Smiles Unlimited Universal Clown Ministry

One last laugh
Donald "Ski the Clown" Berkoski taught thousands to be clowns, performed at hospitals and nursing homes.

Published 01/23/2001 09:22:04 PM
BY KEN KOSKY
Times Staff Writer
VALPARAISO -- There wasn't supposed to be any crying at Tuesday's funeral for Donald "Ski the Clown" Berkoski. The red clown nose Berkoski wore in his casket was there to make his friends and family smile. His pallbearers even donned red noses of their own.
Throughout the crowd of people gathered at St. Paul Catholic Church for the funeral were more than a dozen people wearing long, floppy shoes and wigs of orange, yellow and blue. Their brightly painted faces and multi-colored costumes brightened the church as much as the stained glass windows.
"I think it's admirable," Delphine "Fifi" Vass said of the funeral.
"We're celebrating his life and this was his life."
Vass, who dressed for the funeral as the polka-dotted "Bubbles the Clown," didn't think Berkoski would want it any other way.
Berkoski, before his death from prostate cancer Friday at the age of 62, clowned free of charge for thousands of people in nursing homes, hospitals, handicapped facilities and prisons. And his non-profit clown school graduated more than 5,000 clowns – all trained on the condition they continue his "ministry" of donating their time to brighten other people's lives.
"What he was doing was cloning himself because he couldn't go to every facility himself," said his daughter, Patricia Tuttle.
Vass said Berkoski had a way of infusing his Christian spirit and desire to help others, without preaching or pushing anyone.
Linda Miller, who was in one of the last clown classes Berkoski taught,said she's performed as "Lin Looe the Clown" and seen the amazing affect it has made in the lives of nursing home residents and others. "Once I read about his clown ministry I felt it was something I had to do," said Miller, who attended the funeral in her clown costume. "I'll be indebted to him for the rest of my life."

Berkoski became a clown about 19 years ago when he realized there were so many people who could benefit from a little humor. His family was reminded at Tuesday's funeral and at Monday's visitation at Dykes Funeral Home in Valparaiso, how many lives he touched.
While person after person shared memories of the man they called "Ski the Clown," his casket sat decorated with flowers, colorful balloons twisted into the shape of flowers and even a smile-face balloon.
Berkoski, who grew up in Valparaiso, spent 15 years in Indianapolis because of his job. But he returned to Valparaiso last year to be closer to his family and to spend his last days where his heart always was.
Tuttle said her father will live on because his clown class is on videotape and because she and her mother are still clowning. And in his honor, there is a parade of clowns every year in Indianapolis to raise money for prostate cancer research. Tuttle said her father worked long hours to support a family that included seven children. His last job was sales agent for American Credit Indemnity, an insurance company.
"He loved sales because he was a people person," Tuttle said.
Art Malasto, who became close friends with Berkoski before his clowning days, remembered Berkoski as a "neat, caring person" who would give the shirt off his back.
But Malasto's wife, Irene, remembered his sense of humor, saying, "He was a clown before he became a clown." There wasn't supposed to be any crying at Tuesday's funeral, but plenty of people wiped tears from their eyes. The man who made so many people smile would probably understand their moment of sadness.

Tears for a clown

Hundreds of clowns promise to carry on the unlikely ministry of Don 'Ski' Berkoski who taught thousands to heal with laughter.

By John J. Shaughnessy
Indianapolis Star
February 4, 2001
VALPARAISO, Ind. –

They have vowed to continue their teacher's inspiring work, so many of them have come dressed in clown costumes, with orange and yellow wigs -- not your usual sign of respect at a funeral. Then again, it's not exactly typical for the flowers at a funeral home to be made of red, blue, yellow, orange and purple balloons twisted together. Or, for the person in the coffin to be wearing a round red foam nose. Or, to have one of the deceased's favorite sight gags -- a sign that reads, "NOTICE! Do Not Pay Attention To This Sign!" -- attached to his casket. Or, for a documentary film crew from Los Angeles to be here in this far northern Indiana community, capturing this moment.
But the life of Don Berkoski wasn't exactly usual either. For 20 years before his death Jan. 19 at age 62, the longtime Indianapolis resident had volunteered as Ski the Clown, bringing joy and hope to places where those
emotions were too often missing. He trained 5,000 more clowns to help reach all the lonely people in the hospitals, nursing homes and prisons that served as his stage.

He also achieved his goal of making sure his mission would continue after he died. "He wanted his entire training course to be on video so he could still train clowns after he was gone," says Ruby Berkoski, his wife of 43 years and the mother of his seven children. "He saw that dream come true before he died, and he was really, really happy."
The virtual training already has been used successfully in Fort Wayne, Evansville and Marion, Ruby says. "We've already had 60 new clowns who have graduated because of the video," she says. "They've all signed an agreement that they'll commit to volunteering a year in a hospital, a nursing home or a handicapped facility. Anybody can train now with the video. His dream all these years was to take this idea worldwide."

When he knew he was going to die soon, Berkoski dreamed of a funeral filled with clowns and balloons, even giving his friends and family the red foam noses to wear when his heartbreaking battle with prostate cancer
finally ended Jan 19. "It's like a circus here," a son, Don Berkoski, says with a smile as he looks around Dykes Funeral Home in his father's hometown. "Look at all these clowns. There's so much happiness and joy here. That's the way he wanted it."

The clowns are the first to line up to say their final farewells Jan. 23 to the man who taught them how to put on makeup, develop routines and connect with an audience. Most of their faces are made up in permanent smiles, but their tears still fall.
Others grin one more time at the red foam nose on Ski's face, a touch that's typical of the man who also has a Smiles Unlimited Universal Clown Ministry pin on the lapel of his blue suit.

The idea for his ministry began in 1981 at an unlikely place, the Indiana State Prison in Michigan City, in a room that had bullet holes in its windows. As he shared his life as a Christian with a group of prisoners, Berkoski had a strange inspiration: He would become a clown, share his antics with the inmates and open his heart and soul in the hope of communicating with them on a deeper level. "Crazy" idea works.

His friends and family told him he was crazy until an even stranger thing happened: The inmates responded overwhelmingly to Ski the Clown. So did the residents of the nursing home he visited once a week. So Ski started his ministry, traveling around Indiana to train people in the art of spiritual clowning, doing it all for free. And the volunteer effort soared after Berkoski's sales job led him to Indianapolis in 1985.

"It's very important for his work to continue," says Barbara Hittle, one of Ski's clowns who is also the coordinator of volunteer services at St. Vincent Hospital in Indianapolis. "The clowns bring a lot of joy to people.
It's a good thing for little kids to older people. Even the staff gets a kick out of it. It epitomizes the whole idea of what a religious ministry should be: reaching out to people who are a lot less fortunate."

Ski's clowns promise they will continue that ministry. They know how much it has meant to them, too.
"Before I met Ski, I didn't know I was capable of giving so much," says Loni Ropkey, an Indianapolis woman also known as Wazzle the Clown. "He showed me how little it takes to give to someone else. And when you give, you get back 100-fold.

"He always told us, on the day we least wanted to clown, we would get the biggest blessing. And it was absolutely true. You didn't have to do magic, juggle or make balloon animals. You just had to listen and let people know that you care. We'll continue his work." A different view The yellow smiley-face balloon floating above the casket is removed. The lid is closed. Soon, the long procession of cars to St. Paul Catholic Church begins.

Nancy Gershwin is part of that procession. The producer-director from Los Angeles has spent the past five months trying to capture the essence of Berkoski's life for a documentary film.

She knows that Ski was diagnosed with cancer in 1997, and that, two days later, he was on the road to train 24 new clowns. She has heard the stories of the people whose lives he touched, including the little girl at the Indiana School for the Blind. He encouraged the girl to touch his floppy shoes, his frumpy hat, his tattered clothes and his big nose -- leading her to exclaim, "Ski, I can see you!" She has listened to his thoughts on life, including: "When I put on the makeup, I see the world the way Christ wanted us to see it. There's no hatred, no hurt. My whole philosophy is, 'When you look at people, you have to see Jesus in them.' My life has been special because of that."

"It's sad," says Gershwin, whose father also died of prostate cancer.

"He's a remarkable human being. He shows how somebody can make a difference in
the world."
A wonderful life
At the church, Monsignor John Charlebois gives the eulogy. When he reaches the point where he talks about Berkoski's efforts as a clown, the white-haired monsignor places a red foam nose on his own face. Later, the longtime friend reads "A Clown's Prayer," which Berkoski had printed on his business cards:

"Lord, as I stumble through this life, help me to create more laughter than tears, dispense more happiness than gloom, spread more cheer than despair. Never let me become so indifferent that I will fail to see the wonder in the eyes of a child or the twinkle in the eyes of the aged. Never let me forget that my total effort is to cheer people, make them happy and forget at least for a moment all the unpleasant things in their lives. And Lord, in my final moment, may I hear You whisper:

“When you made My people smile, you made Me smile.”

When the funeral Mass ends, Ruby Berkoski walks behind an honor guard of clowns for her husband's casket. She is smiling, just as she has all day. "What a life, what a wonderful life that he lived," she says. "His
favorite saying was a quote from Mother Teresa: 'Unless life is lived for others, it is not worthwhile.'
"That's how his whole life was. He lived for others, and he had a lot of fun doing it. It's going to be pretty lonesome without him, but I didn't want to see him suffer anymore." Then she walks into the sunshine with her family, her friends and the clowns around here, all part of a day that is marked in the same way that Ski the
Clown signed his correspondence:

"Love, laughter and tears."