ON ICE PART III

The other of the big three ice productions came about when Maurice Chaflen took his ten year old roller blade touring show, Skating Vanities and converted the idea to an ice show, Holiday On Ice. It differed from the other two in that it had several productions traveling all at the same time and it carried it’s own ice making equipment, which meant they didn’t have to confine the tours to cities with ice arenas in the US or around the globe.

Holiday began it’s US operation in 1945. The first international company was called Ice Vogues and started with a tour of Mexico in 1947 and toured Mexico and South America. In 1956, the name was changed and Holiday On Ice now toured all over the globe.

Except for a few years when Sonja Henie joined the company, the show did not use big name skaters. It featured the spinning wheel, skaters linked arms one by one, ending in the spokes of the wheel skating from a central hub. Each performance ended with a kick line and fireworks.

To attract a new audience the reviews introduced kiddie themes like Bugs Bunny, Peter Pan, Ali Baba, and the like, the first of the costumed ice show that led to today’s Disney On Ice.

In 1964, the North American show was sold to Madison Square Garden, leaving Chaflen as owner of Holiday International, which grew to have three companies traveling around different countries at the same time breaking new ground in Russia and China. The US version ended in 1985, but the International shows are still touring.

Tom Collins, a Canadian skating champion, joined Holiday, and when his skating days ended, he and Morrie Chaflen started Champions On Ice. No sets or chorus lines. Just figure skating champions performing the routines that brought them fame.

Morrie Chaflen sold out his share to Tom, but not until he married Tom’s sister, Martha, also a Canadian champion skater.

At first Tom could use only amateur champions but when the rules were changed to allow professionals he brought in names like Brian Boitano, Katrina Witt and Michelle Kwan, and every big name skater in the 40 years he had Champions. Sometimes he used skaters that hadn’t made their mark yet, just talent and promise. One such promising youngster was 12 year old Dorothy Hamil.

When he staged his final tour in 2007 and sold his company, shortly after his wife died, he was regarded as the most powerful person in figure skating.

Tom’s father had been a gold miner, but never found a mine as rich as his son found in figure skating. He was grossing over 50 million a year. But when he was sitting backstage talking to hands like myself you would think he just one of the guys.

But Tom Collins wasn’t one to sit back and enjoy retirement. He went on tour with Neil Diamond and revolutionized the selling of swag at concerts. No more just a CD was for sale. Tom had T shirts and caps, posters and autographed pictures. Swag was now big business. He went on tours with other performers and bands. His brother, Butch, had been working for me as a stagehand and Tom got him involved in selling Swag for Sesame Street Live whose headquarters are in Minneapolis, and I lost a good hand in Butch.

The big shows of Ice Follies and Ice Follies are now just show business memories like Ziegfeld Follies and Vaudeville. Their time maybe over but they broke ground in figure skating. They proved there was a market for skating shows, and a career for skaters even if they never became household names giving a reason for the hours needed in the grueling task of becoming a figure skater. And they introduced the art of figure skating to a new audience, an audience that continues to support the ice shows that followed.

The people behind ice shows, past and present, had for the most part, one thing in common, ice skating was a big part of their life since they were old enough to have skates laced on.

But one of the biggest mover and shaker in the business was a non- skater, Morris Chaflen, a true entrepreneur. Chaflen, ‘call me Morrie’, was a man who dove into things without worrying about the depth of the water. Once you met him, you never forgot him.

Morrie grew up in Minneapolis. He was still in knee pants when he started his first business, selling newspapers and candies on a street corner. His first big-boy enterprise was a combination pool hall and bowling alley.

I knew a lot about hawking newspapers and playing pool. That’s how I grew up, not shooting basketballs or ice skating.’

In 1947, he and his partner, Ben Berger, bought the Detroit Gems, a professional basketball team, to Minneapolis and renamed it the Minneapolis Lakers. Luck of the draft brought them George Mikan when the Chicago team he played for two years folded. Mikan helped establish the NBA into a major sports organization and was name the Greatest Basketball Player of the 1st half of the 20th Century.

In 1957, he and Berger sold the team to Bob Short, another Minneapolis entrepreneur and politician, who moved the team to Los Angeles, three years later’. It broke a lot of hearts including your truly.

Yeah, Short was always running in state or federal elections. Running but never winning. Maybe some voters figured he’d sell them out just like he did with the Lakers. You think?’

Morrie was active in politics also. A behind- the- scenes worker. Never a candidate. In 1944, he was in the liberal arm of the MN Democratic Party when, under the leadership of Hubert Humphrey, merged with the larger MN Farmer Labor Party. He became friends with Humphrey from the time Humphrey came to study at the University of Minnesota and he worked for Humphrey’s city, state, and federal campaigns, as Humphrey went from Mayor of Minneapolis, to MN’s Senator in DC, to Vice President under Johnson, and back to Senator. The two remained close throughout their lives.

US Senator at that time, Hubert Humphrey met with Morrie Chaflen at the 1958 Brussels’s World Fair and the meeting resulted in a warm up of the Cold War and the beginning of the Cultural Trade Treaty between the USA and Russia as it was originally intended to be.

When Hubert worked out that exchange of the Moscow Circus and Holiday On Ice, a lot of people said it wouldn’t work, but we showed ‘em. Up til’ then it was just we’ll send you a piano player and you send us a cello player. After we went to Russia, the exchange went big time with theater groups, museum things, opera, and ballet. Just think, without ballet companies coming over, all those dancers never would have defected.’

Humphrey had purposed that the US would send over the Ringling Brother’s Circus with America’s famous clown Emmett Kelly, even though Kelly was no longer with Ringling. In return, Russia would send the Moscow Circus with it’s great clown, Popov. The USSR said da and nyet. They would send Popov and the circus to the US, but they wanted Holiday On Ice, instead of a circus…and it had to bring everything including the ice making equipment and the machine that shaves the ice.

Without asking Chaflen, he quickly signed the agreement, He knew Morrie would be more than happy to take the show to Russia. Humphrey had a caveat though. The first stop on the tour would be a week’s engagement in Minneapolis, MN where he started his political career.

Soon after the Russian adventure, Holiday broke the barrier of another closed nation, China.

Chaflen traveled around the world with his Holiday On Ice shows playing before European Royalty and World leaders like Nikita Khrushchev, and a Who’s Who of celebrities at the time like Princess Diana and Elvis Presley.

Morrie lived a life he never could have imagined as that ten year old kid standing on that corner in Minneapolis back in the day.

But it also had two tragedies that could have had driven him into a life changing depression, if he had been a weaker man.

On St. Patrick’s Day 1960, his wife, Martha Collins Chaflen and their three children, ages 2, 6, 7, were flying to Miami when the plane broke into pieces in the air and crashed. Morris Chaflen’s beloved wife and children were among the 63 people who lost their lives in that still unexplained horror.

On Oct 31st, 1963, at the Indiana State Fairgrounds Arena, just as the opening night performance of Holiday was into the finale, a leak from a LP tank, stored under the bleachers, was ignited by an electrical short and blew up, killing 81 and injuring some 400 more. Morrie was not there and none of the cast or crew were hurt; but the fact that there was 81 deaths and so many of the over 4,000 in the audience, and a statement from the sheriff stating that if the show had not started 15 minute late, the deaths and injuries would not have been as great, hit Morrie hard.

Criminal charges against six of the arena’s staff were dropped after more investigation. The arena reopened and hosted a cattle show six weeks later, and The Beatles a year later, followed a month later by a return of Holiday On Ice, which broke the arena’s attendance records.

It took Morrie quite awhile to get back to being the easy going person he was before, but slowly he reverted to the man who was so much fun to be around. He remarried and had two sons with his second wife. He lost his ownership in Holiday International by a court ruling over a stock issue. He started Chaflen International and dabbled in various businesses. He died in 1949 at the age of 72, a year after the death of his good friend, Hubert Humphrey.

Morrie was a natural story teller, and you never forgot him or his stories. He loved to sit backstage and regale young stagehands like your truly.

Now did I ever tell you about…’

You probably heard the story before but any story Morrie told was worth hearing again. He had a twinkle in his eye and just a slight accent. He used his hands in telling a story. He could have had a career as a story telling comedian.

He had that gift of entertaining through the art of telling stories that seems to be second nature to those who lived in the shtetls of Eastern Europe. Like the Boston barber, Max Nimoy, father of Leonard Nimoy, who told stories of living in and escaping from a shtetl in Ukraine.

And like Myron Cohen who came to the US from Russia at the age of two. Cohen was a traveling salesman who endeared himself to his customers by telling them funny stories. He was talked into performing at comedy clubs and soon became a household name because of his appearances on the TV variety shows of the 50’s.

And like Zero Mostel,’If I were a rich man’, who, when cast as the original Tevye in Fiddler On The Roof’, balked at the concept that the original stories by Sholem Aleichem, who lived in a shtetl in the Ukraine before coming to the US, being ‘too Jewish’ to succeed. Using stories he heard from his father of life and dreams of the inhabitants of an East European shtetl, he crafted the Fiddler we know today. And over the years his Tevye was adhered to by actors like Herschel Bernardi, Theodore Bikel, Leonard Nimoy among others.

Morrie’s favorite story was what happened on that first Russian tour. It also is my favorite Morrie story.

I took off running. They weren’t going to pull something like that on me. No way! But I pulled up in a hurry when the KGB’s answer to the Three Stooges came from behind the Zamboni.

Moe, with his hands in the pocket of his black leather ankle length coat, stood in the center of his two stooges. He had that come-on-I-dare-you look on his face.

Larry and Curly were wearing their black leather knee length leather coats. And each had a BIG pistol pointed at me.

Thinking back I should have been praying but at the time all I could think of was, “What in the name of Hubert Horatio Humphrey did I get into???”

Whoa! Whoa! Morrie’s story needs a post of it’s own.

Stay tuned for KGB AND THE ZAMBONI.

LAST TRAIN OUT

There was four of us working in the boxcars for the Russian Circus Load Out. There was Joey B., my partner at the Guthrie, and always fun to work with. And an oldtimer, Big Ike. Surly and strong. You overlooked his zero personality because he loved to show off his strength and would always pick up the heaviest thing around. And then there was Mike, our handicap.

Mike was a young apprentice that worked harder to get out of work than if he just did the work. It wasn’t what he wanted in life. His family forced him into being a stagehand like his father and brother. He could screw up a one car funeral procession. His big ambition in life was to be a milkman. He believed in the urban legend that some milkmen delivered more than bottles and butter to lonely women on their route. He did a lot of day dreaming and his dreams always wore skirts.

There were three boxcars waiting for us on the spur. It made sense that the first things loaded were the four bears in their cages. What didn’t make sense was the cages went into the middle car and the cages were open without their metal sides. We couldn’t use the dock because there were the personal steamer trunks and wardrobe boxes clogging up the center of the dock. It was easier just to go through the bears’ car. There was plenty room to walk without a bear actually hitting you with it’s paw, but it still made you jump every time one swung at you.

One of the bear trainers was giving them food and water. Ike bellowed and pointed to the metal sides that were underneath each cage and demanded they be put on the cages. The trainer told Ike nyet and continued his chores. That got Big Ike mad. He swore at the trainer, called him a snuffing Commie and now, not only did we have bears to watch out for, we had an angry Ike.

It didn’t take much to get Ike mad. He’d could get mad at a snuffing falling leaf.

Big Ike only feared one person… his wife. She allowed him to smoke a pipe in the house but not to use vulgar language or drink in the house. He obeyed her rules. Instead of the common swear words, he came up with one of his own, ‘snuff’, complete with all the variations. And he quenched his thirst for whiskey by keeping his jugs of Four Roses out in the garage. Even after his wife died, Ike never used ‘vulgar words’ nor drank in the house but walked out to the garage quite often.

Henri, the French-Canadian road carpenter, my far, far cousin came out with the first load of equipment, to explain what to expect and to introduce us to the Russian stagehand who would, through a very little English and a lot of finger pointing, tell us how the pack went.

Ike got in Henri’s face right away about the snuffing Commie bears.

Henri explained, before he and the trainer left, that the trainers told him the bears would not go to sleep in the dark cages and needed fresh air. He also said that there was something in the food that would put the bears to sleep. That was evident because the two bears that had gobbled down their meal were now curled up in the far corner of their cage fast asleep. The two who did not eat were awake and pacing back and forth in their cages, stopping only to reach out at us when we walked by. Then one of them decided to eat and he went out like a light.

That only left one bear awake to swing at us.

Ike bellowed at bear to eat and go to sleep, but to no avail. The bear seemed to be having too much fun watching us jump every time he pawed at us.

Then, Joey B. figured out that maybe this was the bear that Richie had given cigarettes to, the one that like to chew on tobacco. Joey threw the bear a cigarette. Joe smoked filtered menthols and after the first taste, the bear spit it out and growled.

I quickly reached in my shirt and threw him a straight Pall Mall. That was more like it. I could swear the bear nodded his head to thank me as he chewed on my cigarette.

One problem though, now the bear wanted another cigarette every time he saw us. I said that I wasn’t going to give the bear all my smokes. Big Ike said all he had was pipe tobacco and just enough left in his pouch for two more pipe fills. Joey shrugged and said all his cigarettes did was make the bear angry.

The three of us turned to Mike. We had seen him smoking a roll-you-own when he got out of his car. We told him to roll one for the bear.

Mike thought that would be a great idea. The bear would really like it. He took a paper and his draw-string bag.

Snuff it,’ shouted Big Ike, grabbing the bag out of Mike’s hand, ‘Give him the whole snuffing thing.’ And he threw the bag into the cage.

‘No,’ screamed Mike, ‘That’s a dime bag! That cost a lot of money.’

Ike bellowed, ‘A dime ain’t a lot of money, you snuffing dehorn!’

Then I tried to explain to Ike that dime bag wasn’t tobacco. It was grass. Ike just frowned at me.

Then Joey B. took over the expiation. ‘Grass, Ike. You know wacky-tabaky, Mary Jane, merry-wa-na.’

‘Drugs! You doing snuffing drugs, kid!’ He made a gesture as if to slap Mike. ‘Does your dad know you are a snuffing druggie? You a snuffing hippie beetlenic like Richie? Sit around smoking that snuffing dope and banging on bingo drums. No wonder you’re such a snuffing bad stagehand. Drink whiskey like the rest of us do and straighten up!’

The Russian hand said something and pointed to the bear, who was chewing on the bag. The draw-string hanging out of his mouth. He hadn’t spit out the bag. Instead, he was sitting on his haunches, chewing slowly, looking at us. Joey B. said he was positive the bear had a grin on his face.

The rest of the night, the bear did not move from the spot. Every time we walked by he just looked up, his eyes half shut, chewing slowly on Mike’s dime bag.

‘You know, Joey,’ Ike said, ‘I think the snuffer is grinning.’

As we were wrapping up the load, a train engine backed along the rails to the cars. A car drove up and Henri and the smaller one of the bear trainers got out. The trainer went into the bear car and opened up a sleeping cot. The Russian hand closed all the doors on the sides of the box cars.

Henri thanked thre three hands and his ‘Cousin Donny.’ Mike jumped off the dock and ran to his car. He had told us earlier that there was a girl who promised to leave the door unlocked for him.

The Russian stagehand shook hands with Joey and me and told us pasib.

Big Ike refused to shake hands with a snuffing Commie.

And then he spoke in broken English. ‘Russia, no choo-choo. Trucks. Better.’

‘Another great Russian invention like putting casters on boxes,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Trucks to haul show biz, not trains. We’ll have to remember that. Pasib. Pasib.’

The engine made a loud bang as it coupled into the first car. The railroad man that had been watching the couple connect, ran and jumped into the engine. He waved at us as the train pulled away.

I turned to Joey B. and Ike and commented that might be the last time any one of us work a train load out.

‘We thought the same things when the last Met Opera train left,’ Joey B. said.

‘Yeah, kid, maybe’ Big Ike said. ‘But the longer you stay in this snuffing business the more you learn to never say never.’

‘Yup,’ Joey B. added, ‘And you never say goodbye to any other stagehand because chances are even if they go far away, someday you’ll probably be working with them again. You say see ya.’

Snuffing right,’ Big Ike agreed, and the three of us said, see ya, and walked to our vehicles.

Joey B. and I had a lot more fun years together until he retired, moved to Ensanada, Mexico, and bought into a fishing boat. Big Ike’s arthritis caught up with him a few years later and he moved to Arizona, hoping the sun would ease the pain. Mike! About a month after the train, his bad stagehanding reached the limit and his father stood up at a union meeting and proposed we take away his son’s apprentice card. Mike moved to California. Never got a milk route but last we heard he was the promoter for an All Girls Celebrity Softball team.

I got in my pickup and watched until the lights of the train disappeared in the early morning darkness.

And in spite of what Big Ike said

that was our Last Train Out.

LAST TRAIN IN

It had been over ten year since a show came into town via the railroad. The notification to the Local that a circus was coming via the rails was a surprise. Our circuses, even big ones like Ringling Brothers. had long since gone over completely to trucks. But then when it said it was the Moscow Circus On Ice, that was coming in retro on us, it wasn’t so surprising… even though Russian shows, like their great ballet companies had traveled by truck in the U.S. for years.

Russian touring companies felt Russia had invented show biz and took forever to adopt improvements in the business. For instance, instead of castors on their road boxes, they had four to six handles to use to hand carry the boxes..

Ve strong in Russia. Ve don’t need those silly little vheels to do our vork.’

But we noticed that these strong Russians were mostly finger-pointers, and they had our stage hands do the heavy lifting.

The first time a Russian show came in with castors on their boxes, they were so proud of ‘their new invention’. Like they say, you can lead a Russian to progress, but you can’t make him think.

I was working shows at the Guthrie; and while I could not work the circus shows, I could work the Load-In and Out. On the In, I never got close to even seeing the train. I was on the prop crew working on the concrete floor of the ice arena of the Minneapolis Auditorium. The entire floor could be an ice rink for ice shows and hockey game, but this time there was only a 20’ by 20’ sheet of ice in the center. That was where the four Russian bears played hockey, the stars of this circus..

Russian bears had been a staple of Russian show biz since even before the balalaika, that musical instrument the Russians invented after seeing some gypsies playing one. Naturally, Russian bears are not quite like our common brown bears. The biggest difference is the head. Russian bears have a slightly different shaped head and a much longer nose. And of course, a Russian would tell you that their bears are much smarter than the average bear.

Another work crew was hollering for assistance. They had a large black circus wagon on the landing just before the ramp down to the arena floor and there were screams of helping to get it to the floor at a reasonable speed. I heard a something about a light dimmer. So I assumed it was an old fashion dimmer pack. Leave it to the Russians to bring back outdated equipment.

As I got close I could see there was an outer metal shell on the four sides and top. I got to the one corner and could see there was solid bars inside. At first I thought I would stick my arm in the crack for a more solid place to push back on. The metal sheets looked to be only attached on the top. But then I decided against it, afraid of getting pinched or worse being trapped if the wagon got away.

On the other corner, Nicky had the same thought about getting something solid. He stuck his arm in the crack.

‘Ah, I wouldn’t do…’screamed one of the hands.

Nicky screamed louder and pulled his arm out. His sleeve was ripped and his arm was bleeding from long scratches.

‘There’s a bear in there,’ a hand shouted… too late.

‘Now you tell us!’ I hollered. ‘Somebody said it was a f#####n light dimmer.’

‘No!’ a hand argued, ‘I said this f####n devil’s not light!’

Chaos! Men screaming at each in English, Russian; and when Henri, the French-Canadian stagehand that was hired on in Montreal, came on the scene, his French overpowered everybody. He was in the smaller Russian trainer’s face, and I could hear the word ‘forklift’ and a lot of French words the oldtimers back home used when they got mad.

Henri was hired for two reasons. He was a liaison between the Russians and the stagehands they would encounter on the tour. And also, he spoke both French and English and the Russian interpreters felt more at home with French than with English.

The local hands were swearing at Russians, the bear, and each other. One banged on a metal sheet covering the cage and the roar of a bear erupted and the cage began to shake. The local hands jumped back. My crew went back down to the arena floor…quickly.

I had helped Nicky to a seat and was standing there while the auditorium nurse was applying first aid. She wrapped the arm and told Nicky that a gofer would take him to the hospital for a tetanus shot.

‘Tell him we will go to my house after,’ Nicky said in a low voice, I’m going to pick up my 30-30. It’s open season on f#####g bears.’ The nurse laughed, but she didn’t know Nicky like we did. We knew Nicky was serious. Westie, the house carpenter, quickly told Nicky to take the rest of the day off…with pay, and get ready for his work in the hotel that night.

Henri got a forklift and backed it in front of each cage to slow them down the ramp. The two Russian trainers spoke to us on the floor and made motions to help take the metal sheets off the cages. They might have not understood what we said back to them, but they understood the one-finger salutes we gave them; and worked on the cages by themselves.

When we helped Henri with his work box I noticed his name, Henri Perron. painted on it. Without thinking, I blurted out, ‘My maternal grandfather’s name is Henry Perron.’

Oh, did Henri get excited. And then he really got excited when I told him about growing up in a small village across the river where several generations ago a large group of French-Canadians, following the fur trade, settled. I mentioned some of the last names, pronouncing them in the way they are pronounced in French and Henri recognized them as names common in Ottawa, Quebec, and all through French Canada..

‘We are cousins, Donny. Not close… but many years back. I am a Perron. You are a Perron from your mother. We are far cousins.’

Very far. The original Perron in Canada was a fisherman from Rochell, France, who came to Ottawa in the 18th Century and was a large propagator, both in marriage and out. The Perrons take up a large amount of the White Pages in Ontario. The name dominates the providence like the name Jones dominates the United States.

I broke a cardinal rule. In the Army you never tell the mess sergeant your name or you will be the brunt of the jobs on KP simply because he calls names he knows. The same is true for a road stagehand. Never tell a roadie your name. Now Henri not only knew my name, he considered himself family.

After lunch he approached me. ‘Cousin Donny, I am told you are a very good rigger. I need you for a special job. I need you to rig the trapeze. The artist’s rig does not go that high so you rig these two cables I made up when I found out that the beam here was one hundred feet up.’

I told him I never heard of a trapeze artist who would let someone else rig his trapeze. Oh, Henri explained that the artist would rig his swing on the cables I rigged. I said that he would still depend on my rigging as well as his own. I thought he should rig the long cables also just to be safe.

‘Well,’ Henri said in a low voice, ‘I think he is scared to go up that high.’

We set up the house contraption to get me up that high. The darn thing went up in ten feet sections, then would pause and shake a bit before spitting up the next ten feet. I hated it!

They sent Jimmy, the Guthrie prop builder, along to help me. He quickly huddled in a corner of the cage and when we reached the correct height, he begged me to just let him stay in the corner. He was breathing fast and deep. I was afraid he would hyperventilate on me I told him to just relax. I didn’t have a paper bag he could breath into. And we both agree mouth to mouth was out of the question.

Rigging the cables was a snap compared to the ride up.

Rig a trapeze! A lot of responsibility! After that, I had a lot more respect for the parachute packers that rigged the chutes we jumped with. One big difference is the packers always have to jump a chute they packed and I wasn’t about to swing from the trapeze I rigged.

Once on the Camping Exposition In, Joey B. and I were on the high beams working while a young trapeze artist was rigging his swing. Joey commented that swinging on a trapeze was a hell of a way to make a buck. The kid said it beat the hell of the last job he had before working a trapeze.

I got shot out of the cannon,’ he said, very matter-of-fact.

Every day of that Russian Circus week I kept checked the news, praying I would not hear that the trapeze failed and the artist fell. When I didn’t hear anything, it made my day, believe me.

A couple of the shop hands at the Guthrie worked the nightly circus shows, and wished they didn’t.

There were very few cues to work, but everyone worked the one big one during the bears’ hockey game. They were spaced out on the outside of the ice rink. Each hand was given a lead pipe. If a bear decided it wanted to leave the rink, the man closest was to hit the bear on the nose with the pipe.

Luckily during the local run the bears behaved.

A few years later when Henri came through with the Canadian Ballet he told how on the next stop, Chicago, the ice never got made the first day. The bears got sent out on the bare concrete to play hockey. One of the bears panicked and decided to leave the ‘rink’. The stagehand closest to the bear, stood up, threw the pipe hitting the bear in the nose, then turned and ran out of the building. He never stopped and never came back for any other performances or the Out.

‘I think he maybe still running,’ Henri said. ‘Didn’t even look around and see his pipe made the bear behave.’

A lead pipe to a Russian bear trainer is the equivalent of a whip and chair to a lion tamer.

BAP! Hit the bear on the nose with the pipe to get it’s attention.

BAP! Hit the bear on the nose to make it sit down.

BAP! Hit the bear on the nose before putting the skate on the bear’s foot.

Twenty years later I worked a different kind of Russian circus that featured trained bears. No hockey game just tricks like a bear on a unicycle and several bears wearing tutus and ‘ballet’ dancing. Same as before, the lead pipe, bap, bap, bap. All a person could do from taking the pipe and hitting the trainer on the nose.

When we were setting up that first day, one of our hands, Matt, showed you didn’t need a pipe to make a bear behave. Matt wasn’t paying any attention, a trait he excelled in, and he backed too close to a bear in the cage. Matt stopped and the bear reached through the bars and placed it’s paw on Matt’s shoulder. Matt turned his head, and having grown up on the Iron Range, had a lot of experience with bears, he slapped the bear’s paw away. Then Matt commenced to shout at the animal in Croatian. Matt didn’t move from the cage. It was the bear who jumped back and retreated to a far corner, away from this crazy man.

The bears did have a high degree of intelligence. Richie, the local’s hippie, liked the looks of the large red apples the bears got for a treat. He gave the friendliest bear a cigarette to eat. The bear loved it. Then Richie offered the bear another…only in exchange for the bear’s apple. It was a deal. When the bear got another apple it held on to it until it saw Richie and then would offer the apple to Richie in exchange for a cigarette.

The one Russian trainer saw what was happening and he offered to exchange an apple for two American cigarettes. Richie ate a lot of apples that week and made two new friends.

And now if you will ‘bear’ with me until the next post

I will tell what happened on

The Last Train Out