Making Magic

By
Richard W. Humphries

It was 1961 and I was standing on a

small stage with Harry Blackstone, the World’s

Greatest Magician.

My hands were shaking as he asked me to hold

one end of a long silk scarf, part of a magic trick

I cannot remember.

This was The Great Blackstone, telling me

under his breath, “Smile, kid. I’m not gonna bite

you.”
 The overhead lights were hot. The ceiling

was low. Blackstone’s hair was silver. The

audience applauded.

I fell in love with magic.

. . .

Colon, Michigan was a small town of a

thousand or so and the main industry was the

manufacturing of supplies and effects for

amateur and professional magicians of every

stripe.

No matter if you were a Mind-Reader, an

‘Illusionist’ whose cabinetry did most of the work

or a working club magician, Abbott’s had an

idea, trick, routine, set of patter and/or piece of

equipment to help you with your performance.

The company’s set of low-lying buildings

housed some of the cleverest minds in magic;

ranging from the great vaudevillians such as our

own Blackstone and Percy Abbott, the Australian

magician, to amateurs of every age.

Blackstone’s wife had chosen nearby Angel

Island as their family summer residence and all

things magical had thus bloomed from his

presence.

. . .

The Greyhound bus ticket cost all of six

dollars and ten cents to travel from Pontiac to

Colon for the annual Get-Together, the largest

gathering of professional magicians in the world.

All ‘getting together’ for a few summer days

near the Indiana border. Trying to amaze one

another.
 And I was a lonely and leaderless kid with a

speech impediment and growing tall and

curious.

Dad did his disappearing act earlier that

summer and it suddenly seemed a big world for

a fellow to find his way.

My travel arrangements included a sleeping

room and use of a bath, rented from one of the

town’s grandmas.

Lilacs abounded in her garden, hanging

heavily outside the open windows their scent

permeated the house.

Alone in the afternoon, the windows open in

hope of a breeze among the hot and humid

Michigan air.

I stood in front of the tall antique dressing

mirror.
 ‘Watch,” I would say, practicing my moves.

I’d practice the fakes and drops and steals and

palms I had observed being performed in the

town’s coffee shops just that morning by the

most seasoned of Magicians. I’d make my

attempts over the downy bed, so that the

constantly falling coins would not wake my

grandma hostess from her lilac-scented nap.

‘Again,” I would require, “closely.”

. . .
 Alexander Herrmann

Professor Herrmann taught me magic.

I won the grand prize grab bag at the

closing night raffle of the Get-Together. Under

the multi-colored silks, a string of rubber

sausages and a trick ‘dribble’ water glass in the

large paper bag lay the Professor’s rare book.

 “Good luck, Brother,” Recil, the owner of

Abbott’s, said as saw me leafing through my

find. I had just joined S.A.M., the Society of

American Magicians and so was now a Brother

Magician. “Just practice and then practice some

more.”

. . .

‘A little well-arranged patter as an

introductory to an entertainment will be found

to put you on good terms with your audience,’

the Professor suggested.

‘A few words, something like the following,

will suffice:’

“Ladies and Gentlemen, with your kind

attention I shall endeavour to amuse you with a

series of experiments in legerdemain. In doing

so I wish it to be distinctly understood that I

shall do my best to deceive you, and upon the

extent to which I am able to do so will depend

my success.’

I would follow Professor’s Hermann’s

suggested line of opening patter for years—I still

have it memorized—and eventually learned to

expect the laughter.

But I was serious.

. . .
 My business cards were printed on a pale

silver marbled stock. My rate was a dollar a

minute; thirty dollars for half an hour and any

kid’s birthday party could be the success of the

subdivision.

I was sixteen years old and owned a

tuxedo, background screens, a dragon-draped

table with two black wells, hand-sewn pockets in

the oddest places of my clothing and the

amazing ability to make money as a magician in

Michigan as a teenager.

And a black wand with silver tips.

Like Blackstone’s.

It was a delight to make my money from

magic, set up and performing in the warm

homes in the well-to-do neighborhoods after so

many frosty early mornings throwing Detroit

Free Presses from my bicycle at the very same

houses.

Life took nerve; it seemed to me, if a fellow

was to get anywhere.

. . .

Squash!

‘Originated by Percy Abbott and first

manufactured and sold in 1935, over the years

Squash has proven to be a sensation among

 magicians and laymen alike. Often copied it has

never been equaled! This is our own! You can

perform this two feet from the audience and still

fool them! And, you can work it five minutes

after you receive it!’

--Abbott’s Magic Manufacturing Company

Catalog

. . .

“What is it you want to show us?” ‘Uncle’

Dick asked. He was my grandmother’s friend and

they were slightly into the Canadian Club from my

Dad’s abandoned but well stocked wet bar.

Mom and my older brother were across the

room, reading in the huge comfy couch by the

picture window.

We all were in the knotty-pine den downstairs

that overlooked the lakeshore.

It was autumn and the falling maple leaves

would float upon the Michigan lakes like strange

fish.

I was in the mood to pull something off and

had recently purchased ‘Squash’ from Abbott’s

for a dollar fifty.

“If I might borrow a shot glass, Sir?” I

inquired. I steadied my nerve, “To use for my

experiment?”

Dad had installed a rack of glassware

against the bronze-veined mirrored tiles of the

back bar.

“You observe,” I said, stepping back on the

linoleum floor, “I hold in my hand a simple shot

glass.”

My Mom and brother looked up from their

books. I held the glass out in my left hand. I

backed against the wall—but not too near--

while making sure the gimmick was well

concealed in my right palm.

“This kid,” Dick shook the ice in his glass

and shook his head, “is something else.”

“Ssh,” my grandmother said.

“And yet,” I said, covering the glass in my

left palm with my right hand, “all is not what it

seems.”

“Presto,” I cried aloud as I threw my hands

toward my stunned audience. The shot glass

had disappeared in mid-air.

“Wow,” said Uncle Dick. “Really, kid, really .

. . wow.”

My grandmother stubbed her Chesterfield

out in the big green ceramic ashtray and

applauded.
 “That was great, son,” my Mom said.

I took a slight bow as the shot glass was

thudding against my spiny back, brought home

by an amazing form of elastic band available

only from Abbott’s Magic Manufacturing

Company.

“What’s that behind you?” asked my

brother.

. . .

Hat tricks can be tricky; I had learned the

hard way.
‘The uses to which that piece of headgear, the
much-abused silk hat, lends itself in l'art
magique are almost innumerable. The main
secret lays in the combination of the looks and
gestures of the performer to misdirect the
audience . . .quickness being of little or no
avail.’
–Prof. Hermann

It was a junior high school stage at the end

of the gymnasium. The basketball backboards

were rolled up held toward the ceiling by cables.

It was a big Cub Scout dinner.

I hit the Play button on the reel-to-reel tape

recorder—bought cheap at a garage sale-- and

my background music began. Erik Satie.

Strolling onstage, I’d casually flip my

flattened silk top hat against my opposite hand.

The hat popped open with a snap! And I slyly

placed it on my head, motioning to My Lovely

Assistant waiting in the wings. She was either a

girlfriend or my sister. The job paid a generous

ten dollars.

Doffing my top hat, I’d extend my arm

behind my Lovely Assistant so she might take a

curtsy as I introduced her.

The whistles from the Cubs’ fathers were

briefly disconcerting. I was prudish as only the

naïve can be and expected better of them. Cub

Scout leaders, after all.

As my helper would display her legs, my hat

swooped up behind her and caught the black

velvet bag hanging from a black wire hook

extending from the center of her black cape.

I now held a small rabbit in a black velvet

bag in my twenty-five dollar silk top hat.

The important point to remember was to

not feed or give drink to the bunny for three

hours before show time. Otherwise you’d find

yourself presenting a cute little rabbit-peeing-

and-pooping-in-the-hat as you pull the critter

out.

I’d charge another ten bucks if they wanted

a rabbit and I ended up having a hutch full of

them at home. Their reputation at reproduction

is well deserved.

When I bought my first car a year later, it

appeared the bunny business might have

brought in more than the magic business.

. . .
 “So amaze me,” the guy said. We were in

an Upper East Side steak place known for being

expensive. Even for New York. Dinner was

recognition for two of us trainees, future

stockbrokers. Our host, Wick Somebody, made

dinner an inquisition. He wanted us to amaze

him with our future sales projections.

“Watch,” I said. “Closely. As I change this

salt to pepper.”

Cover the saltshaker with a napkin, being

careful to form the napkin tightly around the

shaker in your left hand so that it retains the

form of the shaker. Point your right finger at

your audience and ask, “Think I can?”

As you point your right finger at your mark,

swing your left hand across your lap and make

the drop in a smooth motion. Holding the form

of the ‘shaker’ with the fabric, move your hand

across the table.

Your audience should now believe you hold

a shaker in your empty left fist and that your

intention is to somehow exchange places with

the visible pepper shaker on the table before

them. Have fun with the eventual disappearance

of the ‘salt shaker’ you hold in your hand; snap

the napkin in mid-air.

“Gone!”

“Did you see that?” Wick asked my co-

honoree.

“Where did the salt shaker go?” My

colleague wondered.

. . .

Expert slight of hand takes a great deal

of practice and then more practice.

I once found myself in a prison for a short

while. The place was San Quentin and there is a

huge wall running straight through the middle of

the cavernous Chow Hall. I was sitting with my

back to it, on the west side of the big wall

painted with brown shoe polish or some such

crap.
 I stared at the giant painting far enough to

learn to appreciate the small convict artist

tricks. On the Western side where I usually

mopped the floor from seven at night until one

in the morning, I grew to appreciate the small

town main street of the World War Two years.

The marquee above the movie theater had

been announcing the day’s attraction, ‘Crime

Doesn’t Pay’, as a daily gag for at least fifty

years.

After morning chow we remained seated, as

told, as carts racked with shelves were rolled

down the brown tiled aisles, the Porters happily

tossing us our bags of lunch. Four pieces of

bread, an apple, a scoop of peanut butter in a

paper cup and two hard-boiled eggs.

It was the right thing to do to sort through

your lunch sack and toss whatever did not

appeal to you on the center of the table. Any

man could then take an item. No matter his

race.

The first egg appeared out of my mouth as

if I were regurgitating it. I helped this

impression along by gently bumping my fist

against my stomach.

The misdirection to my belly allowed me to

palm the real egg, rotate the half shell in my

mouth, and pretend to drop the egg into my

paper lunch sack as I snapped my left thumb

against the bag to imitate the sound of the egg

dropping into it.

Thap!

I faked a burp, patted my stomach, and

rotated the half shell in my mouth to make an

egg ‘appear’, made the egg visible in my right

hand . . . and so on.

The bag grew obviously heavier in my left

hand as more eggs were added.

The C.O. ordered me to empty the bag.

I wadded it up before them all and tossed it

in the air. It lightly landed on the table. Empty.

. . .

Forcing a card is a difficult slight; you

must learn to time your force to the reach of

your participant.

Use a little finger crimp on the top of the

card you are going to force. Mid-deck is

suggested. Fan the deck as you invite the mark

to pick a card, any card. Your force must seem

to naturally coincide with the pick by the mark.

Timing is of the essence.

 . . .

“Amaze me Richard,” she smiles at me

over the kitchen table on a rainy Sunday

morning. Her hair falls across her eyes and she

swipes it back with her thin wrist.

It has been a long time since everything,

ever.

“Okay,” I put my coffee cup down. “Think of

a card.”

“Just think of one? Just like that? No deck of

cards? No shuffling?”

“No. Just picture a card in your mind.”

“Okay,” she looked at me doubtfully. “I’m

thinking of one.”

“The card that I see,” I briefly rub my

forehead, “is the two of clubs.”

“Amazing,” she gasped. “Really, I’m

 amazed, Richard.” She was staring at me. “It

was the three of clubs. How on earth did you get

so close?”

“Practice, I explain. “Lots and lots of

practice.”

Illustrations:
Professor Herrmann's Book of Magic
Prof. A. Herrmann, 1903. Collection of the Author.
Abbott’s Magic Manufacturing Company,
1968 Catalog, Collection of the Author.

Cover Image: ‘Thurston, The Great’, Poster Collection,

Library of Congress, U.S.A

Cover Design: www.ryanhumphries.com