I tried to be nonchalant about it, as if it were a perfectly normal
thing for a middle-aged man to sit on a mall bench turning balloons
into flowers.
This is a skill I picked up last fall in preparing for a church comedy
sketch that called for me to make a balloon sculpture and get it all
wrong. I figured in order to get it wrong, I ought to know a little
about getting it right, so I bought a package of sculptural balloons
and used the illustration on the package to figure out how to make a
dog.
That was easy enough, so I set out to discover what else I could
make. I explored a menagerie of balloon animals, but they never
looked much like what they're supposed to be. I liked the flowers,
though. The colorful balloons and fanciful shapes seemed suited to
floral designs, so I became a specialist in creating what I've come to
call "clownflowers."
It didn't take long for me to discover the joy my clownflowers could
bring to the world, and I started carrying a bag of balloons with me
all the time. Children, especially, are drawn to clownflowers, but
I've seen certifiable curmudgeons laugh out loud at the sight of a
balloon flower bouquet.
We live in dangerous and fearful times, and I've come to believe that
if a quarter's worth of latex can generate a priceless amount of joy --
for who can put a dollar figure on even a fleeting smile? -- then I'll
gladly pay it a hundred times.
I won't deny a selfish motive. I believe in karma, that what you reap
what you sow, that if you plant a seed of joy, then bounties of joy
will come back, and I need joy in my life. Who doesn't?
Last Sunday afternoon, I put my clownflowers to a test.
I had taken my family to a nearby mall and got separated from them.
I soon tired of window shopping and took a seat on a bench near a
fountain to people-watch, one of my favorite pastimes. When
someone would make eye contact with me, they looked expectant
somehow, as if wondering what I was doing there and wondering
what was in it for them, as if they sensed I had something to offer.
So after a few minutes, I brought out my balloon bag, and even
though I wasn't putting on a show, it's hard to be inconspicuous
while blowing up a 60-inch balloon. People look and wonder. The
eyes of the passers-by were no longer wanting, however, but
amused.
I finished the first one just as a family came walking by with a little
girl about 9 or 10 years old. She didn't seem happy about being
there, trailing a few steps behind her mother and an older child. She
eyed me suspiciously -- the appropriate response -- as I silently
offered her the flower, then looked to her mother, who said, "Go
ahead and take it if it’s free."
Her face brightened as took the flower, and I watched how her body
language changed from sullen and mopey to cheerful and energized.
In the 45 minutes it took for my family to catch up with me, I
unleashed a dozen or more clownflowers, each one carrying with it
a prayer for joy. If no one happened to be walking by as I finished
one, I put it in a planter by the fountain, brightening their plastic
greenery with rubber flowers.
But I never accumulated more than two or three, because as people
would notice them and laugh, I'd say, "They're free if you want
one." No one declined. One family gave me two bucks anyway,
though the accumulation of money was not my objective and didn't
even cover the expense.
My mission was to spread joy and clownflowers, and I won.
Hamilton, Ohio, March 5, 2003.