The Circus in Winter (29 page)

Afterward, Dad and I bought elephant ears (pizza-sized servings of fried dough covered in cinnamon and sugar) and walked back home. It was dusk, but the heat hadn't let up yet, and the air was thick with humidity and mosquitoes. Midway rides glowed pink and green in the distance, and the calliope music blew more and more faintly. I thought about telling Dad about my dream, but I was still trying to come up with some kind of explanation. It wasn't false déjà vu, because I remembered the dream long before I knew anything about the accident. It seemed more than a coincidence that I had that particular dream about that particular person at that particular time. I didn't have words yet for what had happened, only a bunch of images that somehow seemed to go together: the rocking camper, a screen door, the center ring, a jean jacket, a trapeze bar, the moon.

 

AFTER GRANDPA
Ollie's funeral, Dad goes straight upstairs to bed, but I linger in the darkened parlor, wondering whether every person in Lima has been inside my house at one time or another—either by the front door or the back. There must have been four hundred people here for David Lindsey's funeral alone. Almost every kid in town came to the viewing; the receiving line stretched around the block. The eulogy was barely audible over all the sobbing and choking. I'd never seen so many people—young and old—crying at one time. One girl started to hyperventilate, and I had to lead her to the bathroom. Once she calmed down, she told me she'd been up to the hospital to visit Sharon Gregg, who said that the song on the radio when they hit the tree was "Jack and Diane" by John Cougar Mellen-camp. That summer, you just couldn't get away from that song, and for years afterward, whenever it came on—at dances or parties—everyone would get really quiet and look at their hands.

I woke up the day after David's funeral feeling groggy. My dad was out "on business," Mom said, so I told her I wanted to go see my friend Michelle. She was supposed to be in the circus, but I hadn't seen her that Saturday lor some reason. When I got to her house, Michelle's mom shook her head. "I'm sorry, Jenny. She's been real upset, so I gave her something to help her sleep. I don't want to wake her until she's ready." So I walked home, stopping at the B&B to buy a Coke.

Ever since we'd returned from Tennessee, the camper had been sitting in the funeral home parking lot. When I got home, I saw that the camper was rocking gently. I knew Mom and Dad were inside, playing hooky, looking for what they'd found in Tennessee. Then it was quiet. I went to my bedroom and looked out the window, waiting for my parents to emerge. Instead, I saw Earl Richards step out, looking left and right. He walked over to his blue truck and backed it toward the camper. My mom came out, her shirt tucked in, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail. She guided Earl backward, saying "A little more. To the right. There. Stop." Earl lowered the camper onto the trailer hitch. When he tried to kiss her good-bye, my mother held out her hand. Earl shook it and drove off. I watched her wave, and then she came inside and started making dinner.

I went to the kitchen and stood there.

"Jenny!" she said, "Why aren't you at Michelle's?"

"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.

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.

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.

Frontispiece to the book: