Forget the Darn Hat Fancy Pants!

If you try too hard to look good, you can miss the show and end up looking like a real Bozo.

“Teddy, get off your brother’s head and Judi and Larry quit jumping off the couch,” Mom said as she entered the living room.

“But Mom, we’re scuba diving,” I said as I took a last leap off the couch.

“I don’t care. Everybody be quiet for a minute,” Mom said.

“Thanks Mom. I couldn’t breathe,” Dan said as he got up after being released from his big brother’s illegal wrestling hold.

“What, Mom?” Connie asked as she serenely put her baby doll into her toy-sized baby buggy.

One-year-old Monica sat quietly in Dad's chair, safely snuggled from the family ruckus around her.

“Judi, put your shirt on,” Mom said as she grabbed my arm when I attempted to run swimmingly by her. Larry and I both had stripped off our shirts and strapped shoeboxes to our backs with leather belts to create pretend scuba tanks like we had seen on Lloyd Bridges’ TV show, “Sea Hunt.”

“Why do I have to put on a shirt and Larry doesn’t?” I asked but unhooked the belt of my scuba tank. Unbothered, Larry kept plunging off the couch.

“Well, that’s different. And besides, I wanted to tell you that you’ve been invited to your classmate’s birthday party,” mom said. She handed me my shirt after she picked it up from where it hung on one of the lights of our living room floor lamp.

“Will the birthday party be here?” I asked as I pulled on my shirt and pointed to the kitchen table. The only birthday parties I’d ever gone to were mine or my brothers’ or sisters’.

“Not this time,” Mom said.

“Why?” I asked leaning against her and pulling on her leg.

“As you get older, classmates sometimes have parties that they invite other classmates to,” our seven-month pregnant Mom explained as she caught Larry mid-air and guided him down, landing him in a momentary resting position on the floor.

“And the most exciting part is that you are going to be on TV,” Mom continued. She grabbed a plastic horse from Danny that Danny was going to use to hit Teddy in retaliation for the earlier, smothering pin down.

“I’m going to be on TV?” I asked, blinking my eyes.

Mom’s latest comment about me being on TV caught Teddy and Danny's attention and they stopped horsing around.

“Is Judi really going to be on our television?” Teddy asked.

“Like on Captain Kangaroo?” Danny asked.

“Or Bozo the Clown?” Teddy added with a laugh and pushed his brother’s shoulders.

“Yeah, Bozo! I love Bozo,” I squealed. I giggled with my brothers and jumped up and down. It was 1964 in Fargo, North Dakota. There weren’t many local TV shows, beyond the news, weather, sports, and a couple of talk shows.

“No, not Bozo. As a part of a birthday celebration for one of Judi’s classmates, Judi and some boys and girls from her kindergarten class are going to be on the ‘Captain Jim’ show,” Mom said.

It became a surreally quiet Stoa front room as six sets of blue eyes stared at our mother.

“Captain Jim? Not Bozo?” I said quietly.

“Yeah! Captain Jim! He’s on TV in the afternoons!” Teddy whooped. “He gives you candy and stuff and talks to you. He’s kinda like Bozo the Clown, but he looks like a boat captain.

“Oh yeah! Captain Jim!” Danny echoed our eldest brother.

“Yay Captain Jim!” I began cheering and jumping up and down again.

The next thing I remember is that I was wearing my favorite dress under my winter coat and standing inside a big dark grey building with lots of industrial lights and cables.

There were about six of us in the birthday group from my kindergarten class, but other kids were there too, creating a group of about 20. The floor beneath us was wet as the dirty, early spring snow melted from our galoshes. All of us watched grownups run around and talk energetically with each other.

“You kids stand right here by me,” a kind lady said as a couple of other ladies helped us take off our coats, boots, caps, and mittens.

“I need you to stay put and not get in the way as we get ready for the Captain Jim Show,” she said. Her voice went higher and louder when she mentioned Captain Jim’s name. We all giggled and smiled.

A few minutes later, she told us to follow her in single file to three rows of bleachers in an area that was brightly lit. Because I was near the front of the line, I climbed to the top of the bleachers and took a seat. I fidgeted under the warm lights.

“Well, here he is,” the nice lady said brightly.

“Hello kids! I’m Captain Jim! I’m glad you’re here,” Captain Jim said.

I giggled and smiled, mimicking the rest of the bleacher kids who were excited to see Caption Jim in person.

Then the lady and Captain Jim handed each of us a balloon to hold and a paper hat to wear.

Now, for those of you who have met me in person, you may have noticed that I have a larger than average sized head. My niece Chelsey has aptly named the noggins of those of us in the family who are especially crown-endowed as the “Stoa Domes.”

So if you want to imagine me back in 1964 sitting on that bleacher trying to place and keep a small paper hat on my head, think of Theodore Beaver Cleaver from “Leave it to Beaver” and his big noggin on top of which the show's producers affixed a baseball hat. I was the spitting image, a female version of the Beaver, but I was working with a flimsy, one-size-fits-all paper hat.

Interestingly, my sibling’s childhood nickname for me was "Beaver“ as well, but it’s not for the reason you may think. They named me Beaver because my rather large front teeth stuck out a bit due to my formative thumb-sucking years.

Anyway. Back to the show.

“Kids, just relax and have fun,” Captain Jim said.

“And clap and cheer when I do,” the nice lady said.

“And heeeerrre weeeee gooooo,” Captain Jim said.

All of a sudden, I heard snaps and clicks, and the bright lights got even brighter. I began squirming as the lights shined in my eyes. I scrunched my face. I couldn’t see anything except for the silhouetted heads directly in front of me.

I put my hands above my eyes to shield against the glare. In doing so, I knocked my precious paper hat off my head.

My chin jutted out and tremored.

“Oh no!” I thought in total alarm as I swiveled quickly on my wooden seat to watch my hat flutter to the ground behind the bleachers. Reeling from my misfortune, I inadvertently let go of my balloon. The balloon followed the same path as my hat but caught on a sharp edge of the bleacher and popped.

I stared, mortified at the colorful rubber remnants of my prize hanging from the bleacher. Peering through tears and past the accident site, I could see that at least my hat remained in good shape. Without hesitating or waving good-bye to Captain Jim, I got on my hands and knees and scaled down the back of the bleachers to the floor.

On my trip down, I heard Captain Jim talking with the kids. I also heard everybody laughing and cheering. Out of habit, I echoed their laughter.

It was cooler and darker behind the bleachers, away from the radiant studio lights of Captain Jim’s live television broadcast. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The laughter and talking continued out front as the show went on without me. I finally spotted my hat. It was right under the soles of my doctor-prescribed black leather orthopedic shoes. Dust bunnies clung to both my hat and shoes.

I wiped off my hat. It had a permanent imprint of my shoes on it, but I still placed it on my head. With several dust bunnies now in tow from top to bottom, I reached my hands up to the metal bleachers and began my ascent. It was a tougher trek on the way up. From my increased efforts, I jiggled the bleachers and they squeaked as I made my way back to my perch. Above me, kids jiggled in unison in their seats.

Upon reaching the summit, I again turned my back to Captain Jim and the cameras and bent over to wipe off the hitchhiking dust bunnies that had landed in my seat as I stepped over it.

At last, I was ready to sit down. As I leaned over I bumped the kid next to me.

“Stop it,” he hissed. He made a face and returned a more forcible bump. Jostled, I felt my hat fall from my head. Again.

My chin jutted out. I shot the kid a withering look, stood up, turned around, and began another controlled but emotional descent.

By the time my hat and I got back to our seat, a good portion of Captain Jim’s show was over. I never did get to talk to him. I put my shoes on the bleacher in front of me, and rested my head in hands and my elbows on my knees. My tarnished hat, looking like a New Year's Eve Party Hat left over, sat crookedly on my head. After the show, the nice lady gave me a sucker and replaced my blasted balloon.

That night at home, we talked about my experience of being on the Captain Jim Show.

Even though Mom and Dad had tears running down their faces from stifling their guffaws at seeing more of my fancy pants (our parents’ term for underwear) than of me, Teddy and Danny and Connie excitedly told me they saw me right there on our television set in the front room. Larry didn’t have much to say, he just continued to jump off the arm of chair, a chair within which Monica sat safely wedged.

From my first television appearance, I learned a life lesson that you might use to see and bring out the best in yourself and others—and it's pretty simple fancy pants:

If you focus too much on looking good, you could end up looking like a clown. Let things fall where they may and just enjoy the show!

Judi Stoa's Donchyaknow Life Lessons to see and bring out the best in yourself and others

Website: Judi Stoa Books

Blog: Donchyaknow Life Lessons

Oh yeah. Learn more about Captain Jim (Jim Rohn). And here too.