At this time I learned about evil. I learned evil lurks in unsuspected places and, like a spider, attacks without warning.
An aunt, who later turned out to be unsavory, invited me to have a soda pop with her.
Leaving Spencer eating hay and my rooster tied to a wagon wheel, we went off to the refreshment tent.
Everything was fine. I even got a piece of cake. The soda pop was great—I saved half of it for Spencer.
Panorama shot of Porky (“Comedy Relief”) Pig: DRIPALONG DAFFY (1951)
When I returned to the wagon, Spencer was gone. I grabbed a pitchfork and went looking for the thief. After looking all over the fairgrounds they finally told me that some Yankee from Chicago gave my father fifty dollars for Spencer.
My devastation was completed that evening—my mother cooked my rooster for supper.
I spent the next day planning revenge. The thought of putting a water moccasin in my father’s bed was pleasant. Then it occurred to me that anybody that mean wouldn’t be troubled by a water moccasin. By the end of the day I had concluded that I couldn’t fight them, but I could make sure that I never became one of them—so I made a vow never to become an adult, or care for an adult.
To make sure that I would never break the vow, I ate a green persimmon—eating a green persimmon was a sure way to test a person’s sincerity. Anyone who would eat a green persimmon to back up their word had to be honest. That was especially true in courtships—however, I don’t remember ever hearing of any girl eating a green persimmon.
From that time I walked into the hills and valleys of life, secure in the knowledge that I was free from adults, Yankees and unsavory aunts in particular. (It was my aunt who lured me away from Spencer with the promise of a soda pop. Deep in my heart I know that old harridan dwells in the north side of hell with all the Yankees.)
I have mellowed over the years. My vow has not been broken, only bent a little. So it is that I can tell you that you are one of the few adults I have come to love and respect.
My reason for telling you this is because I want to wish you a happy birthday and impress upon you that such a wish coming from me is no small effort.
“Where did you find the motif of your divine Ninth Symphony?” Anton Bruckner was once asked. “I was on a tramp through the hills,” he reportedly replied, “and climbed a crag to enjoy the view and eat my lunch. As I unfolded the greasy paper around a piece of rather strong cheese, the damned thing popped into my mind.”
All the good ideas I ever had came to me while I was milking a cow.
—GRANT WOOD
Re-creation of Ralph Wolf (né Wile E. Coyote) and Sam Sheepdog, clocking in to work: A SHEEP IN THE DEEP (1962)
“Where do you get your ideas?”
This is the most common question asked by would-be animators, writers, directors.
Where do you get your ideas? Is there a rack, a file someplace where iced or quick-frozen ideas are stored, only waiting to be thawed?
I am grateful to be able to answer the question sincerely and honestly: I don’t know where ideas come from.
In looking back on a lifetime of writing, drawing, and directing stories and discovering ideas, I can see that ideas do seem to have a few distinctive features in common. All ideas for me seem to be based on variations of observable human behavior. Bugs Bunny is simply, and only, trying to remain alive in a world of predators; Elmer Fudd does not consider himself a predator, but a simple sportsman—he only hunts for the “thwill” of it; Daffy Duck is simply trying to get ahead; Porky in his adult life is simply a bemused spectator of the human scene; Pepé Le Pew is simply trying to get a girl; Friz Freleng’s Yosemite Sam is simply trying to control his disastrous temper; Wile E. Coyote and Sylvester are simply trying to get something to eat. The trouble is that each of them has become addicted to only one form of nutriment: Friz’s Tweety Bird is champagne to Sylvester; the Road Runner is caviar to the Coyote. Sam Sheepdog and Ralph Wolf (Wile E. Coyote in another role) do simply what we all do: go to work each morning from their neighboring bungalows, and return home each evening after an eight-hour day; like all the rest of us, they only practice their trades at work.
“There are no judges, only men judging; no tramps, only men tramping…” So said Lewis Browne. And so it is with the wolf and sheepdog, and so it is with lions and elands on the Serengeti Plains; the lion’s work hours are only when he’s hungry; once he’s satisfied, the predator and prey live peacefully together.
“Comedy is unusual people in real situations; farce is real people in unusual situations.”
As an animation director I did not confuse myself with an effort to imitate Oscar Wilde or Bernard Shaw. Farce is not my biscuit. I felt then and I will always feel at home with Chaplin, with Keaton, with Laurel and Hardy and the great Harry Langdon, all unusual people trying to live, to eat, to love, engaged in the simple matter of survival in a complex world.
Within all of us dwells a Daffy Duck, a Donald Duck, an Elmer Fudd, a Coyote, a Sylvester, a Yosemite Sam. We try, and are usually able, to keep the more antisocial traits of those characters under control. If we want to live in reasonable peace with ourselves, we ruefully acknowledge them and do
