Tim Conway's Tale of Childhood Faith and Answered Prayer

2007
by Tim Conway

Five dimes were burning a hole in my pocket—the ones I'd saved just for this day. The carnival was in town! Part of the annual Blossom Festival in my hometown of Chagrin Falls, Ohio: brass bands marched down Main Street, the town's ladies competed for the best jams and pies and the fruit trees dripped pink and white blossoms on the sidewalk. But, for me the best part was the carnival.

Saturday morning I wrapped my fingers around those coins and made my way to the carnival. "Step right up, young man, step right up," came the call from the booths. "Take a chance and win the prize of your life!"

There were giant teddy bears and rockets that a 12-year-old kid like me could shoot off in the backyard. Plastic jewelry sparkled in gimcrack treasure chests. But I wasn't going to waste my hard-earned money on just anything. It had to be the perfect thing.

Why pitch a Ping-Pong ball into a pot of goldfish or swing a hammer in a test for "The World's Strongest Man" if you didn't really want the prize?

I lingered for a moment at the merry-go-round, watching the horses go round and round to the calliope's song. They seemed a poor match for the real horses my dad took care of, and I would rather ride the real thing.

I bought a Coke in a bottle and sipped it, walking around the fairgrounds. One dime down. Then I spotted the Ferris wheel, circling above the fair. Ten cents a ride. I ponied up my second dime and hopped on.

Slowly I rose above the cotton candy and popcorn booths, above the sounds of the barkers shouting, above the trees until I could see the whole town. There was the school I attended and the fishing hole my buddies and I raced to after school.

I could see the ballpark, the movie theater on Main Street and our church, the center of our world.

Both Mom and Dad had immigrat­ed here from the Old Country. Dad had worked with horses back in Ireland and got a job on a horse farm. And Mom was a seamstress who could sew anything; Dad's shirts, my Halloween costumes, her own dresses. She came here from Romania when she was only 16 years old and quickly found work.

I was their only kid and I always felt I was a real blessing to them. But when we prayed together on Sunday mornings their faith seemed so much greater. Kneeling next to them, I felt like I was waiting to hear God speak.

The Ferris wheel brought me plummet­ing back down to the ground and I hurried away, fingering the three dimes left in my pocket. That's when I spot­ted it: a white plastic crucifix that glowed in the dark with an emerald-green ribbon around it.

It was attached to one of 60 plas­tic ducklings bobbing up and down in a pool of water. A hose at the bottom of the pool made the ducks swim and spin. That crucifix was meant to be mine. I'd never been so sure of anything in my life.

"Step right up, son," the barker called to me. "For just ten cents that beauty could be all yours. All you have to do is pick it up with a hook. I'll bet you can catch anything when you fish."

Sure can, I thought. I handed over my dime and the man handed me a wooden pole. I lowered the hook toward the crucifix, slowly, carefully, but just as I yanked it the plastic duck scurried away. "Try again," said the barker, holding out his hand for another dime. This time it'll work.

I acted like I was fishing down by the river, casting my hook toward a trout. The duck with the crucifix came just in reach. I jerked up the line. Noth­ing. "Third time's a charm," said the man. I handed him my last dime and lowered the hook ever so gently to the crucifix...and pulled. Nothing.

The barker turned away. "Step right up," he called. It was so unfair! All my dimes were gone. Why was I so sure that crucifix was meant for me? Why was I certain I could win it?

I started to walk away, head down. My day at the carnival was over. Then I spotted something on the ground. One shiny dime, glinting in the bright sun. I picked it up and squeezed it between my fingers—and headed back to the game.

For some reason, I turned around. To this day, I can't tell you why. I left the fairground and stopped at a giant old maple tree. Leaning against the trunk, I closed my eyes and started praying, praying harder than I'd ever prayed before.

Lord, I said, if you're listening, I would really like that cross. The one that glows in the dark with the emerald ribbon.

I stayed there for a long time, just waiting. I could hear shouts at the carnival and the sound of the calliope. But slowly it all faded away and I was left with only my de­sire for the cross. What did it mean? It was just a piece of plastic that glowed in the dark, after all.

No, but it was more. It represented the faith I'd been yearning for, the deep and living faith that my parents had. I wanted it too and, somehow, in my 12-year-old heart, that plastic crucifix had come to symbolize it.

Standing against that old maple tree I knew that faith was already there for me to have, if I could just reach for it. Lord, I really want that crucifix. But even if it's not meant to be, I want you in my life every day.

I hurried back to the fairground, and right back to that booth. The barker looked at me, raised an eyebrow and stretched out his palm. I slapped the dime in it, and he handed me the fishing pole, eyeing me with bemusement.

Many of the other prizes had disappeared, but the crucifix was still there. I dipped the pole in the water, felt it catch against the emerald ribbon, then I raised the hook. The crucifix dangled from the other end. It was mine.

That little cross stayed with me for a lifetime. It was with me when I left home and went off to college. It was with me when I decid­ed I wanted to act, and got my break on the Steve Allen Show and then on McHale's Navy.

It was with me through my wonder­ful years on The Carol Burnett Show, too. I still have it, and I hold on to it when I pray for people who are ill, for my children and grandchildren.

All these years later, miles from Chagrin Falls, that little carnival cross still helps me feel connected to God.

"Roy Clark, Thanks For Coming"

I don't know whose idea it was to form the Hee Haw Gospel Quartet, but boy was it a good one. Formed In the late 1970s, the quartet consisted of Roy Clark, Buck Owens, Grandpa Jones and Kenny Price. They would gather around a microphone and sing a gospel hymn at the end of the show's last segment. Several of the quartet's performances were released as recordings. We had two albums at WANY and we played them a lot. When Elmer Goodman died Sid Scott told me he had regretted not taking him into a recording studio with The Singjng DJ's and recording a gospel album in Hee Haw Quartet fashion. That would have been awesome.

Yesterday when I first heard that Roy Clark, a Grammy-winning country music singer-guitarist, had died of pneumonia complications at the age of 85, I immediately thought of the Hee Haw Gospel Quartet.

Clark was born on April 15, 1933 in Meherrin, VA, but his family moved to Washington, D.C. when he was a kid. His father played in a square dance band and took him to free concerts by the National Symphony and by military bands. “I was subjected to different kinds of music before I ever played,” Clark once said. “Dad said, ‘Never turn your ear off to music until your heart hears it — because then you might hear something you like.”

Roy started playing the guitar when he was 14 years old. In the early days of his career, he performed with banjo player David “Stringbean" Akeman. He said, "We would play drive-in theaters, standing on top of the concession stand. If the people liked it, they'd honk their horns."

Roy began making records in 1954. It didn't take long for people to sit up and take notice of his guitar playing. In the mid 1950s, he honed his television chops as a regular on Country Style, the D.C.-based television show hosted by Jimmy Dean, eventually taking over as host after Dean relocated to New York

. His big break came in 1960, when he was invited to Las Vegas to open for Wanda Jackson. After her band broke up, Clark hired her manager, who secured him appearances on The Tonight Show and Beverly Hillbillies. Clark was guest host on “The Tonight Show” several times in the 1960s and 1970s, a rarity for a country performer at that time. Yankee's baseball great Mickey Mantle was moved to tears when he heard Roy sing “Yesterday When I Was Young” and for years made Clark promise to sing it at his memorial, a request granted when Mantle died in 1995.

His first hit single came in 1963 with his recording of the Bill Anderson song, "Tips of my Fingers." He scored a huge hit in 1969 with one of his most beloved recordings, "Yesterday When I Was Young." He followed that up in 1970 with, "Thank God and Greyhound She's Gone." His 1973 hit "Come Live With Me," went to #1. His recording of "Alabama Jubilee" won him a Grammy Award in 1982. He was also known for his instrumental versions of “Malaguena,” on 12-string guitar, and “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”

As if his pickin' the banjo or the guitar wasnt enough, Roy's sense of humor captured the hearts of his fans. In a 1966 appearance on the TV show, Swingin’ Country, the host, Rusty Draper, asked him, “About how long have you been performing?“ Without skipping a beat, Clark said, “About three months.”

The music-comedy TV show, Hee Haw, greatly impacted a whole generation of people, thanks largely to one of Kornfield Kounty's most popular residents, the show's co-host, Roy Clark. CBS launched Hee Haw in summer 1969 as country music’s answer to Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In. Each episode was filled with country music stars and down-home comedy skits. It lasted three seasons on the network before moving to syndication, where it aired for 22 more years.

Hee Haw was theme-based on rural culture, although it was not limited to a rural audience. It was successful in all of the major markets, including New York, Los Angeles, Boston, and Chicago.

The show provided a lot of laughs, and plenty of country music. Buck and Roy hosted the show through most of its run for most of its run. Their dialogue at the beginning of each show became one of most popular quotes ever: "I'm a-pickin' (Buck Owens)and I'm a-grinnin' (Roy Clark.

My favorite Roy Clark skit was set in a barber shop with Archie Campbell, a barber, cutting Roy's hair as he told one if his stories, like the one about Rindercella, her mugly other, two sad bisters and a very prandsom hince, or how about the "Oh that's good, no that's bad" gag? There was also the one where Roy would raise up from behind the counter to exclaim "Empty Arms Hotel!" Clark said Hee Haw capped off his career. “This was the icing on the cake," he said. This put my face and name together.” Another favorite of mine was the lamentful song "Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me," featuring Roy Clark, Buck Owens, Gordie Tapp and Archie Campbell.

Roy Clark was member of the Country Music Hall of Fame and Grand Ole Opry and has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. He also won the Acedemy of Country Music’s Pioneer Award. Beginning in 1983, Roy opened the Roy Clark Celebrity Theatre in Branson, Missouri, and was one of the first country entertainers to open a theater there. Dozens followed him.

Roy was all about spreading love and good cheer. One of my all-time favorite quotes came when he said, "The next chance you get, do somethin' nice for somebody - say 'good day,' hold a door open - and don't wait around for a thank you...you don't need it." If only we would all do that, the world would be a better place. Roy must have known that.

He appreciated his fans and always let them know that he did. At the end of his concerts, he would tell the audience: “We had to come, but you had a choice. Thanks for being here.”

Yes, we had a choice and we chose you, Roy Clark. Thanks for coming. We were not let down. Thank you for the music, and for the laughs.

I close my story with the Hee Haw Gospel Quartet singing a beautiful rendition of Amazing Grace, featuring Charlie McCoy on harmonica.

The Cheyenne Social Club

The Cheyenne Social Club is a 1970 western comedy film directed and produced by Gene Kelly and starring James Stewart, Henry Fonda, Shirley Jones and Sue Ane Langdon. Set in 1867, it's about an aging cowboy, John O'Hanlan who inherits a brothel and decides to turn it into a respectable boarding house, against the wishes of both the townspeople and the ladies working there.

O'Hanlan (Stewart) and Harley Sullivan (Fonda) leave their jobs working on open cattle ranges in Texas to make the 1,000 mile trek to Cheyenne. Along the way, they engage in quite an interesting conversation, except it's Sullivan who does most of the talking.

Harley Sullivan: "I remember when I was about twelve years old. My daddy asked me, he says, 'What do you want to be when you grow up, Little Harley?' And like a fool, I said a cowboy. I've been making wrong moves ever since."

Harley Sullivan: "Did I ever tell ya how my Uncle Charlie got stoved up?"
John O'Hanlan: "No, Harley."
Harley Sullivan: "His home set right out in the prarie. One day he went in the outhouse and got caught right in the middle of a stampede. When he went in there wasn't a cow in sight. A few minutes late 365 longhorns ran over him. Broke him up something terrrible. That was nineteen years ago and he's still constipated."

John O'Hanlan: "Harley, did you ever get married?"
Harley Sullivan: "Yes, John, I did."
John O'Hanlan: "Well, I never knew it."
Harley Sullivan: "Well, John, it ain't something I like to talk about, but I was married once. And once is enough for any man. You can't smoke, chew, dip, drink, scratch in the parlor, or cuss. When you leave the house, they ask you where'd you go. And when you come home, they ask you where have you been. And right now with you, it is just like when I was married."
John O'Hanlan: "Why, how is that, Harley?"
Harley Sullivan: "Well, John, when a woman's talking to you, you can be pretty sure that she thinks she's in control. And when she's not talking to you, you can be pretty certain you're in control. Take Helen. She had flame red hair, pitch black eyes, ruby lips and no teeth - but talk about a body! She could straddle two horses at the same time. I went with her until I found out she dipped snuff. There's something awful unfemale about a snuff dipper - don't you think so, John?"

John O'Hanlan: "Harley, I want you to do me a favor. Don't ever tell anyone here in Cheyenne I voted Democratic. You'll do that for me, won't you?"
Harley Sullivan: "If you say so."
John O'Hanlan: "Thank you."
Harley Sullivan: "John, you don't mind if I still vote Democratic, do you?"
John O'Hanlan: "Just so long as you're not seen with me when you do it. Be bad for business."

John O'Hanlan: "What are you lookin' at?"
Harley Sullivan: "You."
John O'Hanlan: "Why?"
Harley Sullivan: "I don't know. You look different some how."
John O'Hanlan: "What do you mean different?"
Harley Sullivan: "John, its kind of hard for me to put my finger on."
John O'Hanlan: "Well, try Harley. Use 'em all."

Harley Sullivan: "Hank Jameson had fourteen brothers and sisters. She only had three toes on her left foot. I remember one day..."
John O'Hanlan: "Harley, who only had three toes on her left foot?
Harley Sullivan: "Hank's sister, Cora B. Cora B. Jameson was her name. Folks used to pay her to take her shoe off."

Harley Sullivan: You just ain't the man you was yesterday. At least ways not from where I stand."
John O'Hanlan: "Well, maybe you're not standin' in the right place Harley! What do you mean I'm not the man today I was yesterday?"
Harley Sullivan: "Just, like you lost yourself when you took a bath!"

Fonda drones on and on as the pair travel across the vast Western landscape, about his family and dogs and heaven knows what all else. Finally...

John O'Hanlan: “You know where we are now, Harley?”
Harley Sullivan: “Not exactly.”
John O'Hanlan: “We’re in the Wyoming Territory and you’ve been talkin’ all the way from Texas.”
Harley Sullivan: “Just been keepin’ you company.”
John O'Hanlan: “I appreciate it, Harley, but if you say another word the rest of the day I’m gonna kill you.”