Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SATURDAY, June 25, 1994 TAG: 9406280081
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: C-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: By RON BROWN STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: NACE LENGTH: Long
Several years ago, "Buttons the Clown" walked into the hospital room where a boy lay dying.
"Can you save my life?" the boy asked.
"No, I can't. I'm not a doctor," Buttons answered, then offered the suffering child the only relief he could.
"Do you want to play awhile?"
Soon, the clown and his new-found friend were romping around the room. The boy was laughing and smiling by the time Buttons left.
Buttons went home and cried. The boy died three months later.
Leon McBryde, the man behind Buttons' makeup, said tears are an inevitable part of a clown's existence.
"I cry after every hospital visit," he said. "You realize how frail you are."
While laughter is the clown's lifeblood, sensitivity nourishes the soul.
"We're not afraid to laugh or cry," McBryde said. "A clown has the ability to not only see people, but see inside of them."
That intuition aside, clowns must work diligently on skills perfected only by relentless practice. This week, 130 of them gathered at Camp Bethel in Botetourt County to exchange ideas, techniques and stories they hope will make them better clowns.
Tonight, they will show the public what they have learned. They plan a free show at the Church of the Brethren camp beginning at 7:30.
McBryde, a member of the Clown Hall of Fame who now lives in Buchanan, offers his own recipe for success:
Clown humor is one part mockery mixed with a dash of stupidity, seasoned liberally with the element of surprise, he says.
The skills that fuel the humor are not so easily obtained. Frustration abounded at the camp this week as clowns tried to master twirling ropes, spinning plates, unicycles, and attempted to juggle rubber balls.
They may fret with technique for years at time. Each skill is painstakingly learned through hours of repetition.
Some use their bodies to convey their humor, while others use more vocal slapstick routines. Some of the clowns at the camp work at the craft full time, while others practice only on weekends.
The clowns orchestrate their actions to maximize communication. In a roomful of screaming children, the message often is seen more than it is heard.
"As a technique, it is very precise," said Karen Hoyer, who is teaching mime at the camp. "You use all your body parts to their full potential. The whole story the clown is telling is in movement."
Students came from distant states - California and Minnesota among them - and such countries as Australia, Mexico, Puerto Rico and Canada in hopes of learning to make the humor work better.
There's a clown who can't hear, one who's pregnant, and others who seek to spread the message of Christ.
Their library is endless. Books have titles such as "The Caring Clowns" and "Dewey's Amazing Rubber Antics."
Supplies include a variety of rubber noses, multicolored wigs, changing-color shoelaces, magician's ropes and hide-and-seek rabbits.
Still, says Marty Scott, a true clown is measured by heart alone.
"A clown can stand across the room and make someone happy," she said. "You do it without regard to pay."
Scott's work is done in virtual anonymity. For more than 25 years, she's worked with her husband, Wayne, to craft props for performers on stage. The Scotts are known for the leather clown shoes that they make.
Her job is to cut out the leather pieces that her husband molds to the performer's feet. The extra space in those laughable, oversized shoes is filled with horsehair.
Her joy comes from the smiles in the crowd.
"Through the performers, I touch a lot of people," she said.
Touching people is what motivates Sally Murphey, once an ordained Southern Baptist minister who now lists clowning as her vocation.
"Once it starts, it comes from the heart," she said. "There is a little child in all of us that wants to come out and play."
The little child in Murphey may be coming out for the first time. As a youngster, she says, she endured abuse from a stepmother who berated and beat her.
"Pep. E.," her clown alter ego, allows her the freedom to express herself in ways she never could growing up.
"It makes that 'little Sally' happy," she said. "I have the freedom to be me."
As a gangly youngster who never was cuddled, Murphey said it was hard to be herself.
She tells a story of how her stepmother never helped her brush her hair. The one time she did, Murphey said, she smacked her in the face after each stroke.
"I retreated at home because I was terrified of her," she said. She went into the ministry in large part to seek acceptance from her family.
About four years ago, she made what was for her a wrenching decision to leave the ministry, where at times she gave comfort to sick children.
She said clowning offers her many of the same opportunities.
"I got so I was comfortable with their tears," she said. "Now I'm comfortable with their laughter. I am still a healer."
The children are helping her heal, as well. When they play with her clown hair, it takes the emotional sting out of her stepmother's lashes.
"When I'm Pep. E., I go back and get some things I lost as a child," Murphey said. "The skills I can learn. The clown is inside of me."
Stephanie Richardson, a one-time manager of the North Carolina Pollution Prevention Program, says clowning can turn you inside out.
"I am more open to people," she said. "Now, I'm more tolerant of people."
The Bag Lady character she plays is a tribute to that new-found tolerance. Her persona originated with a street lady in Raleigh, N.C., whom Richardson met while serving lunches in a soup kitchen.
"I wanted to evoke compassion," Richardson said. "To get into character, I think about her hurt and pain. The street people don't want to be there."
She must be successful. During her shows, children sometimes ask their mothers to adopt her.
"She's so sad," Richardson quotes the children as saying.
The clown community draws together when a member hits one of life's rough spots. When Richardson's home burned and her father-in-law died during the past year, her fellow clowns were there for her.
"They seem to know when you need help," she said. "It's kind of like telepathy."
Helping each other has been a big part of the camp, said McBryde, who noted that tears were as evident as laughter as the clowns shared their experiences.
He tells of a time he was showing slides on the history of the American circus to a group of senior citizens, when he noticed people crying in the darkened room.
An 80-year-old woman, sensing he was troubled, assured him that the presentation was well-received.
"Don't worry," the woman said. "Your talk was wonderful. They were just remembering the first time they went to the circus with their mothers and fathers. Now, you know why you're a clown."
by CNB