f Dan had known what was in store for him after the day in 2nd grade when he brought his puppet to class, he’s certain he would have opted to bring anything else to school. He endured chanting of, “Danny plays with dolls!” for years, and worse.
However, the summer before annihilating his social standing, after only six months of practice with his new partner, Dan took part in a community talent show at the high school, and had his first taste of being in front of an audience. He loved the experience and, aside from forgetting a few lines of his routine, it went over pretty well—well enough to make him eager to perform again. So, that fall, when his new 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Sloan, invited the class to bring items for show-and-tell, he knew exactly what—or rather, whom—he was going to bring.
Now a little more polished, he performed for his class the same script he did at the summer talent show. The routine, put together by Dan’s mom, consisted of jokes from the Jimmy Nelson album, original lines (like this cutting edge retort from the puppet to Dan: “Well, you’re sure no Vonda Kay!”) and concluded with an a Cappella duet of “Let’s go flya kite” from Mary Poppins. Utterly charmed, the teacher had Dan perform encore renditions in front of the neighboring 2nd grade classes. All of them. Every kid in 2nd grade saw Dan and his doll. It wasn’t long before word spread to the other grade levels about “The Second-grade Sissy.” Despite the hazing, Dan’s enthusiasm for puppets continued undiminished, although for years the puppets themselves remained closeted.
They didn’t again see the light of day until the summer before he began 8th grade. Dan, a rather industrious fellow, mowed lawns to earn extra spending money. Arizona isn’t exactly known for its pleasant temperatures in June, July or August, and working outdoors could challenge the most resolute constitution. Dan would push a gas lawn mower from house to house, neighborhood to neighborhood looking for grass in need of grooming. When he found a candidate, he would ring the bell and offer his services. Many homes had xerescape, so he offered to pull weeds, whitewash trees or wash cars instead. Every house potentially meant opportunity; he just had to figure out what they needed that he could provide. Each job, however, had the same thing in common: it always meant working outside in the heat.
One successful bid resulted in Dan mowing the lawns at a house near a day care center. From the backyard, he could see the center’s play area; its swings and teeter-totters empty. Of course, empty—it was 115 degrees! Only an idiot (like Dan?) would be out in that kind of heat. It didn’t take him long to put two and two together; if the kids weren’t outside, they were inside enjoying air conditioning—inside, but with nothing to do.
Opportunity knocked so loudly Dan could almost not hear the lawnmower. That afternoon ended with him pitching puppet shows for the kids to the center’s director. In Dan’s mind, it was a win-win proposition: the kids got something to do and he got out of the heat. The crazy thing is that the director loved the idea. So, in the afternoon on Mondays and Wednesdays, Dan presented a puppet show. He pitched the idea to another day care center that picked up Tuesdays and Thursdays. Dubbed “Puppetman,” Dan Horn performed for an audience mostly of crying three and four-year-olds, four days a week, for one hour each show—one long hour.
The question arises why three summers in a row he returned to the centers putting on show after show. Was the situation a lucrative one for the young entrepreneur? Amazingly, Dan’s compensation was a whopping $2.25 per hour, the same as mowing a lawn. To Dan, however, the important thing was that he was working in show biz!
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For the moment, let’s get back to Wallace & Ladmo, specifically 1969, the first time Dan Horn ever met Wallace. Here is the story in Dan’s own words in an excerpt from a letter he wrote to Wallace:
In sixth grade, my best friend, Gerrit Paulsen, was made a joke winner. Now, around this time I was beginning to get ideas that I wanted to be a performer of some kind. I hadn’t considered comedy yet; I was thinking I wanted to be an actor. But, being on TV was definitely a goal. When Gerrit told me, he was going to be on your show, my brain shifted into gear. I knew Gerrit’s mom had no car and didn’t drive. I also knew winners sometimes brought friends along who got to be on the show, too. I proposed to Gerrit having my mom drive us to the Westward Ho building if he would let me be on the show as his guest.
When we arrived at the studio, my presence, of course, was unexpected. There were only enough Ladmo Bags for the actual winners. Still, I was invited by you to sit on the set with the others and be on TV, which was all I really wanted anyway. During the segment, after all the winners and me introduced ourselves, Pat came in as Marshall Good. Since I was sitting on the end closest to the door of the set, I saw on the monitor that I could be seen in the background during the whole bit. You and Pat did a routine about MG trying to borrow money (who could ‘a guessed?). After you turned him down flat and asked him to leave, MG accosted me and tried to bum a dollar. As you ushered him toward the door, he grabbed at me saying he’d probably be able to pay me back sometime the following week. You managed to get him out the door, and then apologized to me for having suffered such rude behavior. Wow. Not only did I get to be on TV, but I got extra airtime and incorporated into a bit. I was thrilled. You made my dream into a reality. When the show was over, Gerrit and I headed down the hall but, before we could exit, you, Wall, came running up with a model car in a box and handed it to me saying you didn’t want me to leave empty handed. I’m pretty sure you remember none of this. But, what can I say? The fact that I remember in such detail speaks volumes about how much it impressed me.
In the letter, Dan details for Wallace events that immediately followed his thoughtful gesture:
Want to hear the rest of the story? Model cars were Gerrit’s thing. He suddenly felt jealous that I got a cool model while he—the contest winner and whole reason we were there at all—got a bag full of Ding-dongs! Gerrit made me feel guilty, telling me I had invited myself along, that he could have taken the bus to get to the station and that he should get the model ‘cause I wasn’t a winner. (Of course, it never occurred to either of us that if I hadn’t been there, he’d [still] be leaving only with his Ladmo Bag.) By the time my mom arrived to take us home, I’d traded him the model for half the contents of his bag. He kept the actual bag. I didn’t mind, though. I’d been on TV. (By the way, Gerrit and I are still best friends.)
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