The Long and Winding Road: Part II

Send In The Clowns
In addition to being the “Shark Tooth Capital of the World,” (this was before snowbirds made them scarcer than hen’s teeth) my childhood home of Venice, Florida, was notable for one other thing. Every November, right after Thanksgiving, a silver behemoth would steam slowly to a stop at the Seaboard Air Line Railroad depot and unload a clattering and pungent cargo that stirred children's imaginations worldwide for generations.

Venice was once the winter headquarters for the Ringling Brothers & Barnum & Bailey Circus. Living there meant that for several months you saw the circus every time you drove down US 41, because their arena and training grounds sat so close to the road you could smell the camels and hear the cracking of the lion-tamer’s whip.

On the night "The Greatest Show on Earth" arrived at the station, hundreds of families with pajama-clad kids would fight off the tryptophan coma from their leftover-turkey sandwiches to see the logistical miracle that moved a mile's worth of man, machine and wild beast from their boxcars, across the highway to their seasonal home. If there was a modern-day version of Noah loading the ark, this was it. But for me, this was more like Advent — I knew it would just be a few weeks before I would be seeing the show.

It really did seem like its own holiday. It was the one time each year I was allowed to eat my weight in cotton candy, which chemically led to an impassioned re-enactment of the night's acrobatic feats by me jumping on my bed. I was also given a special dispensation to wear my clown makeup to sleep that night. Exhibit ‘A’ …


Clown cars and dancing bears were fine, but my raison d'étre at the circus was to see The Flying Gaonas trapeze act, and the star of the center ring, Tito Gaona.

Tito was the MAN! He was a charismatic Eric Estrada in tights, but it was cool because he was also the youngest person to ever perform on the trapeze and the first man in the world to pull off the triple somersault. He smiled at death. And when he whipped his body back and forth to set up his trick, you were sure he was going to put his head through the roof of the arena.

As graceful as they were, you actually watched the Gaonas for the same reason people flock to NASCAR events — the possibility of witnessing something catastrophic. You never felt bad about it, though, because they themselves fed that sick curiosity by dropping their own safety net.

I was terrified of heights, but still dreamed of joining this family of Mexican daredevils as their little token gringo. Didn’t happen. The closest I got was to tell my friends that my mother worked with Tito’s sister, Lupé. Sadly, that connection never scored me so much as an autograph from my hero, though I did finally meet him a few years ago at his trapeze academy located on the old site of the circus grounds.

All that remains now is the dilapidated arena, the abandoned training cages for the big cats and Tito’s trapeze school rigging. The train tracks that brought the circus into town became neglected over time and eventually spelled the end of Venice’s stint as Ringling Brothers' winter home.

Just down the road there's a monument to the man who put the Ringling Brothers Circus on the map. With all deference to Tito, Gunther Gebel-Williams was the premier attraction. It was his image that was plastered on all the showbills. He was a worldwide celebrity.

A time or two, I convinced my mom to take me to a spot outside the circus gates where you could see Gunther working with his man-eaters. The way he handled the cats — usually more than six at a time — made you believe he had some sort of spell over them. His body told a different story. In the hot Florida sun, his shirtless torso revealed scars you'd expect to see on a prisoner of war or a galley slave. Though his affection for his animals was always obvious, you knew it was hard-won. He surely must have loved what he did.

Gunther died in 2001. Underneath the life-sized monument that marks his final resting place is a headstone. For such a man, it is the epitome of understatement. But it carries so much meaning for us all.

Gunther Gebel-Williams
1934 — 2001
“A simple man blessed with a special gift.”

God graciously endows each of us with passions and abilities that are pregnant with potential if we step out in faith and use them. To do so can mean great risk, much pain and many scars. I had to ask myself "Do I love anything that much?" I used to, and I desperately want to again.

What I did conclude is that falling to your death or getting mauled by an apex predator in front of 2,000 spectators isn't a tragedy. To be that guy in the Greatest Show on Earth who spends his life just keeping plates spinning in the air — that's the tragedy.