My daughter, Annie, and I saw the circus poster while we were shopping on a Saturday afternoon. The poster featured a ferocious looking tiger and announced that the circus was coming to our town, Marion, North Carolina, in a few days. It would be located in a nearby field, where tent revivals were held and carnivals set up in the summer.
Annie said she would like to go to this circus. She had never been to one before. Once, while in town near the railroad tracks, we saw a Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey train. We watched its colorful cars rumbling by, thrilled by the sight.
“It’s probably going to Asheville,” I said.
At the time, I objected to circuses. I felt that they exploited animals. When Annie mentioned going to the circus, I said, “Oh, this won’t be much of a circus. Not like Ringling Bros.”
However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was being selfish. It wouldn’t be fair to deprive her of the experience. After all, when I was around Annie’s age—nine or ten—my father took me to a circus, set up in a field beside a local skating rink. In the tent we watched performers, but mainly I recall another tent where large, liquid-filled jars held peculiar specimens, including baby pigs and snakes. I lingered there, staring at the preserved creatures. It was a shabby little circus, but I loved it.
“Okay, we’ll go,” I said.
The following Wednesday evening, we stood in a long line of impatient adults and excited children.
Posters outside the big top tent showed illustrations of tigers, grizzly bears, and ladies in ballerina tutus balancing on dappled gray Percheron horses. We finally reached the tent’s entrance and went inside to take our seats on the wooden bleachers. The place was packed with spectators, some likely skipping a Wednesday evening church service to be there.
There was recorded music. Bright lights illuminated the space and heated the stifling air. Soon, a lady horse trainer in a shimmering dress brought out a pony that wore a pink tutu. With her whip, she directed it to canter around the ring. Then she took it away and brought back a horse on a lunge line and tried to make it jump a hurdle. It wouldn’t budge, shaking its head and pawing the ground. After several attempts, she gave up and led it away.
A concessions vendor circulated through the crowd, shouting, “snow cones!” Annie and I were hot and thirsty, so I bought us each a treat.
In the years since, we’ve reminisced how refreshing those cherry Snow Cones were.
A few other acts, including a young man who walked a tightrope, entertained us. But we would soon see that no tigers or grizzly bears would appear. Toward the end of the show, a middle-aged acrobat entered the ring. He wore a white costume, too tight for his pudgy frame and which I suspected might have fit him better in younger days. He performed somersaults on a trampoline. His gray hair stuck to his brow as he sweated from exertion and the heat of the glaring lights.
From my seat, I tried to see his features, imagining he might have been a handsome blond in his day. As he jumped and tumbled, clearly exhausted, my heart went out to him. I assumed this had been his life’s work—an underpaid performer in a two-bit circus.
It must have been a hard life.
The circus ended, and Annie and I exited the tent. Outside, I saw the acrobat selling balloons. Approaching, I wanted to reach out and touch his arm in sympathy. Instead, I looked into his face and said, “Thank you.”
He lifted his yellow-hazel eyes, surprised, as if unaccustomed to courtesy. He gazed at me, and I felt a moment of understanding pass between us.
I never saw the acrobat again, and I don’t know if his troupe ever returned to our town. But I have never forgotten that spring evening.
I am glad Annie asked to go to the circus.