We never planned to move into a house next to a family of clowns, but then . . . you never know. I was a special education teacher and we were still renting, awaiting the sale of a house in Pennsylvania. It wasn't long before we started greeting the unusual neighbors to our right as we left the house. They sat in lawn chairs outside their garage in the morning, to enjoy the early sunlight and greet the neighbors. We learned they were clowns.
They were weird: not bad weird, just kind of unexpected weird. Remy had been the first clown in the family. Gwen was married to Remy's brother, Rene. The two brothers and Gwen grew up in Boulder, Colorado. Remy was a rodeo clown, who would dash out and distract the bucking broncos when their riders were thrown off. It seemed like a good gig, so Gwen and Rene decided to join.
Before long, they were invited to audition/interview for Barnum and Bailey, and they became real circus clowns.
We heard stories of their adventures, as well as their injuries, from falling from scaffolding, hanging the trapeze in Lyon, France (Rene) to getting run over by the steel ball with the motorcyclist racing around inside. (Gwen.) They grew, I believe, to be happy we befriended them, unlike other neighbors who would walk by, ignoring them.
Oh, and by the way, I did get permission from the clowns to use their real names. For me, it was a delightful way to remember them and memorialize those people who live on the outskirts of respectable society, in part because they truly are different.
