The Provo Museum of Postal Art

  Will Anyone Take the Factory Jobs Trump Wants to Bring Back to America?  (WSJ Headline.) A hollow boom in factories Across this storied land Tells the tale of heavy work – Which no one now can stand. The rusted cranes; the silent gears; The boilers cold as ice – Indicate a workforce that Don’t think sweat very nice. We’d rather sit behind a desk, Pushing pens with ease, Than toil like our grandsires (who all got black lung disease.) So Mr. Trump the sweatshop jobs You wish to yoke us with Will remain a byword And a too unpleasant myth!

  The recent retirement of Steve Smith from the Clown Emeritus program, due to poor scheduling, brings back a flood of memories.  Well . . . a dribble, anyways. We first met at the Ringling Clown College back in 1971.  Steve was one of my classmates – and the only one to pass out ‘good luck’ cards from Hallmark to every student who was competing for a coveted spot on the Red or Blue units as a First of May.  Right away, I liked his Ohio-bred genteel style. Oh, the gags we pulled on the Blue Unit that first heady year!  And not just on the audience. There was the time we blew up balloons in the sleeves of the entire male wardrobe just before Spec. Or the quarters we superglued to the cement floor of clown alley, in the hopes that Stanley & Lester, midget clowns and dedicated misers, would get a hernia trying to pry them lose. (They got a cold chisel from somewhere and chipped them off!) The night the bear got loose and Smith thought everyone was screaming “ma...

  I cast my vote with laughter; I’ve done it all my days. It makes me feel much better When fools set things ablaze.

  My mom used salt and pepper, And nothing else at all, When seasoning our supper, Winter, spring, and fall. In summer she made salads, Of iceberg lettuce, cukes, And vinegar with ketchup, That made us cry “Gadzooks!’ I ran away at tender age Just to taste allspice and sage.