The Circus in Thomson Park

Wednesday, February 25, 2009


THE CIRCUS IN THOMSON PARK


By Philip Cairns


Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns


Marching and skipping across the top of the hill,
I could see the colourful parade come closer.
Vividly coloured Mardi Gras-like costumes,
Huge papier mache heads with enormous eyes.
Women dressed like gypsy fortune tellers
And brawny young men looking like Harlequin.
The sound of brass instruments
And the thump-thump of big, round drums.

Standing with my four siblings,
Amongst the canvas tents in a clearing in the suburban park,
I watched the procession as it drew nearer.
Smiling faces in a rag-tag band.
Electric blue, startling red, lush green grass and the deep brown earth.
The bubbling sound of the nearby creek.
The notes of the piccolo slipped out in a merry way,
Along with the bump-bump-bump of the heavy bass drum.

I remember the youthful face of the fortune teller,
Inside the hot, burning tarpaulin,
And the silly lies she told about my future.
The auburn haired young woman couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

Then, into the tent to see the Freaks of Nature.
The African Sausage Man with no arms or legs,
Lying on a wooden table, wrapped all in woollen clothing,
Rolling and lighting a cigarette using only his mouth and tongue.

A Pinhead in a dirty, sleeveless housedress,
Was sitting on the stage weeping and exchanging bitter words
With a short, mean, hideous man standing in the front row.
He was insulting and making fun of the pathetic, ugly woman.
(From this great distance in time,
I see her as being rather beautiful, in a Picasso sort of way.)
I was only eleven, but, even so,
I was appalled and disappointed by this so-called Freak Show.

Outside, again, there were stiltwalkers and jugglers
Roaming the grounds of the little ersatz circus.
There was cotton candy to consume,
Taffy apples to gobble
And sweet orange pop to slurp.

I walked home with an uneasy sensation in the pit of my stomach.
The Pinhead woman seemed so vulnerable and morbidly unhappy.
40 years down the road,
I remember the sight of her so clearly,
Sobbing on that makeshift stage in the intense August heat.
I went inside expecting to be frightened and excited
But came away feeling low and gypped.

The circus came to town.
Childhood dreams fell away,
Like the melting skin of a burn victim.
Phony adolescent psychics and depressed freaks
On a sweltering summer day in Scarborough.
A rerun from the past.