Magical Mini-Me

A few autobiographical bits

While recently looking for something else in the depths of a closet, I stumbled across a stash of stuff my mom had kept from my childhood, including a few relics of my adolescent career as a magician.

For the record: I wouldn’t describe myself as “fighting shyness,” even as a kid. I’ve just always preferred to let others do the talking.

I got into stage magic when my sixth grade teacher, a giant (he gave his height as “five-eighteen-and-a-half”) named Jim Riley, held after-school magic classes. There were maybe half-a-dozen of us in the Magic Club, including my bestie Susan. Mr. Riley taught both stage magic and sleight-of-hand, but I wasn’t very good at the latter mainly because I had small, delicate hands (while Mr. Riley could hide a large orange in his palm). The only hand trick I was good at was one involving producing tiny foam rabbits because I could squish those up and they’d fit my grip.

But my size also made me a good fit (literally) for the larger stage illusions we did as a club, like the Snoopy’s Doghouse trick, in which a wooden doghouse is shown to be empty and then I popped out of it. The trick, of course, was an angled hidden space inside the doghouse, which I fit into easily.

Because I was an animal lover even then, I discovered that I adored dove magic. I acquired two birds, whom I named Ali and Abi (short for Alakazam and Abracadabra), and I saved up enough money to invest in a few of my favorite pieces of equipment, including a dove pan (a large metal pan which you actually poured alcohol into, lit on fire, put a lid onto, and then lifted it to reveal a dove) and a tray that held a large balloon that would burst to reveal a dove (that’s the trick I’m performing in the ancient newpaper photo above).

I was, frankly, never a great magician. For one thing, my ambitions tended to outstrip my skills or resources; I was always dreaming up grand presentations I couldn’t achieve. While I wasn’t especially nervous about performing, I also lacked the sheer showmanship of the great magicians.

I did magic for probably about five years, partnering with Susan to entertain at libraries, clubs, and birthday parties (the worst one ever: when we discovered the hard way that the housewife hiring us had a morbid fear of birds), and occasionally entering contests. The highest I ever got was third place.

The magic petered out after a cat got to Ali and Abi one night, and then when I went to college Mom sold all of my equipment.

I also think my interest in magic went in other directions, leading to my brief career as a Hollywood modelmaker and special makeup effects sculptor, but eventually taking me to the place where I was finally able to realize all those grand ambitions: writing.

That’s why, when I was accepting my Lifetime Achievement Award last month, Jim Riley was one of the people I thanked. I’m assuming he’s long gone by now, but I think of him often and am so grateful to have had him in my life.

What a difference in a life a great teacher can make.