BALLOONS BY JIM

People Want To Know

The question that comes up on a pretty regular basis is  this -  "So Jim, how - and why - did you become interested in balloon sculpture anyway?"

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Well, here's the long answer -

I've always been drawn to creative stuff. As a kid  I'd put on plays in our back yard . ( I think they were all about pirates and buried treasure. ) My brothers, sisters and I would borrow a bunch of lawn chairs from our neighbors, who would then promise to show up for our Treasure  Island  inspired plays.

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Later on in high school one of my friends and  I got our hands on an old movie camera and  taught ourselves

how to do clay animation. Once again we'd be spreading the word, gathering together our audience of family and friends for our living room movie theater, where we'd  rearrange the chairs and couches in front of the movie screen, and on a good night, find ourselves needing to grab extra chairs from the dining room and kitchen.

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Further down the road while I was working in human services in Philadelphia, I came across a book on balloon sculpture. As soon as I figured out how to make a few basic balloon animals, I began giving them to my clients as little gifts. It wasn't long before the word spread, and my  co-workers, their  clients and various doctors would be knocking on my office door -

"Hey Jim, could you make me that teddy bear holding the heart?  Hey, that's nice, uh, could you write "I'll love you forever Tanya" on the heart? Thanks! Oh, and could you make me  a -"

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And this kind of stuff didn't just happen at work. I was on the R5 train heading  from Wayne to Paoli to visit my family and friends and this young boy - probably around five years old - began to cry. Well, it was more than just crying really, it was a combination of crying, yelling and high pitched screaming that grew in volume, getting louder and louder and louder. I hadn't known that a human being of any size could produce such alarming volume. I looked around the train car - people were taking off their reading glasses and clutching them protectively, fearing the dire consequences of  exploding lenses.

The boy's face was getting redder and redder, and that too was quite alarming. His parents, who had been speaking to their son in soothing, reassuring voices,  their voices had become, well, agitated, as the situation showed no signs of improving.

Then I remembered.

I was on my was to visit my nieces and nephews, so I had my balloons. I had my balloons! I dug into my backpack, pulled my balloons out, and began making a monkey  in a palm tree. The boy looked over and the volume of his verbal distress seemed to soften. All eyes were now on the scene playing out and somewhere in the train car I could hear the soft but urgent voice of someone's pleading prayer for deliverance.

Heart hammering, fingers flying

over my creation, I finished the sculpture and stretched my arm out across the aisle, bringing it within arm's reach of the boy. Would he take the balloon? There was a dramatic pause, and the boy reached out and took the balloon, and silence descended upon the train car. The crying, or whatever you want to call it, had stopped. Blessed silence, and the whole train car burst into a thunderous applause. Slowing down, the train rolled into the Paoli station. I nodded to the boy and his parents, and hopped off of the train.

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