Biographical sources in vaguely chronological order; open the images in another window for a better view.  Much more on Pinto here.


    We are pleased to announce that the condition of Mrs. W. M. Colvig, which was critical for a time, is much improved at this writing. Dr. DeBar, assisted by Drs. Pickel and Geary of Medford, found it necessary to perform some operations, which have proved successful.
"Local Notes," Democratic Times, Jacksonville, February 5, 1892, page 3


    A son was born to Mr. and Mrs. W. M. Colvig at Jacksonville, on the 11th inst.
"Local and General," Southern Oregon Mail, September 23, 1892, page 3


    A grand Christmas festival was given Thursday evening at the club room by the children of the Eastern Star members, under the direction of Mr. and Mrs. C. F. Shepherd. The room was tastily decorated with evergreens and bright red berries. The program consisted of the cantata entitled "Mother Goose's Christmas Party," which was interspersed with songs and recitations. The following participated in the cast: Mother Goose, Mrs. C. F. Shepherd; Mother Hubbard, Edith Priest; Queen of Hearts, Helen Colvig; Bo Peep, Nellie Reames; Cinderella, Agnes Love; Miss Muffet, Mary DeBar; Little Red Riding Hood, Maggie Krause; King Cole, George Merritt; Little Boy Blue, Ernest Elmer; Jack Horner, Robbie Ennis; Tom Tucker, Earl Shepherd; Simple Simon, Albert Elmer; Brownies, Don Colvig, Don Cameron, Vivian Beach and Bryant DeBar; Uncle Sam, Kale Shepherd; Mark Hanna, Vance Colvig; Fairies, Eula Jacobs and Zela White; Santa Claus, Prof. C. F. Shepherd. At the conclusion of the performance a colored light illuminated the stage and a beautiful bedecked Christmas tree, after which the distribution of presents took place. Everyone present enjoyed themselves.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, January 1, 1897, page 3


    Miss Clara Colvig and her little brothers, Donald and Vance, are at their grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. D. N. Birdsey, on Rogue River, for a little outing. Miss Helen is visiting with Mrs. M. Hanley on Butte Creek.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, July 23, 1897, page 3


    A serious runaway accident occurred in Jacksonville on Saturday morning. Mr. Henry Murray, a fruit and vegetable dealer, was delivering his goods and while crossing the streets near the M.E. Church the clip came off the neck yoke and let one side down, which frightened his spirited team, and it started to run; a little son of Hon. W. M. Colvig [Donald Colvig] was in the seat by Mr. Murray, and in his endeavor to shield the little boy from possible harm, the horses got the advantage of him, and in their wild run collided with a road cart in which Mrs. Mary E. Kime and her little grandson were riding. In the general smashup Mrs. Kime was thrown violently to the ground and quite seriously injured and the cart was upset on the boy. Mr. Murray and the little Colvig boy jumped from their wagon and let the team go and went at once to Mrs. Kime's assistance. She was carried into the residence of G. Elksnat unconscious and Dr. DeBar hastily summoned. She revived shortly after, but appears to have serious internal injuries. Mr. Murray's vegetables and fruit was distributed over several blocks, his horses badly hurt and his wagon almost a wreck.
Ashland Tidings, August 9, 1897, page 3


    Vance Colvig, youngest son of Hon. Wm. Colvig, was painfully burned on the hands and face Tuesday by falling from a high chair onto the stove.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, November 5, 1897, page 3


    When Jackson Creek over-flooded – washed away the bridge. Brother Don dern near got drowned – and came down with pneumonia. And the time Don was riding the vegetable wagon with Hank Murray [Henry Chambers Maury] – and the team of horses became frightened by a swarm of hornets – ran away – and killed some old woman. [Mary E. Paulus Kime survived.]
Pinto Colvig, Clowns Is People, 1935, Southern Oregon Historical Society MS9


    "I was born in Jacksonville and named Vance DeBar Colvig. At age 7 (because of too many freckles, and goony antics) I was nicknamed 'Pinto the Village Clown' (which I have used professionally during my circus and other show business activities, besides occasional jobs as a newspaper cartoonist."
"'Pinto' Colvig Writes About Names, History of Clowning," Medford Mail Tribune, July 12, 1961


Dear Vance:
    I know that many people eat dinner by candlelight, but I feel sure that I am the only person who in this electric day and age enjoys eating breakfast on early December and January mornings by the light of a single candle. I started this custom for myself when I moved down to this apartment over six years ago and have been keeping it up ever since.
    At Christmastime I always put candles in each of the many candlesticks (all antiques) I have scattered over my living room and dining room so on that one morning, six years ago, when for some reason or other the electric power failed I lit one of the candles and placed it on my breakfast table. How the light of that little taper in the morning dawn brought back memories of the old home in Jacksonville as I sipped my coffee and munched my toast, so during the holiday weeks since then I have eaten my breakfast by the flickering light of a "tallow-dip," as Dad used to call them. What magic it brings about! I cease to be an old lady all alone; I am changed into a child again and am in the midst of a family of brothers and sisters. I hear Dad blowing the "Reveille" on the battered old cornet up the stairway to jolt us from our slumbers long before daylight.
    You never slept upstairs so you can't know how cold a winter morning can be. You and Don had a nice snug room off of the dining room stairs, and it was only a short dash for you boys from the bed to the red-hot living room stove. But we girls slept up close to the roof where on winter nights we could hear the very nails pop out of the ice-covered shingles close over our heads. The "spare room," across the hall was furnished with a wood stove-fire always "laid," in case of company--but never at any time was it lit for our own comfort. When we had reached the half grown-up age we girls ceased to be in the group of children dressing around the sitting room stove downstairs. Our father and little brothers--the male members of the family--must not see us in our union suits or even in our petticoats; we sure were taught modesty at an early age. So we shivered out of bed on those cold winter mornings, lighted the candles on the bureau, hustled into our clothes as hastily as we could and flew down the stairs, candlestick in hand, dripping candle grease on the stair carpet every step of the way.
    Dad would not allow a coal-oil (kerosene) lamp to be carried up or down stairs on account of the danger of fire--hence the candles. For several years my Saturday job was removing the week's accumulation of tallow off of those stair steps, and a disagreeable but effective process it was. I placed a piece of "brown" paper over the grease and applied a hot "sad" iron to it. The grease, some of it, was blotted into the paper, the rest, I presume, was melted and absorbed into the carpet. Ugh! I can still smell that rancid hot odor of grease, paper and dusty carpet as I write these words.
    Anyway, on those cold winter mornings, when we got to the warm haven of the dining room, we set the lighted candles on the breakfast table and left them there. There was a hanging lamp suspended above the table but coal oil was expensive so it seldom, if ever, was lit for breakfast on those dark winter mornings. There was no delay or straggling in to breakfast by different members of the family in our house, either in winter or summer; even the youngest member of the tribe, as soon as it was able to sit up in a high chair, had to be dressed and washed and combed by seven o'clock and take his or her place at the breakfast table. In the winter time we were assembled there, with a few hours of darkness still ahead of us. Dad always referred to this time of day as "early candlelight," which expression sounded to me as being very poetical and beautiful even when I was a child.
    When we children had deposited our candles on the dining room table those shivering mornings, we could look out into the kitchen, which, to us, seemed brightly illuminated by two reflector lamps; one on the wall above the stove where steaks were sizzling, fried potatoes sputtered and mush and coffee boiled--the "hired girl" standing watch over them--another lamp on the shelf above the table where Mama would be rolling and cutting out the dozens of "sourdough" or baking powder biscuits for the substantial morning meal. We children would dip some hot water out of the tank at the end of the stove and carry our wash pans to the bench on the back porch and make a hasty and indifferent toilette. No wonder we did not wash behind our ears on those bitter cold mornings when the water almost froze on our faces and hands before we could give a tug at the roller towel and wipe it off. This finished, we girls had to go into the sitting room and help you little boys into your clothes. It was quite a task, and really an art, to get the legs of your union suits twisted about your ankles and pull the heavy black, ribbed stockings smoothly over them, without letting the underwear move up in lumps with the stockings.
    Do you remember the stove that was throwing out heat in that room on those winter mornings? Quite an ornate piece of iron; filigrees of metal decorations all over its bulging rotundity, a window of opaque isinglass in the front of it through which we could see the flames, with a name of its own spelled out in nickel letters close to the top. For some reason or other our stove had been christened and branded "EMERALD." I think we had our first lessons in the alphabet from those familiar 7 letters. Later, when we had licked the entire alphabet, Dad got up the game for us of competing with each other to see how many small words we could make out of that one larger word, "Emerald." We spent days at it and each kept his or her list a secret from the others; when the specified time had elapsed Dad examined and counted our lists and he gave the winner--ME--ten cents as a prize. Yep! A whole dime! It was well worth striving for in those days when a weekly allowance of money for children was unheard of. Gosh! The only coin of the realm we ever handled during the entire year and could call our own was the ‘two bits" which was handed out to us on the Fourth of July.
    But to get back to the candlelit morning meal. What a noisy laughing group we were, gathered around that table. Dad had a strict rule that nothing of an unpleasant nature could be voiced during meals, and he adhered to that rule all the rest of his life. Guess that is the reason I have never had stomach ulcers. No complaints, no criticism and no gossip allowed. I remember one time when I said: "I can't stand that old Sister Eusebius. I wish she wasn't my teacher." Dad looked at me with that one-sided smile of his and remarked: "I'd like to see her and find out what her opinion of you is." It acted as a perfect squelch and everybody laughed.
    So thus my mind runs back into the past in the faint glimmering of my present breakfast candle. This morning it aroused memories that have laid dormant over a period of much more than half a century. While I was reveling in my comfortable apartment I thought of those unbearably cold mornings when I used to get up at dark in the winter time. Those mornings after Clara and I had graduated from the downstairs children's room to the front upstairs room of low, slanting ceiling and which had [an] uncovered porch opening out of its front door. Our constitutions began to be hardened from that time on to the extent of being able to endure any amount of roasting in the summer, and freezing to the point of death in the winter. This porch I have mentioned had a tin or zinc flooring which got red hot in the summer sunshine, retaining about 100 degrees of heat all night long, and became a sheet of ice during most of the winter months, except the rainy periods when every drop of water that hit the metal surface sounded like the beat on a too-tight drumhead. At the best it never would have served Juliet as a balcony. It was not in the least decorative nor was it useful except on the nights when we were expecting company from a distance, or Dad home from a railroad trip and the train was late. Having no telephone or other means of information as to how late the "overland" was in Medford, some one of us would be sent up to this porch to ascertain if we could see the headlight of the engine of our own short line coming up the valley from Medford below. Sometimes, weather permitting, one of us would be stationed on this lookout and when the light would appear we would rush downstairs shouting the news and run off to the little depot to meet the homecoming Father or whoever else was expected. If the weather was clear we sometimes could see the smoke from the engine of the "overland" as it neared Medford, five miles away, then we knew that our own little short line would soon be on its way up to Jacksonville. In those days trains were seldom, if ever, on time during the winter months, what with snow in the mountains and floods in the valley. Mr. Barnum, who owned and ran the short line, always had to wait in Medford until the "big" train arrived there because he had the contract to carry the U.S. mail, which it brought from Medford to Jacksonville--also it might have passengers aboard whose destination was our little out-of-the-way town.
    Clara and I did not occupy this upstairs room alone. We slept together in one bed and the hired girl slept in another bed in the same room. Now, "hired girls" were an institution of that bygone era. They could not possibly be put in the same class with servants or "maids" of today. They were big, healthy, buxom, willing country girls who deemed it a privilege to be paid two dollars and a half--sometimes less--for living with a large family in town and doing all the heavy work and getting their room and board besides. They came as sort of a green apprentice to learn from the lady of the house how to cook, sew, and tend babies in between chores of washing, ironing and scrubbing--even milking the cow if there was no one else about to do that. The dish washing in such a large family as ours was a tremendous task three times a day, with all the water required for it to be drawn out of a well, and heated on a wood stove. Such piles of dishes! Aside from us five Colvig children there were two orphaned cousins living with us; then there always seemed to be a school teacher about whom Mama had invited to live with us awhile because the teacher couldn't find a place to suit her in which to live. Jacksonville, being the county seat, was overrun with people from out of town whenever court was in session so Dad was always bringing some client of his to a meal or to stay a few nights, also other lawyers who lived out of town and had to be in Jacksonville when their cases came up. We never counted relations as extras, even when they arrived in hordes. There was always enough to eat, hay and a place in the barn for their horses, and any or all of us children would gladly give up our beds to the visitors and sleep rolled up on the parlor floor if necessary.
    Did the hired girl complain, rebel, give notice to quit or demand higher wages? She did not. Instead she made up extra beds, washed piles and piles of dishes, laundered stacks of sheets, tablecloths and napkins, towels and even some of the clothes of the visitors along with the regular family washing, which was no small item in itself. She was one of the family and it was hard sometimes to tell whether she or Mama was the hostess in that house. She aimed to please and she did it enthusiastically, cheerfully and tirelessly. These girls came to work for us and each one of them stayed years and years. None ever quit or was fired, and it was with tears on both sides that we parted when each one finally left to get married. The hired girl was always treated as one of the family. She ate at the table with us, and in the afternoons and evenings when the work was done she sat in the living room with us. Dad corrected her grammar and pronunciation of words just as he did us and Mama taught her manners and the art of fine embroidery. She shared our sorrows and joys and accompanied us on picnics and other family outings.
    Somehow, my flickering candle at breakfast this morning brought out of my subconscious mind one of those hired girls who came to live with us when I was about ten years old. Her name was Hattie McComber. She came from up Talent way and replaced Florence Bolt who had been with us for several years. At the time of which I write, Hattie had not yet been with us long enough to entrench herself in our affections or Mama's entire approval.
    The hired girl always got up and lit the candles in our room quite some time before Clara or I could get up enough courage to emerge from under the snug covers. Anyway we weren't required to be downstairs as soon as she was. The first thing Hattie did after she lit the candles was to take a big wad of gum from the shelf by the bureau, put it in her mouth and begin to chew ecstatically and happily while she hooked her whalebone corset into place and donned the rest of her clothes; but when her rapid toilet was completed and she was ready to rush downstairs to the kitchen she would take the gum from her mouth and tenderly put it back on to the shelf. Her reason for discarding the gum was not entirely motivated by Mama's disapproval of a gum-chewing hired girl, but because, to Hattie, this quid of gum was a very special, if not sacred, thing, and the chewing of it the first thing in the morning was a sort of loving ceremony with which she always started the day. She had told me all about it on the first day of her arrival at our home when I had escorted her upstairs, and, with childish interest and curiosity, watched her unpack her meager belongings. When she produced the gum from the side of her mouth and placed it on the corner of the shelf that day she not only warned me never to touch or displace it, but made me give my sacred oath of honor that I never would. This was the first time that anyone had taken me into their confidence about their love affairs and I was much awed, impressed and interested in this piece of gum, for it was a symbol of everlasting love, both to Hattie and to me. She told me that she was very much in love with a young farmer who lived up Talent way. He had been courting her for two years, but had never approached her with an offer of marriage in all that time, then a little over a year ago he had taken her to a Fourth of July celebration up at Ashland, and while there, sometime during the day when they had sought seclusion on a park bench, he opened up his heart and asked her to marry him. He explained that at the present time he was unable to support a wife and it looked as though it might be quite a spell before he got his farm paid for and could claim her for his own. Would she wait for him, was his plea.
    She promised she would wait, no matter how many dollars or years away the wedding might be. O, yeah! She would be true to him.
    To seal their vows he produced a full package of gum, divided it with her (two and a half sticks per person) and holding hands they each chewed their portion to the proper consistency for comfortable mastication (at that time Mr. Beeman had not perfected his product and it always crumbled when first put in the mouth). They then solemnly exchanged cuds, swearing that every day until the wedding bells rang for them--no matter how far apart they might be--they each would chew the gum which the other had started, and remember their vow.
    If Hattie had shown me a thousand-dollar diamond ring as a pledge of her betrothal I couldn't have been more impressed. It was so beautifully romantic--and O! the wonder of it. Just think, keeping a piece of gum for over a year and thinking of him with every chew.
    I used to stealthily take Maggie Krause, Ollie Huffer and other girls of my age up to the room to show them this wonderful piece of gum, and relate the romantic story of its origin. It never entered our heads, nor Hattie's either, that it was quite unhygienic to chew the same piece of gum every day for a year, especially when it laid around in the dust, attracting germs, between mastications. The very antiquity of Hattie's gum gave it value. You know a piece of gum gets lost or mislaid so easily--almost mysteriously at times. You even forget what piece of furniture you stuck it under--or, maybe, someone else discovers it and appropriates it by the time you do remember. The very marvel of being able to keep a piece of chewing gum for over a year's time strongly appealed to Marie and me, so without any romantic reason whatever we decided to get some gum, chew it and keep it in our possession even longer than Hattie had kept hers. Marie's father owned a general merchandise store and among the "generals" was a small confectionery department. It was a good thing for our proposed gum-chewing marathon that he did, for Marie swiped our gum from her father's store, and although we started out with the grimmest and best of intentions, after a few days or a week we had mislaid or lost our gum and would have to begin all over again. The carelessness on our part necessitated other raids on the store, and if we had not finally given up the idea or exchanged it for an easier or more exciting venture Mr. Nickell's entire gum stock would have been mysteriously depleted.
    I am sorry that I cannot tell you whether Hattie ever married the young farmer from down Talent way or not. Maybe she is still hopefully and desperately chewing that cherished piece of gum and waiting for the wedding bells to ring.
    The days are getting longer now and soon I shall be eating my breakfast in daylight. Both the candle and the memories will have to be shelved and I will be planning on the future of my spring gardening. Tell Peggy that there really was a Hattie and her wad of gum. She would be paying my imagination too much of a compliment if she thought that I made this one up. But, again I add, "it couldn't possibly have happened in any other place but Jacksonville."
Tim Colvig collection


    Don Cameron celebrated his fifth birthday, February 10th, with a delightful juvenile party. The afternoon was spent in various sports dear to children. Those present were Don Cameron, Vance Colvig, Frances Kenney, Laura Neuber, Fleta Ulrich, Gertrude Fay, Genevieve Eckleson, Zela White and Eula Jacobs.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, February 18, 1898, page 3


July 24, 1959
Hi There, "Father J-ville"!
    You kin kill yer fatted calf, 'cause your Prodigal Son returneth!! That's right. Looks like he'll be there for the Big Gold Rush Days.
    Yep! PINTO, The Village Clown--That Old Web-footed Oregon Appleknocker and His Corny Clarinet--J-ville's Perennial Juvenile Delinquent; Fugitive from the Poolhall Regions and Maker of Fine Cigaret Ashes Since 1892 hopes to say "Howdy" and toot his sour, squeaky E-flat clarinet in The Old Hometown Silver Cornet Band.
    He wants to look over The Old U.S. Hotel Op'ry House, where (nearly 60 years ago) he started out on his Wild-and-Checkered Career in Show/Business as a Wand'ring Minstrel when he clown'd on/stage; pranced the hi-steppin' "Cake/Walk" and warbled "Any Rags, Any Bones, Any Bottles Today? There's a Dirty Old Rag-picker A-comin' This Way!"
Happy Days . . . and HAVE FUN!
Sincerely,
[signed "Pinto" Colvig]
Typed letter on "Bozo" Capitol Records stationery, addressee unknown (a press release?), SOHS MS9, folder 1


    Large crowds braved the heat yesterday afternoon to participate in first day events in the weekend Jacksonville Gold Rush Jubilee. . . . Pinto Colvig, "Bozo the Clown," who was born in Jacksonville, is official host for the two-day event, and led the Kids' Centennial Parade yesterday morning.
"Jacksonville Gold Rush Slate Features Big Panning Contest," Medford Mail Tribune, August 2, 1959, page 1



    Sixty-three years ago Pinto danced the Cakewalk in the U.S. Hotel in Jacksonville, and sang his first song in public, "Any Rags." The act was in blackface, with a high silk hat, cane and tails.
"Jacksonville Jubilee To Star Village Clown," Ashland Daily Tidings, July 30, 1962


    Memorial services were held at the Workmen hall, Wednesday evening, under the auspices of the Banner Lodge, No. 23, A.O.U.W. A large crowd of invited guests were present. The following program was rendered: Invocation by Rev. S. H. Jones; song, "Gathering Home," by Misses Muller, Bryant, Colvig, Messrs. Thompson and Barnes and Mrs. G. Newbury; address, Wm. Colvig. The audience then repaired to the banquet room and enjoyed a most excellent lunch. Then followed a song by Miss Susie Applegate and brothers; recitation, Verne Whipp; song, "See-Saw," by Lena Ulrich, accompanied by Miss Emma Ulrich on organ and Miss Birdie Schmidt on mandolin; recitations, Gertrude Whipp and Vance Colvig; duet, Misses Muller and Helen Colvig; recitation, "Chariot Race," Miss Genevieve Reames; cornet duet, Prof. Schmidt and Miss Schmidt; song by the choir, "Till We Meet Again"; mandolin selection, Leon Hanna; song, "Grandfather's Spectacles," Emma Wendt. The exercises were nicely arranged and the performers did nicely.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, January 20, 1899, page 3


Medford Mail, May 22, 1899, page 1


    The wedding of Clarence L. Reames and Miss Clara Colvig took place at noon on Thursday last,  at the home of the bride's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Wm. M. Colvig, on Oregon Street, and was a very charming affair. But few persons were present, and they were either members of the families of the contracting parties or very intimate friends. Mr. Reames is the junior member of the firm of Reames Bros., of Gold Hill, and very popular with his fellow men. The bride is a highly cultured and very refined young lady. Rev. S. H. Jones performed the ceremony, and Zela White and Master Vance Colvig acted as bridesmaid and best man. Mr. and Mrs. Reames left immediately for Gold Hill, where a cozy home had been fitted up for the happy couple.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, December 29, 1899, page 3


Oregon Street, Jacksonville, Oregon
William M. Colvig, 54, lawyer, born Mo. Sept. 1845, father born Va., mother Ohio
Addie V. Colvig, 44, born Ore. Jan. 1856, father born Ohio, mother Va.
Hellen M. Colvig, 17, born Ore. Feb. 1883
Mary F. Colvig, 13, born Ore. Dec. 1886
Donald L. Colvig, 11, born Ore. Nov. 1888
Vance D. Colvig, 7, born Ore. Sept. 1892
Annie Birdsey, 13, born Ore. Nov. 1885, niece
U.S. Census, enumerated June 5, 1900


    The battleship Oregon, an excellent miniature of the original, built by Voyle Bros., was manned by Don and Vance Colvig.
"Our National Holiday," Democratic Times, Jacksonville, July 11, 1901, page 5


    There were three divisions to the parade. . . . The second division was led by the handsomely rigged battleship Oregon, Master Vance Colvig in command. This handsome little ship, designed by Mr. Francis Voyle, was a surprise to all who saw it. The float representing our army and navy was well planned and carried out the idea of protection in full.
"Jacksonville's Celebration," Medford Mail, July 12, 1901, page 3


    The following is the programme of the literary and musical entertainment to be given at the U.S. Hall Saturday evening, Nov. 30th, by Jacksonville's branch of the Society of Christian Endeavor: Piano duet, Peter Schmol, Florence DeBar, Agnes Love. Minuet, Ruth Peters, Frances Kenney, Fleta Ulrich, Vance Colvig, Vivien Beach, Donald Cameron. . . . Solo, "Coon, Coon, Coon," Vance DeBar Colvig. . . .
"Local Notes," Democratic Times, November 21, 1901, page 7


    Hi! Would you be interested to know that my first job in [the] newspaper/publishing business was way back during the early 1900s, on the Jacksonville SENTINEL?
    An itinerant printer named Miles Overholt (an O. Henry type) hit town and took over the Sentinel (I believe from a Mr. Meserve?). Overholt, a likable guy, mixed with the younger gay-blade set. Besides editing the paper, he concocted a comic booklet titled "TANGLEFOOT" Magazine (so called after a sticky FLY paper by the same name). For some time I had been pestering him for a job about the print shop . . . cartooning, writing, printer's devil . . . anything! So, eventually came a day when he gave me my first job . . . to catch for him 250 house flies: Which I did. A fruit jar full. Then, we suffocated them with camphor. My net pay was to be $1.50, but my job didn't end there. Now, I was to painstakingly place a drop of glue on [the] center of each PAGE ONE; and carefully attach a fine, fat fly thereon.
    Yep! You guessed it. Or did you? The printing on that page was: NOTICE. THIS is the FLY-LEAF!
    At the time I thought it was a funny gimmick . . . and I STILL do!
"Letter from Pinto," Jacksonville Sentinel, August 31, 1962, page 1


    Vance DeBar (Pinto) Colvig, famous Bozo the Clown from the early-day Ringling Brothers [sic] circus, ambled into his hometown of Jacksonville early last week in time for his 70th birthday recently.
    Nobody knew quite how he arrived; he was just there. He wanted to look at the little town without the distraction of people pressing invitations upon him--even though Pinto is one who seems to love all of humanity and considers everything one endless pleasant joke.
    Thursday morning he was having breakfast with Mayor E. O. Graham in Graham's Polar Bar restaurant when this reporter walked in and caught him in mid-story. Bouncing slightly on his toes, he raised himself to his full slender height with arms waving freely and sharp black eyes twinkling behind his glasses. His animation, full head of black hair and agility made him seem much younger.
Recalls C. C. Beekman
    "We're going to see ol' Beek's house? Good! Good! By ol' Beek I don't mean any disrespect. That's what all us kids called him," Pinto said.
    "This is the way we used to do. Y'know how kids are! We would see him coming along the street. All dressed up in his black suit with tails and market basket over his arm. Then one of us would go up to him and ask, 'Please sir, Mr. Beekman, could you tell us the time?'
    "'Hmm--ah, yes, my good young fellow--let's see now--.' Then he would set his basket down. Reach back into the pocket in his tails, pull out a big handkerchief, blow his nose, reach into his vest pocket and pull out his big gold watch, adjust his eyeglasses, snap open his watch (which I'll swear looked as big as a dinner plate to this boy's eyes), squint at it, and say, 'Ah, yesss, my good young fellow, it is exactly--ah--let me see--8 o'clock. You're Judge Colvig's son, aren't you? Well good day to you sir!'''
Other Man Remembered
    There were many other stories. One about Don Russell, now president of Southern Pacific railroad--another Jacksonville boy.
    "Y'know, we used to think he was a sissy. Probably the main reason was that he was so polite to his mother. Always dressed in a little suit. We used to jus' itch to get him out behind a barn and teach him to cuss and swear, how to chew and smoke tobacco.
    "Read about how he came up the hard way, though. As a gandy dancer! Y'know, one of those guys who . . ." Here Pinto illustrated by going through the motions of pounding a spike into a railroad tie.
    After telling this story and others to Jacksonville Councilman George Brewer and Don Wendt and the mayor, the councilmen and Colvig climbed into Brewer's car and drove to Pinto's old home on Oregon St., now occupied by the C. D. Godleys.
    In spite of all his joking, the clown became serious for a few fleeting moments. His eyes became a little misty as he said, "I just wanted to walk into that little house, stick my head in the door and say, 'Thank you, Mom and Dad, for having me born and raised in Jacksonville--this fine little town! Never did like to visit graves and this is my tribute to them. Bless 'em!"
    In front of the little wood-frame house, everyone got out of the car and slowly walked around the yard with Pinto as he continued his stream of quips and reminiscing.
Visits Old Room
    After greeting the lady of the house affectionately, he asked to see where he was born and walked into a small bedroom now occupied by a small child's dolls and sat down on a bed in the corner.
    "This is where I was born. Right here in this corner. This old doctor always gave a silver spoon to the baby. Why, I dunno. But he always did."
    From there, it was a short trip to the Beekman house. On the front steps Pinto took a broom from the hands of the caretaker, Mrs. Brewer, wife of the councilman, and swept off the steps.
    "Look, I'm sweeping off the steps for old Beek just like I used to do."
    In his own mind, the tall, thin, elderly man became a freckled-face boy (hence the name of Pinto) once more as he peered at all the pictures inside the home, read the 23rd Psalm from the open Bible which has Mr. Beekman's reading glasses on top of it and listened to an old gramophone in the front parlor.
    Peering intently at one of the pictures in the family sitting room, Colvig chuckled softly to himself and remarked, "Why, there's old Grandma M--. See, she has her hand down behind her skirt as if she is hiding something. Probably her pipe. Didn't want anyone to know she smoked a pipe."
    Looking at other people in the picture of [the] old Jacksonville Pioneer Society, Pinto recognized himself as a boy sitting on his father's lap in the back row and his mother in front.
    The former Jacksonville boy examined every room and article in it with minute care, then stepped gingerly down the front steps and across the street to the Brewers' home where he saw colored slides of the old Jacksonville Silver Cornet Band wagon, bright and shiny in red and gold paint, leading the Jacksonville Jubilee parade this year.
    Pinto's attitude toward his old home town is summed up in the words he wrote in the Beekman house register--"Jacksonville kid since Sept. 11, 1892-- Pinto Colvig."
Medford Mail Tribune, September 18, 1962, page 16


    At one time we had a willow whistle band with Pinto Colvig as conductor. He would write the music; instead of notes he would use numbers: every hole on the thing would have a number, and that would correspond to the number on the music.
    One summer Pinto organized a kid circus--trained dogs, trapeze, snake man magician, and our whistle band played. Pinto was band leader, blackface clown and ringmaster with a big whip he would crack. As I remember, the admission was two sticks of gum or 10 marbles.
"Recollections by George W. Wendt," typescript 1970, SOHS MS115


    Masters Don and Vance Colvig, accompanied by Geo. Birdseye, are spending their vacation with their grandmother, Mrs. C. Birdseye, near Woodville.
    One of the most successful events of the week was the "American Beauty" party given by Miss Helen Colvig on Tuesday evening. This is one of a series of original and unique parties given by Miss Colvig this winter, and was a very pretty affair. Music, games and dancing was the order of the evening. Dainty refreshments were served. It was past midnight when the merry crowd dispersed--one and all voting the American Beauty a success. Those present were Misses Laura and Lucinda Reames, Sophia Muller, Marie Nickell, Gertrude McCallen, Messrs. P. Donegan, Louis Ulrich, Chas. Nunan and Irwin Eckelson.
"Jacksonville Items," Medford Mail, January 3, 1902, page 3


    Mary and Vance Colvig are spending a portion of their vacation with their grandmother, Mrs. Clara Birdsey of Foots Creek.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, January 11, 1902, page 3


    Misses Mary and Ruth Peter, Zepha Basye and Donald Colvig, pupils of Mrs. E. E. Gore's musical class in Jacksonville, took part in the program of the pupils' recital at the Presbyterian Church in Medford Saturday evening, March 1st.
"Jacksonville Items," Medford Mail, March 7, 1902, page 3


    At 10 o'clock the parade was formed, and marshaled by Alex Orme, the grand marshal, passed through the principal streets in the following order . . . 14. Jacksonville Base Ball Club, with Vance Colvig as mascot, leading a goat.
"Jacksonville's Celebration," Democratic Times, Jacksonville, July 10, 1902, page 4


    Mary and Vance Colvig are spending a portion of their vacation with their grandmother, Miss Clara Birdseye, of Foots Creek.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, July 11, 1902, page 3


    The procession, headed by Sheriff Orme, as grand marshal, marched in the following order: . . . Jacksonville's baseball nine in suits of blue and gold afoot preceded by Vance Colvig leading the team's mascot, a goat, wearing the blue and gold. . . .
"Jacksonville's Celebration," Medford Mail, July 11, 1902, page 3


    Mrs. C. S. Birdseye and grandchildren, George Birdseye and Mary and Vance Colvig, were visiting at the home of W. V. Jones Sunday.
"Woodville Items," Medford Mail, July 18, 1902, page 3


    Master Vance DeBar Colvig entertained a party of twelve of his friends on Saturday, Sept. 13th, the occasion being his tenth birthday anniversary.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, September 19, 1902, page 3


    "[In 1903], the Verna Felton Players came to town from up in Portland. Little Verna Felton (who stars as Hilda Crocker on KOIN-TV's 'Pete and Gladys' show, which starts [its] new season Monday night) was the Shirley Temple of her day. She was something, with her striped stockings and her little hat with a flower on it. I was a loony, skinny-legged kid with uncombed hair.
    "But I applied for a speaking part in the show, 'The Power of Wealth,' [by William Joseph Lincoln] which was running for a week in the United States Hotel opera house, set there in the maples.
    "After a lot of persuasion, they gave me three and a half words. I was to walk on stage carrying a cat, go over to a prop well, and say, 'Psst! Let's duck it!'
    "But I was so entranced working with Verna that I just stood there on stage, grinned at the audience, and held onto the cat. She pulled and the cat started yowling, but I didn't let go until she took off her shoe and hit me on the head."
Pinto Colvig, quoted by Francis Murphy, "Behind the Mike," Oregonian, Portland, September 18, 1961, page 37


    Remember that little Verna Felton appears in "The Power of Wealth," which was written for her, at the matinee Saturday afternoon.
    There will be a matinee at the U.S. Hall Saturday afternoon, when little Verna Felton, the theatrical wonder, will appear in a play especially written for her, entitled "The Power of Wealth." It is pronounced first class by all who have seen it.
"Local Notes," Democratic Times, Jacksonville, April 29, 1903, page 1




    "My family was always musical, and somehow I picked up the E-flat clarinet. I started out playing with the town band, and then I was playing for everything. When I'd hit the high notes, I screwed my face up and looked cross-eyed. I guess I was just meant to be a clown. And it finally happened when I was about twelve. My dad took me to the Lewis & Clark Centennial Exposition at Portland in 1905. But I never got past the Crazy House on the Midway. There was a guy outside beating a drum and roaring 'Hubba Hubba!" I went up to him and told him I could play squeaky clarinet. 'O.K. Come back tomorrow, and I'll give you a listen,' he said. 'No, sir, I'll be back today,' and I ran back to the hotel for my clarinet. I went to work that day, just 'squawking.' And the next day the guy put the clown white on me for the first time. Then he made me put on an old derby, and some big old clothes, and he stepped back and took a look at me. 'Now you make a good bozo,' he told me. A bozo clown in those days was a tramp clown.
    "I never was able to get circuses and carnivals out of my blood after that. Wintertimes, I'd go to school, but the minute spring came, I'd turn up missing. I've hoboed a lot of miles across the country and back, eating stew in hobo camps down by the tracks. I even went to Oregon State College for three years, but every spring--off to the circus. Or the vaudeville circuit. Always with my screechy clarinet. I didn't know when I was going to school whether I wanted to be a clown, draw cartoons, write, hobo, or be a musician. So I wrapped it all up and made stew out of it."
Pinto Colvig, quoted in "A Brief History of Vance De Bar Colvig," Southern Oregon Historical Society 1980, page 4


    And of course, there was that time (age 13) – Lewis & Clark Centennial Exposition world's fair (Portland 1905) when I first put on white grease paint and became a CLOWN. Ha! From burnt cork to clown white! On "The Trail" (midway) being a small-town hick, "the Crazy House" became my favorite spot. [It was actually named the Temple of Mirth.] "Habba Habba," a clown (whose makeup was somewhat cannibalistic) [Harry L. Blitz] owned the Crazy House concession; beating a bass drum and continuously yelling in a high pitched voice, "Habba habba habba" and collecting the tickets. When I told him that I made funny faces while squealing on an E-flat clarinet, he gave me a tryout. Bass drum & clarinet – 2-piece band. Somehow it attracted a bigger crowd; so he dug down in his trunk and hung an old misfit suit on me; smeared my face with clown white grease paint; reddened my nose; slapped a battered old derby over my head, and into a pair of size 14 shoes. Paid me a dollar a day (and all the sandwiches and goop I could eat). Also got me a season pass to all of the shows on "The Trail." Naturally, the Gal Show – "That Bevy of Bee-u-tee-ful Broadway Belles" – those painted, half-dressed babes – enjoyed kidding this small-town appleknocker … and he loved it!
    Next best show was "The Streets of Cairo," where I would ride their camels, and sometimes toot a double-reeded Chinese Oriental horn for "Little Egypt's" hootchy-ma-kootch dance. Betwixt shows I would write "love" letters for the manager (an Egyptian who was in love with a carnival dame (named Corrine Somebody) back East … He could neither read nor write (English) … But WOW! this chorine sure could write some hot love notes (which I had to read aloud to him). And in return I'd write some hotter ones right back; read them to him, and he'd sign his name. He paid me off in all the fancy Egyptian cigarettes I needed. (It was impossible in those days for a minor to purchase tobacco.)
Pinto Colvig, Clowns Is People, 1935, Southern Oregon Historical Society MS9

    "When I was 13 years old, I had so many freckles that kids called me Pinto, the Human Leopard. I was an E-flat clarinet player, so I came up to Portland in 1905 to look at the Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition.
    "Portland used to have a well-known clown back in those days. His name was Habba Habba, and he had a ring in his nose like a cannibal. He used to say 'habba - habba - habba' while he was beating on a bass drum. He had a concession called the Crazy House [actually named the Temple of Mirth].
    "I went up to him and said I had a clarinet and when I hit the high notes I couldn't help looking crosseyed. He tried me out and everyone laughed. It brought a big crowd.
    "He said, you should be a clown like I am. So he took me back and opened a trunk and the moths flew out. He put a big red nose and a white face on me and said, 'Now you are a bozo clown (with a small b).' A bozo clown is a tramp clown like Emmett Kelly.
    "I got four bits a day and all the goop I could eat like popcorn and peanuts. I got free tickets to all the concessions up and down The Trail, and everyone knew me.
    "Over in the Streets of Cairo I met an Egyptian who let people ride on his camels. He was in love with a carny gal named Corina, but he couldn't read or write.
    "So he gave me his cigarettes to write his love letters for him. In Jayville if you weren't smoking by the age of seven, you weren't a man. Then she'd write letters back and he'd call, 'Hey, keed, I got a letter from Corina. You read.' Then I'd get more cigarettes and camel rides. I think she was after his money. That's how I became a clown."
Francis Murphy, "Behind the Mike," Oregonian, Portland, September 18, 1961, page 37

There was no concession at the exposition named the "Crazy House"; Pinto is apparently remembering the Temple of Mirth. Originally built (apparently) for the 1893 Chicago World's Fair, it also appeared in 1904 at the St. Louis world's fair, then in 1905 in Portland. It was moved to Venice, California in 1906.


    "Good Bye Liza Jane," Vance Colvig
"School Entertainment," Jacksonville Sentinel, March 24, 1905, page 3


    Wm. Colvig chaperoned a party of young boys on a camping trip to Squaw Lake. They left early Sunday morning. The party consisted of Mr. Colvig, Don and Vance Colvig, Charles Dunford, David Cronemiller and Jess Thrasher.
"Jacksonville News," Medford Mail, August 25, 1905, page 8


For Examination Commencing May 14, 1908:
Register of Uniform Eighth Grade Examination, Jackson County, Oregon, SOHS MS 912, page 5.
Scores listed are out of a possible 100. Pinto's name also appears among those taking (or planning to take) the test on June 11, but with no scores recorded. Curiously, Vance was apparently not excluded from the "promotion exercises":


    Vance Colvig has received a postal photo of the junk shop recently taken from the stomach of Frank Durga of North Bend, as described in the Tribune recently. Among the articles are three jackknives, four keys, 17 horseshoe nails, three 5-cent pieces, 15 dimes, one fish hook and 2745 pieces of glass.
"Social and Personal," Medford Daily Tribune, July 14, 1908, page 4


    Vance Colvig has accepted a position in Russel's confectionery store and is serving "freckled specials" to their many patrons.
"Jacksonville Items," Medford Daily Tribune, August 4, 1908, page 4


    Vance Colvig will soon be in camp with friends.
"Butte Falls Items," Medford Daily Tribune, August 5, 1908, page 3


    Vance Colvig is compounding light drinks at Russel's confectionery.
"Local News," Jacksonville Post, August 8, 1908, page 6


    Other evenings they were entertained by Pinto Colvig, son of Judge Wm. Colvig, who sat on the counter and played tunes on the nail puller.
"Boom Day Clerk for Toggery Bill Tells About It," Medford Mail Tribune, August 15, 1930, page 4


    "Ki Ki, the Haba Haba Man," as he is known in the show world or the "monkey man" of street fair fame, has again won back his wife, formerly Miss Lottie E. Wilson, to whom he was wedded in Muscatine on September 10, 1900, and who deserted him at Seattle last summer. Shortly after the close of the Alaskan exposition the young wife secured a divorce from the picturesque spieler, but now she has returned to him, and they were again united in marriage at Portland on Wednesday. The couple were married here during the street fair, at which time the monkey man was heard daily barking for a show on Sycamore and Second streets. He was dressed and acted like a large monkey, and his "Haba Haba" cry drew hundreds to the tent before every performance.
    The bride is 26 years old, as against the even two score years of the Haba Haba Man who, in private life, is known as Harry L. Blitz. . . .
    For twenty-four years the Haba Haba Man has been wearing his strange rig and
shouting his strange cry, which, once heard at the Seattle fair, was repeated by thousands of children in imitation of the man with the monkey face.
"Monkey Man Wins Wife Back Again," Muscatine Journal, Muscatine, Iowa, February 11, 1910, page 4


    Mrs. R. G. Gale entertained informally at dinner Friday at her attractive home on Mistletoe Street. Carnations and ferns were the decorations used, and the effect was most artistic. Those present were: Mrs. Edgar Hafer, Miss Nelson, Mr. Donald Colvig, Mr. Vance Colvig and Dr. and Mrs. Gale.