Jerry VanHorn '67

In my freshman year I auditioned for the cast of an original revue by Prof. Fritz Hjermstad (I think I spelled it right) called "Inside Out." In one of several sketches comprising the revue, I was cast in the role of Noel Narcissus, a pompous and self-absorbed theatrical producer. My cousin Judy, a sophomore and Prof. Milt VanHorn's daughter, played opposite me as the ingénue trying to break into show biz. Judy was more like a sister than a cousin. We grew up half a continent apart, but during rare childhood family reunions we found we shared an offbeat, loopy sense of humor. So I relished being on the same campus with her -- including opportunities to make her the brunt of practical jokes. The only detail I remember about our sketch together was that director Hjermstad insisted I use an exaggeratedly effeminate sibilance as I repeated my stage name. The effect was that I was constantly spitting in Judy's face, which sent her into guffaws.

We each appeared in separate sketches later in the show. She played an opera diva and I was Count Dracula, complete with flowing black cape and fangs, applying for a Peace Corp job in Transylvania. During rehearsals, I conspired with Hjermstad to pull an opening-night stunt before a packed house in Daland Auditorium. After my Dracula sketch ended, I exited and made my way unnoticed back around to the lobby. I waited for just the right moment in Judy's operatic performance, when she was to launch into the highest notes of an extended, extra-loud, purposely-off key cadenza. I burst into the auditorium, running madly down the aisle, cape flapping behind me, yelling in my best Bela Lugosi accent, "I hear you calling, my darling!" The idea was for me to leap to the stage, sweep her into my embrace, and bite her on the neck. But I misjudged the leap, and my shin failed to clear the edge of the stage, opening a big gash in the skin. Fortunately, I still had some momentum, and gamely followed through -- to her complete surprise, as well as the director's delight. The audience loved it, thinking even my pratfall was scripted.

We took the show on the road to Lakeland College, and Hjermstad insisted we repeat the ad-lib. Which we did, except for the stumble. I'd made certain that portable steps were in place where the aisle met the stage. I can still see the scar more than 40 years later. I tell my grandkids I got it in the war.