Those Were the Days of Dog & Pony Shows
There are few of us left that were born after World War I and before the Great Depression, to perpetuate its memories.
Students of U.S. history; have you noticed that after every war there is a period of jubilation followed closely by prosperity and greed that comes before a time of financial crisis or a another war? I’m thinking mainly of the “Twinkling Twenties” and the “Dirty Thirties.”
On a day in May of 1927, I was born at noon. (Our little town of 15,000 in Southern Kansas, four miles from the Oklahoma line, was the starting point of the famous Cherokee Strip land rush, but that’s another story.)
I’ve learned to appreciate now, what I did not, as I was growing up. My home town had beautiful red brick streets.
There were two oil refineries, two prosperous flour mills, a meat packing plant, three railroad depots, and the headquarters for the Oklahoma Division of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe, with its own engine repair shop and turn-table; plus the city water works.
They all had loud steam-powered whistles that kept the townsfolk aware of the time. Mother told me that when I was born at the stroke of noon, all the whistles blew at once to welcome me into the world.
That’s too much honor and extravagance. But a short time before that, Col. Lindberg flew solo across the Atlantic to Paris. My first words were “HER-bert HOO-ver.”
My Grandfather was Chief Dispatcher for the busy Santa Fe R.R., a nerve-wracking position, but it paid well and with insurance money Grandma received from the death of her first husband, a Civil Engineer on the Panama Canal, we ate well. Mother did well also as an expert Gregg Shorthand stenographer, but her jobs were always to nearby towns. This was during the Depression.
By the time I entered grammar school, I slid into the thirties enjoying life as a kid, not really knowing or understanding the depression. But I remember the times Hobos would come to our back door and politely ask Grandma for a meal. She never refused but would whip up a delicious meal, not too much, but adequate, homemade, and appreciated. They quietly sat on the back steps to eat their lunch, slowly, savoring every bit of flavor from each bite.
Coincidentally, in Grand Old Republican Kansas, my grade school was across the street from the Victorian house Grandma designed and built. The name was changed from First Ward” to “Roosevelt": it was during the Depression, what else?
I also remember the long lines that waited for bags of corn or other commodities.
Then there was the Tamale vender with his cart moving up and down Summit Street, letting the “evil,” enticing aroma of “Hot Tamales” emit from his colorful cart like a fish hook reeling in shoppers, clerks and office workers.
Fondly I remember the old ice cream vendor who sat inside a sparkling white cart with screened windows and rubber tired for red brick streets and pulled by a nice-enough horse. A strawberry ice cream cone was painted on the sides and the vendor looked pretty much like it: bald head, sharp beak, white mustache and pink complexion. When we heard the tinkle of his bell and the clop, clop, clop of hooves two blocks away, all of us kids were waiting for him.
When it comes to entrepreneurial ability, there was a man who walked up and down the red brick streets selling practical things made of bent bailing wire. He wore bib overalls and a stocking cap and I think he pretended to be a bit lost in the woods for PR purposes: best guess from townsfolk was that he made more money than some store managers. He made all the stuff himself and sometimes he would stand in a doorway bending wire into some utilitarian marvel.
But … Here Comes the Circus!
The Circus was what we looked forward to seeing: not exactly Barnum & Bailey, but even the lesser known circuses were quality – remember, this is during the Depression and circus people had jobs. I recall two or three a year, not counting the carnivals.
When the circus came to town, there was always a parade down red brick streets: Summit Street to Madison Avenue and on to a plot of land across from the ice house. It was pretty much hallowed ground.
Grandpa was as excited as I was. We saw the parade of fierce animals in horse-drawn cages, and pretty women, some riding on top of the wagons, others riding horses with tassels on their harnesses; and clowns, clowns, clowns, cavorting all around. And there was usually a small marching band. (These were jobs during the Depression)
Happy we were as we walked over a half-mile to the circus, along with throngs funneling into the entrance abd down the aisle flanked by side show tents and on into the big top. The band was playing typical jazzy circus tunes … No, we did not pass up the pop corn and cotton candy which we took inside to find a good spot on the bleachers.
Everything was all circus, including the bleachers. We hurried to find a good spot, which was usually mid-way up. We sat down and ... the next thing I remember, I opened my eyes to see concerned faces looking at me and trying to help me up. My legs swung under my seat and I fell through the bleachers onto the damp ground.
Did that ruin the evening for Grandpa and me? Don’t be silly. We saw the rest of the show; we just did not tell Mother or Grandma.
When we lived in Sarasota we often went to the Circus Museum and watched the parade at Venice, Florida, Barnum & Bailey headquarters, as the circus begun a new season. The big show comes to Kansas City every year and there is a parade of elephants and other animals. But it’s not the same.
I don’t make childhood memories anymore; I just remember them. I still prefer the three-ring performances and the Dog & Pony Shows, and even an occasional carnival. But best of all about my home town with the red brick streets, is the opportunities it had for a child to bond with his Grandpa.
There are few of us left that were born after World War I and before the Great Depression, to perpetuate its memories.
Students of U.S. history; have you noticed that after every war there is a period of jubilation followed closely by prosperity and greed that comes before a time of financial crisis or a another war? I’m thinking mainly of the “Twinkling Twenties” and the “Dirty Thirties.”
On a day in May of 1927, I was born at noon. (Our little town of 15,000 in Southern Kansas, four miles from the Oklahoma line, was the starting point of the famous Cherokee Strip land rush, but that’s another story.)
I’ve learned to appreciate now, what I did not, as I was growing up. My home town had beautiful red brick streets.
There were two oil refineries, two prosperous flour mills, a meat packing plant, three railroad depots, and the headquarters for the Oklahoma Division of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe, with its own engine repair shop and turn-table; plus the city water works.
They all had loud steam-powered whistles that kept the townsfolk aware of the time. Mother told me that when I was born at the stroke of noon, all the whistles blew at once to welcome me into the world.
That’s too much honor and extravagance. But a short time before that, Col. Lindberg flew solo across the Atlantic to Paris. My first words were “HER-bert HOO-ver.”
My Grandfather was Chief Dispatcher for the busy Santa Fe R.R., a nerve-wracking position, but it paid well and with insurance money Grandma received from the death of her first husband, a Civil Engineer on the Panama Canal, we ate well. Mother did well also as an expert Gregg Shorthand stenographer, but her jobs were always to nearby towns. This was during the Depression.
By the time I entered grammar school, I slid into the thirties enjoying life as a kid, not really knowing or understanding the depression. But I remember the times Hobos would come to our back door and politely ask Grandma for a meal. She never refused but would whip up a delicious meal, not too much, but adequate, homemade, and appreciated. They quietly sat on the back steps to eat their lunch, slowly, savoring every bit of flavor from each bite.
Coincidentally, in Grand Old Republican Kansas, my grade school was across the street from the Victorian house Grandma designed and built. The name was changed from First Ward” to “Roosevelt": it was during the Depression, what else?
I also remember the long lines that waited for bags of corn or other commodities.
Then there was the Tamale vender with his cart moving up and down Summit Street, letting the “evil,” enticing aroma of “Hot Tamales” emit from his colorful cart like a fish hook reeling in shoppers, clerks and office workers.
Fondly I remember the old ice cream vendor who sat inside a sparkling white cart with screened windows and rubber tired for red brick streets and pulled by a nice-enough horse. A strawberry ice cream cone was painted on the sides and the vendor looked pretty much like it: bald head, sharp beak, white mustache and pink complexion. When we heard the tinkle of his bell and the clop, clop, clop of hooves two blocks away, all of us kids were waiting for him.
When it comes to entrepreneurial ability, there was a man who walked up and down the red brick streets selling practical things made of bent bailing wire. He wore bib overalls and a stocking cap and I think he pretended to be a bit lost in the woods for PR purposes: best guess from townsfolk was that he made more money than some store managers. He made all the stuff himself and sometimes he would stand in a doorway bending wire into some utilitarian marvel.
But … Here Comes the Circus!
The Circus was what we looked forward to seeing: not exactly Barnum & Bailey, but even the lesser known circuses were quality – remember, this is during the Depression and circus people had jobs. I recall two or three a year, not counting the carnivals.
When the circus came to town, there was always a parade down red brick streets: Summit Street to Madison Avenue and on to a plot of land across from the ice house. It was pretty much hallowed ground.
Grandpa was as excited as I was. We saw the parade of fierce animals in horse-drawn cages, and pretty women, some riding on top of the wagons, others riding horses with tassels on their harnesses; and clowns, clowns, clowns, cavorting all around. And there was usually a small marching band. (These were jobs during the Depression)
Happy we were as we walked over a half-mile to the circus, along with throngs funneling into the entrance abd down the aisle flanked by side show tents and on into the big top. The band was playing typical jazzy circus tunes … No, we did not pass up the pop corn and cotton candy which we took inside to find a good spot on the bleachers.
Everything was all circus, including the bleachers. We hurried to find a good spot, which was usually mid-way up. We sat down and ... the next thing I remember, I opened my eyes to see concerned faces looking at me and trying to help me up. My legs swung under my seat and I fell through the bleachers onto the damp ground.
Did that ruin the evening for Grandpa and me? Don’t be silly. We saw the rest of the show; we just did not tell Mother or Grandma.
When we lived in Sarasota we often went to the Circus Museum and watched the parade at Venice, Florida, Barnum & Bailey headquarters, as the circus begun a new season. The big show comes to Kansas City every year and there is a parade of elephants and other animals. But it’s not the same.
I don’t make childhood memories anymore; I just remember them. I still prefer the three-ring performances and the Dog & Pony Shows, and even an occasional carnival. But best of all about my home town with the red brick streets, is the opportunities it had for a child to bond with his Grandpa.
Summit Street, late 19th Century; The house that Grandma built; The house that Grandma remodeled; I was born in the room with the bay window.
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