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When a clown needs a unique and durable combination of leather and laces for his act, he's apt to call on a family that has the circus in its blood.

By JEFF KLINKENBERG
Published April 23, 2006

[Times photos: Zach Boyden-Holmes]

Wayne Scott, wearing a pair of “Clownverse” clown shoes modeled after the classic Converse Chuck Taylor sneakers, gets a kiss from his wife, Marty, at their Howey-in-the-Hills home.

	Each pair of clown shoes is a special order, designed for the owner’s foot and act.
	The Scotts’ son, Allen, works on a pair of clown shoes at the family workshop. Over time, the Scotts have forged a reputation of making quality shoes that fit just right. Glen “Frosty” Little, who retired after 60 years as a clown, ordered three pairs of shoes in 30 years. “Two of those pairs are good to go right now,” he says.
	Wayne Scott ran off to join the circus in 1968, leaving a job at General Motors to become a clown. Two years later, he and Marty began making shoes for other clowns.

HOWEY-IN-THE-HILLS

Clowns are notoriously hard on their shoes. Footwear becomes damp when another clown is careless with a bucket of water. Clowns step in cotton candy. Sometimes clowns find themselves at the losing end of an elephant.

When clowns need a new pair of shoes they don't go to the mall. They call Wayne, Marty and Allen Scott in north-central Florida. The Scotts have been shoemakers for the circus set going on four decades. Hang around their home long enough and you are likely to hear a Scott bark into the telephone: "How are your shoes holding up, Frosty?''

A former Ringling Brothers clown, Wayne began building shoes with the help of his wife, Marty, in 1970. Now their son, Allen, carries on the tradition, important in a state that long has been the winter home for circuses large and small. In March, the Scotts received a Folk Heritage Award from the Department of State for their contributions to Florida culture. The Scotts didn't drive to Tallahassee for the ceremony. Wayne was recovering from surgery and the rest of the Scotts were too busy cobbling shoes for the frantic clowns who frequently leave desperate messages on the voicemail.

"Can you build me some shoes? By tomorrow?''

The answer is yes and no. The shoes they can build, but the wait will be six weeks.

Back when Wayne Scott was making people laugh for a living, a shoeless clown was flat out of luck. "There was only one company,'' Scott says. "You waited a year for a new pair.''

A handy man with tools, Scott took apart his shoes to see how they were put together. Soon he was repairing and building shoes for his clique of clowns. In 1974, he started his own business, Clown Shoes and Props.

Now Wayne is 76 and ill. Marty, 71, takes care of her husband, who suffers from Parkinson's disease and is recovering from thyroid surgery. Allen has become the shoemaker in chief.

The Scotts don't have a monopoly; three other American companies build shoes for clowns. But in the clown world, the Scotts are akin to Nike. Last year, they sold more than 300 pairs for clowns all over the globe. They make shoes for local clowns who entertain at kids' birthday parties and for the famous. Perhaps their best-known client has been Glen "Frosty" Little, the dean of American clowns, who retired last year after 60 years under the Big Top.

"They made the best shoes, period,'' says Little, now 80. "Everything Wayne did was about making you comfortable and giving you exactly what you wanted.''

The shoes had to be big enough to attract attention. But they also had to function. Little was once among the six suitcases, 18 clowns and 36 shoes that poured out of a VW Beetle at a Ringling performance.

"I always ordered size 10s, with the big toes and red and white stripes front to back. Wayne made those shoes to last. I needed only three pairs in 30 years. Two of those pairs are good to go right now.''

*   *   *

To get to the clown factory, drive about an hour north from Tampa Bay on Interstate 75. Go east on State Road 50 and north on State Road 19. Hang a left on S Dewey Robbins Road. Stop. Consult the directions. Consult the map. Check the compass. Say a prayer. Now turn right on a dirt road that weaves through orange groves and broken trailers and seems headed for oblivion.

Up ahead looms what appears to be an airline hangar. Next to the hangar a hundred enraged chihuahuas boil out of a school bus like clowns from a Volkswagen. Count again. Six chihuahuas. Their choir boy yips just make them sound like an army. Nobody sneaks up on the clown shoe factory.

The house across the driveway from the factory turns out to be a shrine to clowns. Clown magnets threaten to topple the refrigerator. Photos of clowns hang on the wall. Piled on a coffee table are some pretty big hot dogs. The foam frankfurters are props for clowns. Piled on the floor are shoes for clowns.

Shoes with curled toes. Shoes with ridiculously wide, bulbous toes. Polka-dotted shoes. Shoes with hearts. Shoes sporting checkerboard patterns. They start at $235 and go up. Way up.

There's no walk-in trade. Every foot is painstakingly measured first. Every shoe is built by hand. Some clowns telephone, write down the detailed directions to the factory and show up there, one to a car. Often the Scotts show up with their tape measures at clown conventions. Clowns have more conventions than Trekkies.

Allen Scott kneels. He measures each foot in four places. "Sometimes the right foot is shorter than the left, or fatter, or vice versa,'' he says. "We want to be accurate.''

He conducts an interview.

"Describe your act. What's your idea of a perfect shoe? Got any foot problems I should know about? Need any polka dots?''

*   *   *

Clowns are notoriously passionate about being clowns.

Wayne Scott ran off and joined the circus in 1968.

"I had a job at General Motors in Michigan,'' he says. "I was 39. I had four children and a wife.''

He also had an ulcer and a yen to clown. After all, he enjoyed playing Santa at the local skating rink. Somebody showed him an advertisement in Amusement Business magazine. Ringling's Clown College was trolling for students. He got accepted. His stomach stopped burning.

Soon he and his clan were members of the Big Top family. When Wayne wasn't clowning, he was helping with chores around the circus. The fun lasted a year; then his kids were old enough to go to school. Scott's day job was repairing air conditioners. At night he clowned and began repairing shoes. Before long he was building and fixing shoes for the royalty of the clown world.

Scott once built shoes for 33-inch-tall Michu, the world's smallest man, whose foot barely reached 5 inches. He built a 24-inch combat boot for Giant Gonzales, the 7-foot-6 wrestler who appeared on Hulk Hogan's ill-fated television show, Thunder in Paradise. Scott gallantly refused to charge Giant by the inch.

*   *   *

Clowns are notoriously fussy about their wardrobes.

"Clowns are very particular,'' Marty Scott says. "Their costumes and their shoes are part of the act. If their costume is off, the whole act is off.''

That is why the Scotts are reluctant to shod rookie clowns. "It's for their own protection,'' Marty says. "It takes a clown a while to establish an identity. A clown really needs to know who he is before he spends big money on shoes.'''

The Scott shoe factory is a cavelike trailer, lacking windows, situated on a hill. It smells of leather and tools. Allen Scott cuts a piece of leather, soaks it in water, then stretches it over a mold. He bakes it in a 150-degree convection oven.

Next he cues the sewing machine. He has several sewing machines that look ancient enough to have been used by Mr. Singer himself. He has a sanding machine and a gluing machine and a nailing machine and even a machine that puts eyelets on shoes. While he cobbles, he listens to John Denver music and dreams of the sea. Years ago he was a Merchant Marine. Now, at 43, he is the go-to guy for barefoot clowns.

*   *   *

People in the clown business are notoriously sensitive about the public image of clowns.

At clown conventions, Marty teaches seminars on clown props and "the world through a clown's eyes.''

"Nobody likes a bad clown,'' she says. "A bad clown is someone who dresses badly. A bad clown will wear a dime store nose, plaid pants off the sales rack and bad shoes. A bad clown hasn't given much thought to his act.

"A bad clown gives all clowns a bad name.''

Jeff Klinkenberg can be reached at 727 893-8727 or klink@sptimes.com.

[Last modified April 20, 2006, 14:18:11]