by Cathy Day
"She was sleeping, so I came home." I paused. "A while ago."
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she looked away. My dad got home around five. That night for dinner, we had meatloaf, sliced tomatoes, and corn on the cob, but all the time, I couldn't look at my mom, and she couldn't look at me. And a few days later she was gone.
Standing in the parlor, I feel like I'm at two funerals at once, the one that happened today, January 2000, and the one that happened in July 1982. I am fourteen, I am thirty-two, and I can't shake this feeling, especially when I crawl into my childhood bed where I know I won't find anything like sleep. I'm thinking about Grandpa and my mother, wondering where they are now, and about David Lindsey. It took me a long time to figure out what my dream meant, but here's my best shot: I didn't have the dream when David was dying, but rather the next morning, when everyone was finding out about it, when everyone in Lima, Indiana, was thinking about one thing simultaneously. When the emotional voltage of a town spikes like that, where does all that sorrow go? What form does it take? Maybe I have an antenna in my brain tuned to WLMA, The Music of Circus Town, U.S.A. Maybe my mother hears this station, too, wherever she is.
When I was little, my mother told me there are basically two kinds of people in the world: town people and circus people. The kind who stay are town people, and the kind who leave are circus people. Dad used to tell me that I'm a lot like my mother, but this worries him, like I'm cursed, like he somehow failed to give me more of himself. And I have to admit, the part of me that's my mother scares me more than a little. It's a fire that burns hot and bright, and I know if I let it get out of control, I'll turn into flecks of scorched paper and blow away. But that fire also gave me the courage to leave Lima and make the life I wanted, for which I'm thankful.
At the college where I teach, I'm surrounded by circus people. We aren't tightrope walkers or acrobats. We don't breathe fire or swallow swords. We're gypsies, moving wherever there's work to be found. Our scrapbooks and photo albums bear witness to our vagabond lives: college years, grad-school years, instructor-mill years, first-job years. In between each stage is a picture of old friends helping to fill a truck with boxes and furniture. We pitch our tents, and that place becomes home for a while. We make families from colleagues and students, lovers and neighbors. And when that place is no longer working, we don't just make do. We move on to the place that's next. No place is home. Every place is home. Home is our stuff. As much as I love the Cumberland Valley at twilight, I probably won't live there forever, and this doesn't really scare me. That's how I know I'm circus people.
I like to throw parties for my latest circus family. We have badminton tournaments in the front yard, drinks on the long porch, and late into the night, we tell stories about how we got here—the towns we left, the schools that exploited us, the lovers we abandoned or who abandoned us. When it's just women, we talk about the babies we've delayed having, and sometimes we talk about the ones we forged but did not have, whether now is the time, will there ever be a time, can we even have them anymore? It's taken me a long time to figure out one very simple thing: The world is made up of hometowns. It's just as hard to leave a city block in Brooklyn or a suburb of Chicago as it is to leave a small town in Indiana. And just because it was hard to leave Linden Avenue in Flatbush or the Naperville city limits or Lima doesn't mean you can't ever go back. I wish I knew where my mother was so I could tell her that.
My mother always told me, Marry yourself first, Jenny. And I did. She also said, When you leave, don't look back. And I tried not to, but for some reason this nowhere place keeps talking to me anyway. Maybe every town in America transmits that radio signal, and on certain nights when the weather and the frequency are just right, we can all hear our hometowns talking softly to us in the back of our dreams.
BACK LOT
The "Back Lot" is a special place on a circus lot. It's off limits to the general public—the location of dressing rooms, the wardrobe department, the doctor's wagon, the cook tent, and the performers' private rest areas. In other words, it's behind the scenes.
I WAS BORN IN Peru, Indiana, which was once the winter quarters of the Hagenbeck-Wallace Circus. Some of the circus characters in this book are inspired by real people, such as Henry Hoffman (my great-great uncle) who was killed by his bull elephant Charley in 1901. Some real places have been incorporated as well. However, all of the rest, as I'm certain the circus historians and the good people of Peru will tell you, comes entirely from my imagination.
GENEALOGY
WALLACE PORTER. Born Lima, Indiana, 1845. Served in 11th Indiana, Union cavalry, 1861–1865. Owner of Porter Livery Stables. Purchased Hollenbach Menagerie, 1885, Diamond Show, 1900, and formed Great Porter Circus & Menagerie. Sold to Coleman Bros. Circus, 1939. Died 1940.
IRENE PORTER. Born Irene Jones, New York City, 1860. Married Wallace Porter, 1883. Died, 1885.
CLYDE HOLLENBACH. Born New Haven, Connecticut, 1835. Owner of Hollenbach's Menagerie 1871–1885. Married Marta (Kierych) Hollenbach, 1886. Son Clyde Junior. Daughter Ethel. Died La Jolla, California, 1910.
JENNIE DIXIANNA. Born Jennie Marchette, daughter of Slater and Anna Marchette, Dauphin Island, Alabama, 1860. Joined the Washburn Show, 1876, the Great Porter Circus, 1896. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1913.
COLONEL JAMES FORD. Born Richmond, Virginia, 1840. Served in 1st Virginia Infantry, C.S.A. Married Millicent (Vance) Ford, 1864. General Agent for Barnum & Bailey Combined Show, 1881–1900, Great Porter Circus, 1900–1915. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1915.
GRACE HARRISON. Born Grace Cooper, Lima, Indiana, 1886. Daughter of Wallace Porter and Elizabeth Cooper. Married Charles Harrison, carpenter. Mother of Mildred (Harrison) Hofstadter. Homemaker. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1946.
HANS HOFSTADTER. Born Hamburg, Germany, 1866. Menagerie Superintendent for Washburn Circus, Diamond Show, and Great Porter Circus. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1901.
NETTIE HOFSTADTER. Born Hamburg, Germany, 1868. Employee of Colonel and Mrs. Ford, Great Porter Circus, winter quarters, Lima, Indiana. Died of Spanish Flu, 1918.
BASCOMB BOWLES. Born Robin's Rest Plantation, Rome, Georgia, 1850. Parents unknown. Worked aboard steamboat Bayou Queen, 1865–1875. Joined Hollenbach Menagerie as "Boela Man," 1875. Joined Great Porter Circus 1885. Retired from circus 1939. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1939.
PEARLY BOWLES. Born Pearl Henry, Jackson, Mississippi, 1856. Parents unknown. Joined Hollenbach Menagerie as "The Zulu Queen," 1872. Married Bascomb Bowles, 1876. Died, St. Louis, Missouri, 1936.
GORDON BOWLES. Born Wheeling, West Virginia, 1889. Son of Bascomb and Pearly Bowles. Member of "The Boela Tribe of African Pinheads," Great Porter Circus, 1890–1939. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1959.
VERNA BOWLES. Born Lima, Indiana, 1940. Daughter of Gordon and Mimi Bowles (died in childbirth). Employee of Clown Alley Cleaners.
CHARLES BOWLES. Born Lima, Indiana, 1967. Son of Reggie Abbey (whereabouts unknown) and Verna Bowles. Currently residing Gibsonton, Florida.
SUGAR CHURGH. Born Eastwater Plantation, South Carolina, date unknown. Trouped with Great Porter Circus, Warren Barker's Wild Animal Odyssey, and Coleman Bros. Circus as "Zumi the Monkey Boy," "Jungle Goolah Boy," and "Zootar the Missing Link." Whereabouts unknown.
CLAIRE HOBZINI. Born Claire Hobbs, Sheffield, England, 1889. Sister of Stella and Irene. Equestrienne. 1904–1939. Retired circus performer. Owner of Hobzini's Bakery, Lima, Indiana. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1962.
RALPH ("ROWDY") RUBENS. Born Escanaba, Michigan, 1921. Worked for Great Porter Circus as "Rowdy the Human Cannonball." Trainer for Lima Amateur Circus, 1965–1998. Currently residing in Lima, Indiana.
EPHRAIM MILLER. Born Chicago, Illinois, 1897. Itinerate musician. Piano player at Robertson's Hotel, Lima, Indiana, 1925–1932. Self-employed piano tuner. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1964.
TONY COLORADO. Born Tony Cook, Tucson, Arizona, 1895. Silent film star. "The Lone Star Cowboy." Trouped with Great Porter Circus 1922–1926. Died of peritonitis, San Francisco, California,
1927.
WAYNE GARRISON. Born Lima, Indiana, 1927. Employee of Lima Utility Company. Married Stella (Green) Garrison, homemaker, 1948. Two sons, Ray, died 1958, and Ricky. Died, Lima, Indiana, 1990.
EARL RICHARDS. Born Lima, Indiana, 1947. Son of Ted and June Richards. Railroad Clerk. Manager of KOA Kampgrounds. Married Peggy (Fox) Richards. Son Joseph. Currently residing in Cincinnati, Ohio.
OLLIE HOFSTADTER. Born Lima, Indiana, 1900. Son of Hans and Nettie Hofstadter. Trouped with Great Porter Circus as "Mr. Ollie the Clown," 1918–1929. Purchased Clown Alley Cleaners, Lima, Indiana, 1930. Retired, 1969. Died, Lima, Indiana, 2000.
MILDRED HOFSTADTER. Born Mildred Harrison, Lima, Indiana, 1913. Daughter of Charles and Grace (Cooper) Harrison. Homemaker. Currently residing in Lima, Indiana.
LAURA PERDIDO. Born Laura Hofstadter, Lima, Indiana, 1949. Married Ethan Perdido, 1967. Homemaker. Whereabouts unknown.
JENNIFER PERDIDO. Born Lima, Indiana, 1968. Daughter of Ethan Perdido and Laura (Hofstadter) Perdido. B.A. Purdue University. PhD University of Iowa. Currently Associate Professor of History at York College, Pennsylvania.
EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY
Frontispiece to the book:
This is a picture of my great-great-uncle, Henry Hoffman, and his bull elephant Charlie—circa the late 1880s or early 1890s. If you look closely, you can see Hoffman is carrying a "bullhook" in his right hand, a metal rod with blunted prongs which elephant handlers use to poke, prod, and train their pachyderms. In April of 1901, Hoffman took Charlie and the other elephants for their daily bath in the Mississinewa, the river that ran alongside the winter quarters complex outside my hometown of Peru, Indiana. For reasons that remain unclear, Charlie killed my great-great-uncle that day—grabbing him off a pier, throwing him high in the air, and then holding him underwater with his trunk and front feet. During this struggle in which Hoffman fought (unsuccessfully) for his life, Charlie bent the metal bullhook. He had to be "put down" after this incident, which I describe fictionally in the story "The Last Member of the Boela Tribe."At the time of this tragedy, Hoffman's son Fred was just a year old; the circus employees gave Fred and his mother the bent bullhook—as a memento, I guess. Fred Hoffman eventually married my maternal grandmother's sister, Margaret. When I visited their home as a child, I noticed this strange metal object propped up against the wall beside Uncle Fred's LazyBoy chair, but I didn't realize what it was until many years later when I began doing the research for The Circus in Winter. Fred died in 1997, and Aunt Margie had to sell their house. She asked me if there was anything from the house I wanted for myself, and I didn't hesitate to ask for the bullhook. She said, "Wouldn't you rather have my silverware or a nice pair of earrings?" I politely declined.
Wallace Porter
This photograph of the Hagenbeck-Wallace Circus sideshow was taken by Edward J. Kelty. Known as a "banquet photographer," Kelty made his living taking large, 12×20 group pictures at conventions and meetings, but during the 1920s and 1930s, he sidelined as a circus photographer. (Check out a collection of these in Step Right This Way: The Photographs of Edward J. Kelty, published in 2002.) I found this particular picture in 1991 in a circus history book—the editors gave it a two-page spread, so the names and faces in the picture jumped off the page. My first thought was, "My God, all these people in the picture probably lived in my hometown during the winter!" My eye was particularly drawn to the three black men in grass skirts standing in the left-hand corner of the picture, who are most likely "The Boela Tribe of African Pinheads" advertised on the sideshow banner behind them. Who were those men? I wondered, and began creating a life for them in my imagination. This is how the story "The Last Member of the Boela Tribe" began, and I worked on it—off and on—for a decade. During those years, I did research on freaks (the real and the fake), pinheads, and minstrelsy. Sociologically speaking, the American circus reflected the society it sought to entertain. Like the old minstrel shows, the circus was a form of popular entertainment where America's troublesome (and often disturbing) racial and ethnic attitudes played themselves out in the center ring and on the side-show stage. I discovered so much interesting material, and I feared I'd never be able to fit it all into one story, but somehow I managed to do it. I also saw the name "Jennie Dixianna, America's Doll Lady" on the right-hand banner. I loved the name and decided to use it for my femme fatale acrobat. The "real" Jennie Dixianna is most likely the female midget standing first row center, next to the Fat Lady.
Jennie Dixianna
Jennie Dixianna's character is based on 1920s aerialist/star Lillian Leitzel. Her famous act, "The One-Armed Plange," involved repeated turns on a hanging swivel and loop, revolutions which required her to dislocate her shoulder with each turn. Amazed by this feat, I created Jennie Dixianna's "Spin of Death." Whenever I see this photograph, part of me knows that it is a picture of a real woman, but another part of me thinks of it as a photograph of my Jennie Dixianna performing her spin of death.
The Last Member of the Boela Tribe
The skull of the elephant that killed my great-great-uncle sits in the Miami County Museum. Never, not once, while growing up in Peru, Indiana, did this strike me as odd or fascinating. After all, lots of people in Peru had ties to the circus; the descendants of cat trainer Clyde Beatty and "Weary Willie" clown Emmett Kelly still live there. In college, when people asked me, "Where are you from?," I told them, "Oh, this little town called Peru" and mentioned the skull off-handedly. Many didn't believe me. When it came time to write my undergraduate thesis in creative writing, my teacher said, "You're from that weird circus town, right? Why don't you write about that?" I dismissed the idea at first, saying Peru was too boring to write about, but he insisted. So in 1991, I went back for the first of many research trips. At the museum, the curator informed me that the skull on display was not really Charlie's skull, but rather the skull of a smaller, female elephant they'd purchased from the Indianapolis Zoo. However, the tusks, she said, were the real deal. Working under the assumption that the skull was a fake, I incorporated that tidbit into "The Last Member," only to discover recently that the curator had misspoken; it is Charlie's skull, but the tusks are not. Luckily, by this time, the "truth" didn't matter that much anymore.
Winnesaw
I found this photograph during my first research trip to Peru in 1991. It was taken at the Hagenbeck-Wallace winter quarters in 1913 after a horrible flood devastated most of the town; the circus complex, situated right on the banks of the swollen Mississinewa River, was hit incredibly hard. In a newspaper account, I read that many of the circus animals died from drowning or exposure to the cold water. Some of the elephants, such as the one above, failed to head for higher ground because they were accustomed to going to humans when trouble arose. The elephants wailed outside the windows of their keepers, who tried to keep the animals alive by feeding them hay out the windows, but eventually, the pachyderms succumbed to the bitter cold water. (Why this particular man decided to perch himself on top of the dead elephant, I'll never know...) I also remembered another story from my family's oral history; my maternal grandmother's parents lived in the town of Peru and were trapped (along with an infant) on the second floor of their home for days until they were rescued. When I started writing the story "Winnesaw," I had this picture in my head, along with the imagined memory of my long-dead relatives struggling to survive. I decided to move my "family story" and the characters (Grace and Charles and Mildred) from town to the country, so that they could bear witness to the devastation caused by the Flood of 1913.
The Lone Star Cowboy
Before Will Rogers and Gene Autry, there was Tom Mix, the original American Cowboy. Mix parlayed his silent-film stardom into big-top success, headlining the Sells-Floto Circus from 1929–1932 at a reported $10,000 a week. This picture was taken during those years, when Tom Mix and his Wonder Horse, Tony, called Peru their winter home. I think every older gentleman in Peru can tell you the same story from his boyhood—working up the courage to
shake Tom Mix's hand. I don't know where Tony stayed, but Mix lived downtown at the Bearss Hotel, where (it is reported) he shot out chandelier lights and wooed local ladies when he grew bored. For the record, Tom Mix didn't keep a tally of his conquests (not that I know of anyway), and he died in a tragic car crash, not from swallowing a toothpick (that was the fate of one of my heroes, Sherwood Anderson, author of Wines burg, Ohio).
The Jungle Goolah Boy
When I told my maternal grandmother that I wanted to write a book about the circus in Peru, she began sending me files of old newspaper clippings and photographs, including this one. On the back of the photo, someone had written: "Hoffman, Ding Dong, Charlie, and his Jungle Goolah Boy—Iowa, 1900." For a long time, I figured that Jungle Goolah Boy was just some silly-sounding "African" name the circus owners had come up with. In 1998, I got a research grant to travel to Baraboo, WI (hometown of the Ringling Brothers) to do research in the Robert L. Parkinson Library and Research Center at the Circus World Museum. I showed the above photograph to the curator, who said they had no record of a Jungle Goolah Boy or who the man in the photo might have been. A year later, I was reading Edward Ball's book Slaves in the Family and came across the term "Gullah," descendents of slaves who worked the rice plantations in South Carolina and Georgia. Unlike most slaves, the Gullah managed to retain a great deal of their African language and customs through the generations. Finally, I realized that "Goolah" was probably someone's mispronunciation or misspelling of "Gullah." What I admired about Slaves in the Family was Ball's willingness to disclose the contents of his slave-holding family's ledgers and correspondence; through diligent sleuthing, he helped many African-American families find their roots, a lineage that for many is impossible to find. I wished that I could find a similar "paper trail" for my Jungle Goolah Boy, and so I decided to create one for him. This is why the story "Jungle Goolah Boy" is told entirely in documents. For verisimilitude, I studied a lot of old documents, trying to mimic vocabulary, presentation, and tone.