Life is a carnival. Really.
Warning. Like many of my conversations, the following tends to ramble on and lead no where. Enjoy the ride, you were forewarned.
I was raised on a carnival. Not born on one, simply raised, which I realize sounds just as bad. For whatever reason, my father bought a carnival when I was about 10 years old, complete with rides and trailers and game and food concessions. He had a well paying job with the government at the time, so what possessed him to go out and buy a carnival is beyond me, and to this date no clear explanation has ever been offered. So, at the tender age of 10, my siblings and I became, without much say in the matter, Carnies, traveling from town to town.
Now blow past that image of Carnies that just popped in to your head. We weren't anything like that. Well, not entirely. Back then none of us had any tattoos, we had a health plan and, most importantly, we had all of our teeth. Well, most of us. Gordie was the exception to the rule, and one of my brother's best friends at the time. One night after the beer tent closed in some long forgotten Carnie town that was host to an agricultural fair, Gordie tried to milk the business end of a horse and was swiftly rewarded. We didn't know if we should take him to the town doc or the town vet. Who the heck do you see to have a horseshoe removed from a grown man's mouth at two in the morning? That in itself is a blog post for another day, possibly.
My family ran a pretty small outfit by today's standards. Our rides were mostly children's rides with fairly generic names, like the Boat Ride (you guessed it, boats turning in a circle), the Car Ride (yes, cars that turned in a circle) and the Swing Ride (yes, swings that turned in a circle. You're getting the hang of it). Until the age of 12 I thought every family owned a carnival. Turns out my friends had paper routes. That's when it dawned on me that my experiences were a tad different than other kids my age. Until the age of 14 I thought the four basic food groups consisted of cotton candy, candy apples, Irish stew (purchased by the case) and root beer. I'm fairly certain that our neighbours hated us, or at least they hated my father - everyone loves when the Carnie comes to town, just not when the Carnie happens to be stored next door to your home eight months of the year. In my father's defence he did manage to keep home prices down in our neighbourhood for well over a decade.
Joining - or being forced to join - a Carnie isn't for everyone (it seems child labour laws were non-existent back in the day). My father had some colourful expressions, to put it mildly. His tamer expressions usually revolved around a central theme: a strong work ethic (you're frequently being told that you have a strong work ethic when you're only making $5 a day). He would often tell us that hard work was its own reward, or that a hard day's work never killed anyone (although it nearly did several times. Note: only licensed professionals should attempt to tap into hydro). My father insisted that I go to school, but until that far off day came, he'd tell me, the Carnie would be my education.
I remember one talk we had as we were tearing down the Ferris Wheel one evening (yes, it also goes in circles, but in the other direction). He wanted to talk, so we moved into one of the vehicles to count the weekend's take, which was always my favourite part. Over soiled stacks of $20 bills he looked me in the eye he said, "Money comes and money goes, son. All any of us have in this world is our word and a handshake. It's what we trade on. So when you look a person in the eye and give them your word, it has to mean something. If you lose that nothing else matters." I nodded, then tucked a few twenties into my pocket when he wasn't looking. Five bucks a day doesn't cut it when you're nearly getting electrocuted every second weekend and you haven't yet reached puberty. But the lessons weren't lost on me.
When I look back at those times I wouldn't trade them for the world. Well, there are a few instances that I'd like to forget, if the local constabulary would agree to do the same. The Carnie didn't do much to improve my social graces at an impressionable young age however, but it did teach me about people, since the Carnie business is, above all else, a people business. Years later my chosen profession would be advertising. And believe it or not, there are many, many similarities. Advertising, above all else, is also a people business, addressing basic human needs, wants, desires, expectations, and yes, even dreams, in its messaging. More importantly, it's about building relationships and maintaining those relationships, be it with clients or a client's customers. And yes, a hand shake and your word still does mean something, hard work never did kill anyone, and finally, hard work really is its own reward. All simple lessons that I learned as a Carnie kid.
James Otis wrote a book many years ago called "Toby Tyler, or ten weeks with a circus". It's the story of a boy who runs away from home to join the circus, where all is not what it seems. The book was hugely popular with American teenagers and rivaled Mark Twains' "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" in popularity. Many adults of a certain age still reference Toby Tyler as a metaphor for escapism and leaving your problems behind for the promise of adventure. That's what the Carnival was for me: fun and adventure. I just happened to get an education in life along the way.
I told you this thought was nothing more than a ramble leading no where. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't, I really don't know. Here's what I do know: if you ever get the opportunity to run away and join the circus, or a carnival, or a wandering minstrel show, or a ramshackle gypsy caravan, take it.
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