All We Needed Was A Clown Car

by Hap Rocketto

When I was a kid the circus always came to town on a Thursday in early September and spread its huge canvas tent and midway in Caulkin’s Park, which was right across the street from my classroom at Waller School. The railroad ran right by the park and the circus train would park on a convenient siding to unload. We elementary school kids were tortured by its proximity, the occasional tooting of the calliope as preparations were made for the opening performance as well as the exotic sounds and smells tantalized us almost to the bursting point. Our pubescent agitation and the commotion just a few hundred yards away drove our poor teachers to distraction as they tried to keep us focused on the educational tasks at hand. Other than snapping off the points to our pencils, the room often sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies gone wild, so that we could go to the sharpener by the window to sneak a peek was our only other opportunity to watch the circus set up was our morning and afternoon 15 minute recess.

When the bell rang for the break we rushed to line up, two by two, to be lead by our teacher across Riverview Avenue to the park. We were sternly instructed by the principal to stay together and confine our play to the area north of the baseball diamond and not, under any circumstances wander toward the circus. Those were simpler times and we were simpler kids and we obeyed as we crowded the splintery wooden bleachers to gape and point at the elephants helping to erect the tent, the railcars full of wild animals, and the assorted roustabouts hurrying to and fro.

For weeks before the telephone poles had been plastered with posters nailed up by the circus’ advancemen and in these last two days before the weekend our badgering of our parents rose to a crescendo. Saturday morning would seem like forever because The Old Man, like most fathers in the early 50s, worked a 5 and a half day work week. After he got home from the shop and had a chance to clean up and have lunch he would give us our weekly allowance, a quarter for my older brother, 15 cents for me, and nothing for my kid sister as she was still in diapers. From this munificent sum we usually had enough to pay Scout dues and buy a comic book and candy bar. As soon as the circus’ handbills went up we began to scrimp and save, picked up deposit soda bottles for refund, and scavenged through the sofa for loose change. The Old Man, a child of the Depression, encouraged our activities and always seemed to find an extra silver coin or two for us on Circus day, an event he loved as much as we did.

Hand in hand we walked down the hill, past the school, and onto the midway where we squandered out meager fortune on candy apples, popcorn, fresh roasted peanuts, and cotton candy. The Old Man always generously paid our admission so, to our mother’s annoyance, we could load ourselves to the exploding point with enough sugar to rot our teeth to stumps and keep us hyperactive for a month. Hey, he was a kid once too and thought that a bellyache was both a rite of passage and a small price to pay for this rare kind of adventure.

Being young I was awed by the aerialists, terrified of the lions and tigers, and amused to no end by the clowns and in particular the act where about a zillion of them popped out of a tiny automobile.

A few weeks ago I was reminded of those golden days of my youth by a casual comment made by on of my rifle team mates, Tom McGurl. I had received a call from an old junior shooter, Dwayne Britt, who wanted to get back into the game and invited him to the range the next week. He showed up some 20 years older and 40 pounds heavier but still enthusiastic. He had no equipment so I offered him mine and offered to get him going. We got on the line and I helped into the gear, it was a thrill to note he couldn’t button my coat. It took a bit of time but it got done.

In the meantime my brother was getting ready. Just the week before he had cataract surgery and wasn’t sure he could see well enough to shoot but he was game to try. It turned out his vision was just too blurry and he popped of the line. I saw a chance to still shoot but Britt was in my gear. The prep period had just begun so I quickly had Steve and Britt both strip off their gear. Steve helped Britt into his stuff, and I was thrilled to note that Steve’s coat did button up on Britt. I grabbed all of my gear and slid into it, redoing the adjustments to the butt plate and hook and finished just as the end of the prep period was called. Thirty minutes later we were done and I shot my average and Britt shot a score that was almost high enough to make the team. Not a bad performance for a guy who was using strange gear and hadn’t practiced in two decades.

As we were packing up I noticed that Tom was grinning and shaking his head in wonderment as he stored his gear. “What’s up, Tom” I asked.

Containing himself, rather admirably I might add, Tom said, “Hap you just had to see it. There were the three of you guys, wearing funny clothes, hopping up and down all over the place, tossing stuff left and right, and jabbering orders, requests, and pleas to each other. It was just comic. Your shooting shoes were floppy enough so that about the only other thing you needed was a big red nose, white make-up, and a clown car to make that circus act complete.”

Tom’s observations were spot on and struck home. I guess, like most kids, I once wanted to run away to join the circus but of course never did. In retrospect I guess that is not quite true. I did actually did join one, but of a different kind, when I became a shooter.