The Family Circus : When Your In-Laws Are Clowns, Fitting In Means Taking the Pratfall

I MAY HAVE SUFFERED a setback in my effort to get along with my in-laws. But it really wasn’t my fault. One minute I was up on stilts. And now here I am, looking at my splint and crutches, wondering when I’ll be able to drive again.

I was just trying to fit into my husband’s family. Duke’s brother, Danny, was in town with Make a Circus, an arty San Francisco troupe. Danny, a juggler, was performing with his wife, Maria, a puppeteer / acrobat / clown. Duke and I drove out to Ganesha Park in Pomona to see the show.

The circus was terrific. But by the middle of the first act, I began to feel stodgy and conventional--my usual response to being around Duke’s kin. Danny was masterfully tossing clubs in the air. Maria was dancing on stilts and playing the concertina. And I was just sitting on the grass, sipping a Diet Coke from a fluorescent sports bottle.

I haven’t felt so out of it since I watched Duke’s sister Joan, the star clown of San Francisco’s renowned Pickle Family Circus, wriggle around on her back and play the sax. It was the first time in my life that I regretted giving up the baton.

What a contrast. Last week, my brother, Bobby, his wife, Robbie, and their daughter Erica, came to visit. Bobby runs a family company back East, and Robbie runs the house. They regard me as daring and bohemian.

Duke found this hard to believe--at first. But then he heard my brother describe his ideal solution for coping with stress. “I’d be really, really mellow if I had $20 million in CDs,” Bobby said wistfully.

Duke turned a little pale and gently pointed out that a lot of people might be able to cope with that.

“OK,” my brother said amiably. “Make it $5 million.”

Still, I really enjoyed Bobby and Robbie’s stay. All they wanted to do was eat in nice restaurants, take aerobics classes and shop--things I do well. There was no pressure on me to try something strange or fantastic. There was no pain either, unlike my in-laws’ most recent visit.

Danny hoisted Maria onto his shoulders and in tandem they began to jump rope. When do they practice this? I wondered. Before dinner? After sex? Gosh, I hope, not while they’re having a fight.

“What would you think if I decided to take up knife throwing?” Duke whispered. “We could do it together.”

Actually, we had planned to go hiking together after the show. But then Danny announced that there would be workshops so that the children in the audience could hone their circus skills. Tumbling attracted the younger kids. Juggling drew slightly older kids. And then there were the stilts.

“Honey,” Duke said, “would you mind if I gave it a try?” How could I object? Obviously, the circus was in his blood. He picked up some stilts and followed the kids into the ring. Not wanting to be a stick-in-the-mud, I tagged along.

Mark, Danny’s longtime juggling partner, was teaching Stilt Walking 101. “Make chicken wings with your arms,” he said, flapping his elbows. “And remember to lift the stilt with your hands at the same time you step with your feet.”

Suddenly, it all came back to me. I was 10, I was at summer camp and a bunkmate let me try her birthday present--stilts! I was pretty good on them, too. It’s probably like riding a bike, I thought.

So I grabbed some stilts. In a few minutes, I actually managed to walk a few steps. “You’re being such a good sport,” Duke said admiringly.

“Be sure to look up,” Mark said. “You can get in trouble only if you look down.”

Yeah, right. “Honey, the footholds on these stilts are a little narrow for me,” Duke said. “Let’s switch.” He gave me the death stilts.

A minute later, I was writhing on the ground in agony. I didn’t know what hurt more: realizing that my in-laws would consider me a geek because I couldn’t master a basic circus skill or my rapidly swelling right foot.

Which, as it turned out, is broken. The doctor in the emergency room said I can’t put any weight on it for the next six weeks. I think I’m going to lose my mind.

“We better call Uncle Henry,” Duke says. What’s he? I wonder. A sword swallower? A fire eater?

No, Duke’s uncle is chief of orthopedics at a prestigious New England hospital and chairman of the orthopedics department at an even more prestigious university medical school. He assures me that although I’ll feel some pain, I should be able to hobble around in a hard-sole shoe. He also refers me to a good orthopedist.

I thank Uncle Henry profusely. Then he says, “I’ll be in town this fall. Maybe we’ll have a family reunion.”

I think I’ll sit that one out.