Ringling Bros. circus: ‘It was full of wonder’

The sun had just set over Columbia; the resulting skyline was a palette of pink and silver.

Silver.

Tuesday, I went in search of the silver circus train. The interminable line of coach cars marked with red and white banners – RINGLING BROS. AND BARNUM & BAILEY – and blue and white logos – THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH.

The road leading to a cut of the Norfolk Southern railroad yard off Shop Road south of the city was a gnarly ride of gravel and potholes. The long train finally came into view, sitting on a track below a deep, earthy berm.

Yes, I had come in search of the train and found it. But I was looking for something else too. Something having to do with the May end of the circus after a 146-year run. Having to do with its final curtain call here in my hometown. Something I needed to see and feel for myself one last time.

Earlier in the afternoon, I’d sat on a neighborhood park bench talking with a young friend about the circus. Bennett, a fifth-grader, was hoping to go. He’d been before, he said.

“My favorite part about it is when the dirt bikes go in the ball and do tricks. They do some really cool tricks. It was a really good show. I bet the circus people put a lot of effort into doing it. I’m just wondering why they are stopping. I wish they wouldn’t. It was fun for people to go and watch. It was full of wonder.”

Wonder. There it is. Compliments of an astute 11-year-old. That nugget of a word that portrays the circus in one sweet swoop.

So I suppose I was looking for wonder when I went in search of the circus train. Some kind of magic that would take me back to the years when I was a little girl, going to the circus in the old coliseum in downtown Columbia.

I remember my father holding my hand tight as we entered the noisy din. I remember him handing someone a ticket. The whir and buzz of plastic toys being sold by vendors just inside the building. The promise that we would buy one “on the way out.” The smells of popcorn and roasted peanuts. The simple joy of being able to drop the peanut shells on the cement floor beneath our seats. The satisfactory crush of their crisp beige hides underneath my Keds sneakers.

Then there was the sudden darkness. A lone light shining on the ringmaster. His booming voice sending a chill up my spine: “Welcome ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, to the greatest show on earth…”

A woman hung by her hair, attached to a pole high above us, spinning so fast she became a nebula of sequins and sparkles. Trapeze artists swung hither and yon - every catch of hands to wrists a magnificent show of skill. Every landing in the net at the end of the act a graceful feat.

And of course I loved the long-maned horses. Their golden harnesses, their elegant tails. The performers dancing on their rumps as if on solid ground. You could not question the connection between man and beast; the understanding of consistency, timing and pace. I would practice these same things on my own pony, I remember thinking.

So I found the train just as the sun was setting. A young woman wearing a flannel hat festooned with several black and white guinea hen feathers stood on the high berm. She was by herself. I assumed, like me, she had come to see the train.

And I assumed wonderfully wrong.

Lauren Solomon, 29, is a teacher. One of three who teaches children who travel with their performing parents all over the country and whose bikes had already been unloaded from their traveling homes – the coach cars.

“It’s an honor to have been a part of American history,” Lauren said, staring down at the train, “and this is American history.”

Lauren grew up in Orlando, Florida. She earned her undergraduate degree at Brigham Young University and her masters at London Metropolitan University. She teaches 32 children in kindergarten through the 10^th grade. A classroom is set up at every arena where the circus performs.

“Girl,” she said, grasping my arm, “I just did my make-up, so don’t make me cry. Everybody dreams of running away and joining the circus. I know I sure did. There are so few moments we get to have as families these days, so few moments when we get to wonder and dream together. Whether you were 99 years old or only 4, Ringling Brothers provided that for 146 years. When the world needed a laugh, a lift, there was always the circus. Through the Depression, two world wars, and now, just when we need a laugh, the circus is ending. It’s tragic.”

Casey McVicker, another circus employee, climbed the berm to say hello.

Casey is 24. She grew up in West Virginia. She maintains, cleans and repairs the coach cars. She also works on the load-in and load-out crews. She lives in a “13 car” which means 13 people live with her in a place equipped like any small home – a kitchen, bathroom, etc.

“Everyone in my car is like family,” she said. “We step over each other’s clothes on the floor. Normal family stuff.”

The end of the circus, she said, “is a tragedy for our kids.”

She meant the children who travel with the circus.

“It’s like their hometown is being demolished. We all got a text message saying the circus was being closed. Everyone was pretty upset. A security guard at the arena where we were when we got the text just burst into tears. I suppose it’s really a piece of everyone’s family, you know?”

And families – even circus families - have the routine to attend to. Not high-wire acts, but the errands of everyday life.

As I was turning my truck around, to head home, a woman tapped on my window. I rolled it down. She asked if she and her husband could catch a ride out to Shop Road. She explained that they needed to go to a doc-in-the-box because she’d had a gall bladder operation and needed to have her stiches taken out. She said they were going to “Uber” to the place they were going, but needed to get out on the main road so they could find an address for the Uber driver to come pick them up.

“Well, just get in,” I said. “I’ll take you there.”

By way of a language-impeded, but pleasant conversation, I learned that Guiselle Gani and Adriano De Quadra are from Colombia. They have two children and will return with them to their homeland when the circus ends in May.

“Yes, sad, but we OK,” Guiselle said.

I asked Guiselle what she did with the circus. “I am a mother,” she said.

And what about Adriano?

“The trapeze,” she said. “He learned from friends.”

I dropped Guiselle and Adriano off at the doc-in-the-box. They said thank you. I said I was so pleased to have met them and I wished them good luck.

At a stoplight, I turned my head and looked at the backseat where Adriano had been sitting. I thought about the end of the Ringling circus, the end of all the glitz and glam, all the talent and American tradition.

I thought about finding the long, silver train on a Tuesday afternoon, talking to a teacher who would move on to other things four short months from now.

And then I thought about driving through Columbia with the man on the flying trapeze. The one who floats through the air with the greatest of ease. The one who lands gracefully in the net at the end of the act and raises his arms to the crowd.

Yes, what I’d gone in search of, I had found.

Wonder had surely sat in the backseat of my truck, and the child in me, the one of all ages, could not have been happier.

This story was originally published January 25, 2017 at 2:48 PM with the headline "Ringling Bros. circus: ‘It was full of wonder’."