Back in the day, we did not think about animal cruelty. To us, these circus beasts looked proud to be in the show.

              By Charles Kraus


Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus is closing. Not for the season, but forever. Each year from 1950 until 1966, when it came to New York City, I attended a performance. Initially because my parents took me. Later because I felt that watching the Greatest Show on Earth would do me some good.
Back then, before sideshows were considered degrading, I’d arrive early so I could tour the preamble. The giant slipped his plastic ring from his pinky, passed a silver dollar through it, then peddled duplicate rings to the crowd. There were contortionists, sword swallowers, fire eaters and a guy who could paint a detailed picture of Niagara Falls in less than 30 seconds. He just happened to have a few dry copies he could part with for a ridiculously low price — low for serious art like his.
Once you got to the bleacher seating, you could look out on three rings plus two squares, rigs, ropes suspended from way up high, waiting to be climbed by beautiful women (beautiful from where we were sitting), costumed acrobats, twirling, flipping, balancing. Dancing bears, prancing horses carrying trick riders, elephants doing “head” stands, dogs bounding through the air.
We did not think about animal cruelty. To us, these circus beasts looked proud to be in the show. The lions, of course, were confined to large, walk-in cages. That is where the lion tamers confronted them. No matter what you were watching, you were tempted to refocus on another of the simultaneous exhibitions crowding the enormous floor.
Experiencing a Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey show was similar to attending a big league game. You knew you were watching seasoned, superbly trained professionals at the peak of their careers. I once witnessed a high-wire performer balance his way up the support cable to the platform 60 feet above ground, do his act and then, seemingly for the fun of it, cross to the guard rails that kept those of us with bleacher seats from going over the edge. He strolled along the top of the railing, located a sturdy wire, then slide down, down, down to the sawdust.
These acts were astounding. But mostly, I waited for Emmett.
I saw Emmett Kelly year after year in his star turn as the leading Ringling Bros. clown. His character was a sad hobo named Weary Willie. Kelly played to segments of the audience, turning one against the other. He’d do a bit of juggling and become “disappointed” with the reaction of the crowd. Dismissing it, he’d move to another part of the arena and try his luck with a different portion of the audience. Back and forth, without saying a word, he commanded everyone’s attention. And admiration.
As his act concluded, the house lights dimmed. Emmett tried to sweep the floor clear of an ever roaming, ever fading spotlight. He was so sad, so lost and confused. And so funny. It was humor with pathos, very different than the slapstickery performed by the other clowns. I liked the other clowns, too, the business of a tiny car coming to a stop in the middle of the center ring and two dozen costumed zanies emerging from inside. But these clowns had no particular personalities. They were colorful, funny and entirely interchangeable. Emmett was unique.
Ringling Bros. chased that elusive spotlight into the 21st century. And just like Emmet, the spots grew more and more difficult to pin down. Finally, they faded away.
This article was published in USAToday and about 50 other newspapers.