My grandfather, Edward Austin Reno was the son of Edward Munn Reno, Dean of American Magicians, a pioneer in the entertainment field of Illusions. Edward Austin Reno took his big top tent theater along the Circuit Chautauqua and rural Redpath route. His daughter, my mother, gave birth to me while they entertained a week in each town offering stage plays, comedy routines and of course, Ed Reno's magic act. Reno's Funmakers had a history in show business. It was what they did. It was all they knew. It was a life they loved with all their hearts. The Great Depression coupled with WW2 finally brought the family off the road. They always planned to return once the war ended. Like so many plans we make ourselves, theirs didn't materialize. I grew up in the midst of their disappointment, thus the book. My career took a different path. First college, majoring in business, chemistry and art. (my medium being oils). Followed by management positions and later, with a partner, forming my own manufacturing company called Pilot Industrial Battery. After selling the company I consulted to the battery industry until retiring here in Florida. I'v always been interested in writing. But, mostly as a guest columnist in newspapers and technical articles. Reno's Funmakers is my first novel. My second is currently being worked on.

Reno's Funmakers

A Biographical NovelBy George Moon

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2011 George Moon
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4269-6566-1

Contents

Introduction.............................vDedication...............................viiPrologue.................................xiChapter One..............................1Chapter Two..............................9Chapter Three............................14Chapter Four.............................23Chapter Five.............................27Chapter Six..............................31Chapter Seven............................45Chapter Eight............................52Chapter Nine.............................56Chapter Ten..............................70Chapter Eleven...........................74Chapter Twelve...........................77Chapter Thirteen.........................80Chapter Fourteen.........................85Chapter Fifteen..........................89Chapter Sixteen..........................92Chapter Seventeen........................96Chapter Eighteen.........................100Chapter Nineteen.........................104Chapter Twenty...........................108Chapter Twenty-One.......................114Chapter Twenty-Two.......................117Chapter Twenty-Three.....................121Chapter Twenty-Four......................124Chapter Twenty-Five......................129Chapter Twenty-Six.......................140Chapter Twenty-Seven.....................145Chapter Twenty-Eight.....................155Chapter Twenty-Nine......................161Chapter Thirty...........................164Chapter Thirty-One.......................170Chapter Thirty-Two.......................174Chapter Thirty-Three.....................180Chapter Thirty-Four......................184Chapter Thirty-Five......................188Chapter Thirty-Six.......................192Chapter Thirty-Seven.....................198Chapter Thirty-Eight.....................201Epilogue.................................203

Chapter One

The year is 1931. The stock market crash on October 29, 1929, changed the sentiment and expectations of the future for most Americans. It began a period of unemployment, low profits, high poverty, and stagnant trade, affecting the entire world for the next decade. Besides heavy industry, one of the worst damaged sectors in America was agriculture. Farm prices fell 60 percent. Thus, commodities were sold at a loss, if sold at all. Many families lost their homestead and land due to unpaid taxes.

Coupled with the 1930s drought, the agricultural heartland seemed to suffer the most. Farmers in the Great Plains states had to deal with what was called the Dust Bowl. A constant wind brought clouds of swirling dust across the land, darkening the sky for days. The summer heat was intense, oppressive, and unending. Rainfall was nonexistent. Cattle died from inhaling so much dust, their lungs clogged. As if all that wasn't enough, grasshoppers swarmed and ate what crops remained. Though nearly 20 percent of all workers were unemployed, farmers, for the most part, were self-employed. With their hopes and dreams lost forever, many began the exodus to California, looking for work. Others rode the rails and lived in Hoovervilles, willing to labor just for food. The mood was dour and sad. Reno's Funmakers offered a respite, if only for a few hours.

Local officials assigned a pasture southeast of town for erecting the big top. The grass was tall, but once activity began, it was trampled down enough for patrons to have no trouble negotiating their way to their destination. A small creek winding around the edge of the pasture helped to beautify the area, and off in the distance a horse could be seen grazing. A stand of trees on the southwest side partially enclosed the field, giving the setting a comfortable feeling. The open end faced east, with the town a little to the north. Reno's Funmakers had arrived the evening before, just before dark. Like a slow-moving train, the cars, trucks, and trailers found the prearranged location and parked in an orderly fashion, to spend the night and brace for the morning's activities. The cookhouse tent was set up first. Ed Reno recognized what was most important to his crew and roustabouts. Nothing like a full belly to relax the workers before the tent went up.

The trip from Athens had taken most of the day. It had rained the day before, and roads were still wet and muddy. Several times trucks would get stuck, mired in mud, and had to be pushed, pulled, and, in some cases, dug out. The auto du jour was Ford Model Ts, with one or two Model As; and due to road conditions, the caravan traveled at only twenty miles per hour. Many roads were still dirt. The better ones were gravel. While the Depression had taken its toll on the auto manufacturers, government highway projects had improved state roads.

The following day began with a sliver of whitish yellow appearing in the east at the junction of land and sky. It slowly spread upward, brightening the horizon. The lightened sky promised sunrise anytime now. Sparrows began to shake their feathers, and before long a bird chorus was struck. Their gentle wake-up symphony filled the air. Folks in the area could make out songs of certain birds. Were they listening now, they could hear the familiar sounds of tanagers, mourning doves, bobwhites, sedge wrens, and blue jays, just to name a few. An occupant they would not hear rested high in a Georgia pine. A great horned owl overlooked the goings-on. As the morning dawned, his activity was completed. His consisted of night operations. His roost could be identified by the buildup of whitewash and regurgitated pieces of bone, the undigested remains of prey, beneath the tree where he made his home. Strong talons, a bill hooked like a hawk's, eyes with one hundred times our light-gathering ability, and keen hearing allowed him to hunt in total darkness. His prey never heard him coming. While the forest contained oak, sweet gum, elm, maple, and magnolia, owls preferred the pines.

The heavy knock on Ed's door signified an emergency of some sort.

"Ed, it's me, Jess Backster. You got to come quick. Whitey's mean as all get out and beating up folks down at the tavern."

Ed looked at Gladys and shook his head. "I had a bad feeling about that son of a bitch when I hired him."

A worried Gladys said, "Please be careful. Let the law handle it."

As Ed went down the steps, he thought of how bad news traveled fast. If Whitey did something seriously harmful, it surely would hurt the reputation of the show.

Ed could tell something was wrong the moment he opened the door and walked into the tavern. It's the feeling one gets when a room is full of tension. It's like you've just interrupted something. Ed knew the feeling all too well. He looked around the tavern and spotted Whitey at a table by himself. As always, Boyd was nearby, but only cautiously close.

"Okay, boys, the fun's over," Ed said in a raised voice. "Let's everybody get back. We've got a busy morning ahead of us." That was welcome news to most everyone, and Reno's group began moving toward the exit.

"You ain't the boss of me. I quit," Whitey shouted as he rose to his feet, taking a fighting pose.

"No matter," Ed answered. "You're causing a disturbance and wrecking this man's business. That's got to stop."

The bartender leaned over to Ed and whispered, "I've already called the sheriff and he should be here pretty soon."

Ed looked at Whitey. "Let's just simmer down. No sense making more trouble."

The red-faced giant lunged forward and aimed a vicious punch at his ex-boss's head.

Ed hunched his left shoulder, making the blow glance off target, and followed with a short right counterpunch that landed flush on Whitey's cheek. The cracking sound was shockingly loud, and the next thing everyone heard was Whitey landing on the floor with his right leg twitching.

The sheriff arrived five minutes later, with Whitey still out. After the bartender explained what happened, the sheriff assured Ed he would keep Whitey behind bars until the show moved on.

"How did he do that?" asked a bystander, who was trying to recover from the emotional shock of witnessing such swift violence. "That feller is twiced his size." Another gave his opinion that the speed of the smaller man allowed the rapid and unforeseen counterpunch. No consensus was reached, however, as to the result of such a swift blow. There was general agreement that their own champion, a swarthy brute from the hills, could, "Take the little feller." Little did they know that that opinion had been reached by three score or more, with the result of them waking up bewildered and not knowing exactly what happened.

After the tavern cleared, the sheriff called out, "Somebody give me a hand with this guy. I can't carry him by myself." A couple of locals moved forward to help, along with Boyd Roberts, who did not return with the crew. He chose to remain with his hero and be there when he came to. It was good riddance to both of them, was Ed's thought, but Reno's Funmakers hadn't seen the last of either man.

Whitey had been born in the mountains of West Virginia. He apparently wanted to be an albino. Mother Nature had other ideas, so a settlement was reached. His hair, a shocking white, gave him his nickname. One of nine children and big for his age, he learned early on that by intimidation and coercion, most of his simple pleasures could be attained. It began at the supper table, where siblings were aware firsthand of his meanness, and out of fear gave part of their food to him as payment against physical retribution. At age twelve, Whitey ended his formal education, when he beat the teacher half to death for ordering him to stop pestering the girl seated in front of him. Because the teacher was a rather large man and the children in the class remained silent, the sheriff let him go. Over the next few years, Whitey's work consisted of general farm labor, until that day the circus came to town. Fascinated by all the trucks and wagons, some with elephants and caged animals, and with the gigantic canvas tent, he knew then and there the life he wanted to live.

"I'm stronger than any two men and can do the work of three," he lied, once he found the owner. The first part was obviously true, judging just by the size of him. The lie was to be learned later. Earlier in the the owner had discovered that two laborers had failed to appear for the morning exodus. Probably sleeping off last night's frivolity, he had thought.

"You might be needed," he told Whitey. "Go find a fella named Clyde Holderman and tell him I sent ya."

"Is your name Holderman?" Whitey asked a man. It had taken him about thirty minutes to find Clyde Holderman, because the animal cages were too fascinating. He'd only seen pictures of most of the animals, so to actually see them for real was an awesome experience.

"Who's asking?" Clyde asked as he turned away from a group of canvas men and faced the giant standing in front of him.

"Boss man told me to talk to you about work."

"Yeah, I am shorthanded right now," Clyde responded. A noise made him look over at some workers trying to unload a roll of canvas side wall from a flatbed truck. "If you want to work, go help those men unload."

Things couldn't have worked out better for Whitey. "You guys need a little help?" he asked, walking over to the truck.

"Too damn heavy for just two men," they replied.

Whitey said, "Step aside, boys." He hoisted the canvas roll up on his back and asked, "Where do you want it?"

It didn't take long before word reached all the crew about a strong man who could pick up a canvas roll by himself.

He had been fired from three previous jobs, the last one at gunpoint. Today he could have sued for wrongful discharge and received a sizable settlement, but back then, going against your word and breaking trust were considered more important. It didn't take very long before Whitey lost this job as well, but he hung around town long enough to be hired as a replacement when Ed Reno needed two helpers. One had married a young local widow and stayed to work her small farm, and the other had been hospitalized with appendicitis.

Like many roustabouts, Whitfield "Whitey" Carney moved from one "Toby" show to another for various reasons, ranging from larceny, drunkenness, and fighting. Abuse of the bottle was common but not easily tolerated, because without exception, fighting came next.

Traveling shows on the Circuit Chautauqua worked hard to maintain the image of high morals and respectability. Most of the time, the fighting took place in town after the work was completed and the men were paid. It was a ritual to visit the local inn and let off steam. Even after the men received harsh warnings, once the alcohol began to flow, the mind tended to become murky, with resolve in short supply.

With the last show concluded and the big top was prepared to be taken down in the morning, several workers and roustabouts decided to visit the town tavern for a few laughs and cold beer. The rules for such activity were cast in stone. Do nothing to embarrass them or draw dishonor on the show. Rules such as these gave traveling shows a good reputation, and Ed Reno, for one, demanded close adherence to the discipline. With Whitey, the distance between self-control and irrational behavior was as thin as a shadow. He did his thinking with his mouth, and when he drank, restraint disappeared completely. Predictably, once the gang settled in at the local watering hole, it was Whitey who became boisterous and argumentative. To make matters worse, a couple of his toadies always seemed to encourage him. In particular was a sycophant named Boyd Roberts, who had latched onto Whitey early on. Up until Whitey joined the show, Boyd was the butt of most jokes. And you would need to look far and wide to find someone more worthy to be the recipient of such jokes. He had the most annoying way of repeating himself, as well as comments made by others. If someone said, "It looks like rain today," Boyd's response would be, "Looks like rain today, looks like rain today." Over time, his idiosyncrasy irritated callous canvas men, and they referred to him as Boyd Boyd.

Meanwhile, back in the lockup, Whitey was slowly regaining consciousness. His speech was jumbled, and pronouncing words was difficult due to the worst headache he'd ever experienced. Boyd was there, having asked the sheriff to let him be with Whitey when he came to.

"What happened?" Whitey asked. "How did I end up here?"

"Ed Reno hit you with a table leg, with a table leg," Boyd responded. He knew the astonishing truth, but felt unsure about revealing it to his hero. No telling how Whitey would react if he knew the truth. He would take it out on whoever stood the closest, and Boyd was locked in the same cell.

"Let me out of here!" Whitey shouted. And he continued shouting until the sheriff came back and told him to pipe down. aren't getting out until tomorrow, so make the best of it," the sheriff said.

"He hit me with a table leg," Whitey bellowed.

"That isn't the way I heard it," the sheriff replied, and walked back to his office.

Chapter Two

The author owes his existence to an event that occurred during the summer of 1931, when a tall young man appeared at the big top, hoping to find work. His looks were classic for the era. Black wavy hair and a well-trimmed mustache gave him the appearance of John Bowles, a popular movie idol of the time The women in the big top froze where they stood, wondering who he was and why he was there.

"Are you Mr. Reno?" he asked one man.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" Ed Reno said.

"I'm looking for work."

"Who isn't in these times?" Ed asked. "What's your line? What can you do?"

"I'm a singing evangelist. Been working on my own for a while, but can't make enough to survive. I thought maybe I could join up with the show."

"A singing evangelist!" Ed exclaimed. "I think I've heard it all this week. I'm sorry, son, but as you pointed out times are tough, and we just make it with the people we already have. If you're hungry, you can go to the cook tent and eat your fill."

At that moment, as the brooding evangelist walked to the cook tent, Gladys Reno approached and asked her husband what the discussion was all about. Like the other women on the show, she was attracted to a good-looking man, and this one piqued her curiosity. After a short huddle with Ed, she stated that the man could probably work for a while, just for meals and a place to sleep. They could feature him singing a gospel song when the performance was over. Though disinclined to hire the man, Ed always found it hard to refuse Gladys, and he agreed to present the offer. He slowly walked over to the cook tent.

"If you're willing to work for room and board, we'll give you a try," Ed said. In the back of his mind, he wasn't quite sure how this newcomer would help the show. Plus, an explanation would be due to the rest of the troupe. Where the evangelist would bunk also needed to be determined.

"I was hoping to get some pay, even if it wasn't much," the somewhat dejected man replied. "I trust somehow I can prove my worth."

"You can bunk with Frank Keagan over there," Ed said, pointing to a trailer by the makeup tent. "You sat next to Frank when you were in the cook tent. Frank's my advance man. He books the show in advance here on the Redpath circuit." Ed scratched his chin and asked, "What do they call you?"

"Most folks call me Dutch. My mother's nickname was Dutch, and I guess I was a momma's boy, so that's where the name came from."

"Sounds like a gangster, but if that's what it is, we'll call you Dutch," Ed said.

And so, George Carson Moon joined the show.

Meanwhile, back at the trailer of Gladys and Ed, a conversation was taking place between Gladys and her young daughter, Pauline.

"I've talked your father into hiring a quite handsome young man. He's an evangelist or something or other and sings. Your father can have him sing a gospel song to close the show." Gladys beamed. "All the ladies couldn't keep their eyes off of him."

"Is he married?" Pauline asked.

"I don't think so, but honey, he's much too old for you," Gladys said. "You're only sixteen and shouldn't be thinking that sort of thing. Not yet anyway."

"When will we see him?" the girl asked.

"Probably at rehearsals."

Though only sixteen, Pauline looked older than her age. She was booked as the Leading Lady of the South and had the main role in most of the plays. She also entertained by tap dancing, with an occasional song or two.

All the women took extra care as they prepared for rehearsal that day. More hair was washed and set than ever before. Not to be outdone, Gladys and Pauline took so much time, they arrived nearly an hour late, much to Ed's chagrin.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Reno's Funmakersby George Moon Copyright © 2011 by George Moon. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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