Circus town is born
Back before technology overloaded our senses and blunted our abilities to be amazed – back before Bruce Willis and stunt doubles – there was the human cannonball. Helmeted, probably hard of hearing, and lacking the luxury of a re-take, the human cannonball still lives – retro like G.I. Joe, but very real.
You can see her today at the Berkshire Mall in Lanesboro, as the Dalton Lions Club hosts the Cole Bros. Circus for the second day of a two-day stand. Show times are 4:30 and 7:30 p.m.
Leave behind the world of digitized perfection and behold:
How the circus can sometimes be as star-spangled and heroic as a moon landing.
How a circus worker looks askance at the general public like a feeding gazelle eyes a Land Rover.
How even smart aleck 10-, 11- and 12-year-old kids will cheer a tramp clown.
How members of the tent crew usually have scared knees. “Stake bites,” they call it, caused by walking headlong accidentally into steel tent stakes sunk into the ground. It happens too often, and it hurts like hell.
How the wardrobe of a performer is frayed and threadbare at the joints. And how, up close, the performers probably smell like Ben Gay (for pain) and Bag Balm (for bug bites).
How if the grass is green and the ring curb is red, there seems to be no color combination on earth more lovely.
How if you engage a fire eater in conversation, he will tell you flat out that Sunoco gasoline tastes by far the worst.
How, invariably, at some point in the show, the spotlight operator will abandon the light for a moment to tend to other duties, leaving the spotlight to tilt backward like the head of a passenger falling asleep on a bus.
How a circus squats down and takes temporary root in a town like a strange, exotic flower to be gazed upon, sniffed at but never touched.
How, in a dusty lot, the footfall of a size 26-wide lollipop-topped clown shoe kicks up a knee-high dust cloud that eventually circles lazily like a dog getting comfortable.
How one, single electrical cord running from the circus generator to a performer’s trailer can be the difference for him between a somewhat civilized life and something resembling a muddy and moody family camping trip.
How no matter how good the musicians may be in a circus band, the tent makes it all sound thin, lopsided and squeaky, like a rusted tricycle with a missing wheel.
How during set up or tear down, the big top boss, whether the size of a fire hydrant or a phone booth, likely has a booming voice that holds wrecking-ball-like sway over the workers.
How sitting in a circus tent can conjure the reality of American icons such as the buffalo, Wyatt Earp and Geronimo – made murky by the decades but still perceived, like a pearl on the bottom of a pool.
How circuses remain the last free-range tribes of humans roaming North America. Like a pack of wolves – wily and foraging for a future.
The best part about the circus comes at no cost, when you wake up early and watch the show trucks pull into town. First thing that happens is doors fling open and show dogs spring out and greet one another, to romp on new ground and to christen the lot with gaiety. Then man, woman, beast, and machine turn a spooled-up tent into a tidy and taut canvas castle.
The next best thing is the show itself.
Finally, catch a glimpse of the circus lot late at night – tonight – after order has been restored to the chaos of cords and canvas and polls. When all is packed away, you’ll see nothing but the show trailers all hunched like a herd of cattle feeding quietly around the imaginary oval trough where the tent had been.
By daybreak tomorrow, the circus will be gone, whistling in the wind, continuing to spread the good news that long before his face became the portraiture for America’s war machine, Uncle Sam himself was a circus clown.
Felix Carroll is a former drummer for the Culpepper Merriweather Circus and former tent crew member and animal caretaker for the Great American Circus and Hannaford Family Circus.
You can see her today at the Berkshire Mall in Lanesboro, as the Dalton Lions Club hosts the Cole Bros. Circus for the second day of a two-day stand. Show times are 4:30 and 7:30 p.m.
Leave behind the world of digitized perfection and behold:
How the circus can sometimes be as star-spangled and heroic as a moon landing.
How a circus worker looks askance at the general public like a feeding gazelle eyes a Land Rover.
How even smart aleck 10-, 11- and 12-year-old kids will cheer a tramp clown.
How members of the tent crew usually have scared knees. “Stake bites,” they call it, caused by walking headlong accidentally into steel tent stakes sunk into the ground. It happens too often, and it hurts like hell.
How the wardrobe of a performer is frayed and threadbare at the joints. And how, up close, the performers probably smell like Ben Gay (for pain) and Bag Balm (for bug bites).
How if the grass is green and the ring curb is red, there seems to be no color combination on earth more lovely.
How if you engage a fire eater in conversation, he will tell you flat out that Sunoco gasoline tastes by far the worst.
How, invariably, at some point in the show, the spotlight operator will abandon the light for a moment to tend to other duties, leaving the spotlight to tilt backward like the head of a passenger falling asleep on a bus.
How a circus squats down and takes temporary root in a town like a strange, exotic flower to be gazed upon, sniffed at but never touched.
How, in a dusty lot, the footfall of a size 26-wide lollipop-topped clown shoe kicks up a knee-high dust cloud that eventually circles lazily like a dog getting comfortable.
How one, single electrical cord running from the circus generator to a performer’s trailer can be the difference for him between a somewhat civilized life and something resembling a muddy and moody family camping trip.
How no matter how good the musicians may be in a circus band, the tent makes it all sound thin, lopsided and squeaky, like a rusted tricycle with a missing wheel.
How during set up or tear down, the big top boss, whether the size of a fire hydrant or a phone booth, likely has a booming voice that holds wrecking-ball-like sway over the workers.
How sitting in a circus tent can conjure the reality of American icons such as the buffalo, Wyatt Earp and Geronimo – made murky by the decades but still perceived, like a pearl on the bottom of a pool.
How circuses remain the last free-range tribes of humans roaming North America. Like a pack of wolves – wily and foraging for a future.
The best part about the circus comes at no cost, when you wake up early and watch the show trucks pull into town. First thing that happens is doors fling open and show dogs spring out and greet one another, to romp on new ground and to christen the lot with gaiety. Then man, woman, beast, and machine turn a spooled-up tent into a tidy and taut canvas castle.
The next best thing is the show itself.
Finally, catch a glimpse of the circus lot late at night – tonight – after order has been restored to the chaos of cords and canvas and polls. When all is packed away, you’ll see nothing but the show trailers all hunched like a herd of cattle feeding quietly around the imaginary oval trough where the tent had been.
By daybreak tomorrow, the circus will be gone, whistling in the wind, continuing to spread the good news that long before his face became the portraiture for America’s war machine, Uncle Sam himself was a circus clown.
Felix Carroll is a former drummer for the Culpepper Merriweather Circus and former tent crew member and animal caretaker for the Great American Circus and Hannaford Family Circus.
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