Circus World Museum.

The small town of Baraboo, Wisconsin is home to the Circus World Museum. Fifty-acres of circus history in the town that the Ringling Brothers used as their winter quarters from 1884 to 1918. I remember my grandparents taking us there when we were little. Actually, my grandma would take us. My grandpa was simply the chauffeur. He would sit in his air-conditioned Oldsmobile--Mother Mary shivering on the dash--and read the paper or listen to the Brewers and wait for us to come out. But, as we walked in, there was a fake, yet terrifying, gorilla in a circus train cage. What if he suddenly wasn’t, well, fake? It could happen. Next to him was a trumpeting, wheezing calliope. (One time I remember a reporter on Channel 5 doing a feature on the calliopes of Circus World Museum. He pronounced it “CA-lee-ope”, like it rhymed with antelope, through the entire well-researched segment.) But, the monster ape and a gasping cacophony welcomed us into the museum. I remember being afraid of what I would see.

Not long ago, in July, my family and I visited this historical site on the way to go camping at Devil’s Lake. Twenty five years after my last visit probably. And it is beautiful. My kids loved it. In one building, at the Circus World Museum, there are cracked black and white photos of faithful elephants. In another display, there is a scratchy, hollow recording of a ringmaster calling the Big Top into glorious action. And, over there, in a glass case, are faded garments covered in dull sequins, once worn by The Flying Wallendas, and other high wire risk takers. Next to them, a case full of clown props used to show up human absurdity.

Just up the hill from there are housed dozens upon dozens of ornate and beautiful circus wagons, once used to carry this show to cities around the nation. And, then, there is this red and white sideshow tent outside where there are wax mannequins of giants, snake handlers, a tattooed woman whose skin looks like a map and tells some mysterious story, and Siamese twins who are connected one to another with a bond I could never understand.

Twice a day there is a Big Top show on the hot, dusty grounds, with some very tired looking clowns, and a sleepy organ player, where the most active member of the event is the attendant with the shovel who runs along behind the elephants.

All that to say, I’m not sure there should be a circus museum. It’s all very interesting and beautiful, but where is the thunder? Where is the clatter of hooves and wheels taking this show on the road? Where is the glory of this strange spectacle, the likes of which the world has never seen? Is this where children are supposed to run away to? See, I’m not so sure there should be a museum for circuses. Why? Because the very essence of the circus is movement. Don’t fence it in and flatten it out. It’s about bringing risk, danger, excitement, wildness right to peoples’ front doors. So, to reduce it to permanent displays, models, and reminiscence that requires us to come to it is, at best, looking through the wrong end of the telescope. At worst, it is a denial of the circus’ reality. No offense intended towards the Wisconsin State Historical Society, but I suggest they free those elephants from the leg shackles of “used-to-be” and “remember-when”. We need them now more than ever.

Maybe that’s why my grandpa wouldn’t come in, but sat in the car with Mother Mary and Paul Molitor. Maybe he was afraid of what he wouldn’t see.

Of course, I am not talking about the Circus World Museum.