligation, and whatever brain cells had survived the night.

All I wanted was to collapse somewhere soft.

Then some friends called about a circus in nearby Osseo. My middle daughter wanted to go, and more importantly, she wanted me to take her.

I should’ve been declared medically unfit to operate a television remote, but fathers occasionally make decisions that defy medical science.

We went. Fortunately, our friends drove.

The circus was entertaining enough, though I was mostly concentrating on keeping my eyelids from touching. About halfway through, the clowns started looking for audience volunteers.

Guess whose daughter thought this was a magnificent opportunity.

I protested. I pleaded. I may have offered to buy her something expensive. Unfortunately, my daughter had already volunteered her father, a procedure best described as being “voluntold.”

Next thing I knew, I was standing in front of an audience, playing a character in an Old West saloon skit.

Now, public performance never frightened me. I’d anchored Sunday morning radio newscasts for a large regional audience. Radio has been especially kind because nobody could see the face God apparently designed specifically for that medium.

But something happened in that circus ring. I was so exhausted that I stopped caring what anybody thought and decided to enjoy myself.

One of my all-time favorite movie quotes popped into my head, of all movies, Cannonball Run: “If you’re going to be a bear, BE A GRIZZLY!”

And boy, did I!

I shamelessly hammed it up. At one point, without warning, I jumped straight into a clown’s arms. He hadn’t expected to catch a grown man, but there we were. Grown is relative; remember, I possess a negative inseam.

The clowns actually complimented my performance afterward. I suspect they were simply relieved to discover I wasn’t planning to join their payroll.

But something wonderful happened. I discovered how much fun life could be when I stopped worrying about looking ridiculous. Better still, my daughter got to see her dad being wonderfully, spectacularly a dork.

That little girl became my Old Number 7, a nickname borrowed from Mad Jack’s notoriously stubborn burro in The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams. She inherited the stubbornness, added a respectable temper, and developed enough passion to power a small Wisconsin municipality.

She’s also one of the calmest people I’ve ever known when things go sideways.

Consider the evening we nearly cremated our backyard in Kronenwetter.

We tried to light a campfire on a humid August evening. The wood wouldn’t cooperate. Naturally, being a man blessed with questionable-at-best judgment, I introduced gasoline into the equation.

Please don’t attempt this. My survival doesn’t qualify me to teach fire safety.

While pouring gasoline near the dying embers, I was talking to Number 7 instead of paying attention. Flames suddenly traveled toward the container. I panicked and shook it, scattering burning fuel across the backyard.

For several exciting seconds, I was surrounded by flames. Nighttime had become broad daylight, and my prospects of celebrating another birthday were rapidly deteriorating.

I called for my daughter, who was heading inside. She turned, assessed the situation, and acted immediately.

While I struggled to knock down the flames, Number 7 sprinted into the house, retrieved a container of white flour, and returned to confront a particularly impressive patch of fire.

She squared her shoulders, took careful aim, and dumped the flour.

She missed by a foot.

The fire remained unimpressed. Fortunately, we extinguished everything without injury, though I suspect the local fire department would’ve enjoyed a lengthy conversation with me.

For the record, flour is a fire hazard, too. Our family’s emergency response system needed considerable improvement. I’ve since replaced the idea of using flour to fight fires with a couple of fire extinguishers.

What amazed me was my daughter. She didn’t freeze or dissolve into tears. She saw trouble and acted. Granted, her aim and execution needed work, but her courage certainly didn’t.

Her sense of humor is equally memorable.

One afternoon, I walked past her as she lay on the couch reading. Without looking up, she asked, “Dad, mmph-hmm-mmm-ah?”

I hadn’t understood a syllable.

So I answered, “Hmm, hahh, mmm, kk.”

She never looked up from her book, replied, “Okay!” and went back to reading.

To this day, I have absolutely no idea what we agreed on. As far as I knew, I promised her a new car.

She once asked whether she was my favorite daughter. I told her the truth: She was definitely in my top three.

I have three daughters.

Yesterday, I turned 59 with a miserable cold, generously delivered by my gorgeous, young, fantastic wife. She has given me many wonderful birthday presents. This one came with congestion and a headache.

Lying around feeling awful brought back that exhausting hospital night, the circus, and a little girl who made her father climb into the spotlight when all he wanted was a pillow.

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It also reminded me how quickly those years disappear.

I’m truly blessed to have a close relationship with my two oldest daughters. My youngest and I haven’t spoken much in several years. My divorce left painful memories, and my behavior during that period gave her reasons to be hurt.

I was confused, frightened, and hurting myself. None of those feelings excuse my mistakes. I love her dearly, and I wish I could take back many of those moments.

She’s grown into a beautiful, talented young woman. I hope someday we’ll have the chance to know each other again, without the pain of those years standing between us. I want her to meet the father I’ve worked to become, and to see the parts of me that were there long before everything went wrong.

The older I get, the more I realize how little my daughters needed a perfect father. They needed one who showed up, occasionally made them laugh, admitted when he’d been wrong, and loved them even when life became complicated.

I wasn’t always successful, but I never stopped loving any of them.

And I keep thinking about that exhausted dad at the circus. He could’ve stayed in his seat, folded his arms, and complained about being tired. Instead, he jumped into a clown’s arms and gave his daughters a memory they’ll share for the rest of their lives.

I’d make that leap again without hesitation.

As for my youngest, I hope someday I get another chance to show up for her, too. I won’t need a clown to pull me out of my seat.

I’ll already be standing.

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