To look at the town of Greensboro on a topical map or road atlas would prove unremarkable. In the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, distance on Route 16 is measured between country stores and gas stations on a great black strip of pavement pointing north.
As I drove, the temperature dropped, and the mist wrapped thickly around the trees. The road names weren't matching the directions I had. I admitted I was lost, and pulled over to ask for directions.
At the Greensboro Post Office, I asked a woman for directions. She recognized my goal immediately.
“You look like a Smirko,” she said with a smile. She gave me directions to Circus Smirkus which were totally different from the ones that Google had provided, and I thanked her and drove in what she said was the right direction.
In five minutes, I passed the wide and flat waters of Caspian Lake and turned right down Circus Road. I turned around a bend, and the road opened up onto a field with several massive, colorful tents blooming on it.
A quiet and gentle chocolate Lab named Gypsy greeted me first, then a young woman named Dani in a crocheted hat. She enthusiastically shook my hand and told me with a grin, “Welcome to Smirkus. Welcome home.”
I had finally arrived.
* * *
Circus Smirkus Creative Director Jesse Dryden's voice resounds in the high ceilings of the chapiteau (Big Top) and claps his hands to the beat while the entire troupe of 30 performers swirls across and around the ring in the opening movements of the “chari-vari,” the opening choreography that presents this year's theme, time travel.
They've been at it all afternoon, and the energy is still running at somewhere near full capacity. As they jog and hop through abbreviated versions of their movements, wearing sweatpants and socks, the clapping continues, and Jesse and choreographer Matt Williams call out notes.
I have no idea what they're talking about.
“No, no. Let's go from the hippie explosion into the cowboy.”
“What do you mean, it's Vikings? It's supposed to be clowns.”
While all of this is happening, I pick my way around the seats, snapping pictures as I go. The ground is a mess of rubber boots, rain jackets, and lighting cables. The troupers continue to practice, either oblivious or nonchalant to me, the intern in their midst.
A traveling circus is an organism unto itself, and all participants are aware of their respective roles.
In the span of a given act, one performer hoists this cable, another rolls a Hula-Hoop, and another gathers and carries off the fabrics when the act has finished. Outside of the tent, people are responsible for feeding the troupe and their coaches, setting up the tent and the seats, and getting people to attend.
For someone becoming part of an organism of this kind for the first time, the energy and hectic organization can be a culture shock. Yet in hours, that role crystallizes, and that organism puts you to work, be it choreographing, rigging and setting lights, or coaching.
And me? I'm the guy with the camera, documenting it all.
* * *
The weather finally cleared in the afternoon, and the view at sunset was beautiful. The troupers made tie-dyed t-shirts out on the grass in the new sunshine, while the rain clouds blew apart overhead. The sky was clear blue, and as the sun dropped, the horizon turned pink, then purple.
After dinner during troupe and coach meetings, I walked into the field behind the tents to where the fields rolled away to the edge of the woods and the sun's final rays softly stretched toward Smirkus's farmhouse office.
The shadows lengthened over the tops of the big striped tents, and the air smelled of the freshly mowed grass. It had been a busy day as usual, and it was nice to get away from all the activity of the circus, even just for a few minutes.
It's hard to imagine a more idyllic situation, but this really is my work environment and the environment in which Circus Smirkus develops and builds before embarking on tour.
Such a setting is typical of Vermont in the summertime. At the same time, it's also typical of Smirkus.
There are dozens of youth circuses around the continental United States and even hundreds of circuses around the world. Yet Smirkus remains singular among similar circuses and one reason is this: It still maintains an intimate feel, and that is one of the reasons that a small youth circus hailing from the green mountains of Vermont is held dearly by so many.
At this point, the performance is in its very final stages of production, and the last tweaks and modifications are being added to a two-hour-and-15-minute show. The wheels are about to be put into motion and when they are, there'll be no stopping until August.
As today's dress rehearsal draws closer, the tension is building, but these performers are demonstrating a remarkable amount of control, professionalism, and grace. They are runners at the starting line, taking that last breath before the plunge.
In hindsight, that might have been the last sunset I'd have time to appreciate for a while.
* * *
A circus “jumps “ (travels to a new location) many times over the course of a tour, and it always lands on its feet.
Business continues as usual. Yesterday, the troupers worked through their notes and warm-ups with their usual intensity and focus, and I wandered off for a much-needed shower and shave.
I was walking back from the concrete shower house across pavement hot enough to cook an egg when I noticed that I've been on tour long enough for the days to start to run together. It's taken a number of adjustments, but I'm getting the hang of this.
I joined up with Smirkus directly after returning from a semester abroad, where my day-to-day habits were much different from current routine. This is not a separate country, but a lifestyle and an art form that I've neither fully understood nor experienced until now.
From an artistic perspective, the circus represents an interesting intersection of choreographed dance, acrobatics of various kinds, and melodramatic theater.
The result is something in the realm of the fantastic, something that appeals to the less scientific and more whimsical side of human nature.
Maybe that's why it's endured for so long. This visual art is not theater, dance, or gymnastics; it is a circus. And like all circuses, it attracts all manner of people wonderful in their own right, to create something for the enjoyment of everyone in the tent.
The physical space I occupy has since shrunk. I've fully accepted the fact that my bedroom walls are paper thin and the trailer rattles and shakes when the costume designer does laundry next door until 1 a.m.
My neighborhood is a cluster of such trailers gathered in a circle around a soccer tent shading beach chairs, a cooler, and a radio. My kitchen is a trailer, and my dining room is a tent with picnic tables.
My desk is a milk crate on the floor. If I want leg room while I type, I sit on the floor, open the cabinet under the bunk, and extend my legs inside while I sit with my back against the wall, shaking from the laundry machine and dryer on the other side.
The crew has been scrambling to supply power to all parts of the site, and when the power is out and the air conditioning with it, the heat is everywhere. It is suffocating.
Naturally, this lifestyle isn't for everyone. But such a commitment offers its own rewards.
Talk to any of the kids clustered next to the ring before or after the show, and you'll understand what keeps the staff and troupers coming back year after year.
For me, the highlight of my day is right before the show, when the nerves of the troupers are primed like charges. They throw their hands in the middle for a final cheer, and my spirits rise with them as the camera shutter snaps and I run back to the computer to perform my own part.
* * *
During our shows, the Big Top becomes the center of the Smirkus universe.
People are constantly coming and going. Staff and crew pop in and out, catching acts as they are able. Audience members cart off babies who are fussy or in need of a diaper change.
If I'm not running around taking pictures, I go and draft the day's thoughts in shorthand under the dining tent, where there is always shade and coffee. While the shade is always welcome, the coffee is deeply troubling, considering my caffeine dependency.
The Essex Fairgrounds, where Smirkus performed six shows, is a massive, wide-open space with strips of pavement long enough to comfortably land a small plane. The tent looked toward the grandstand and grounds farther beyond it.
Troupers occasionally venture over and give me updates as to how the show is going before they grab a granola bar and head back to the backstage tent where they await their next cue.
The music from composer and keyboardist Tristan Moore and percussionist Parker Bert radiates from the Big Top. Their volume when they play live is louder than the volume of the tracks they recorded that were played during rehearsals in Greensboro.
Naturally, the audience cheers, and I can tell by the tone and duration of the applause if and when a performer has just accomplished one of the more difficult feats. You could set your watch by these moments, as they are executed with such precision.
Timing is everything and, as I've learned, this maxim applies to everything in a circus, from clowning to single-point trapeze to prepping merchandise at the concessions tent before the show.
Immediately following the noon show yesterday, a meet-and-greet was arranged for the audience. When the cheering died down, the troupers dispersed to the ring curb to swap high-fives and hugs with the little kids, who sit clustered on rugs by the ring during shows.
The kids - our youngest, but also our most passionate, fans - were amazed as they were each personally invited to cross into the ring and meet and get autographs from George Washington, Elvis, Louis XIV, and a very cuddly caveman, as well as assorted cowboys and Vikings.
To the kids, the troupers were rock stars, and for these heroes to extend a friendly hello, sign a program, and maybe even pose for a picture was not only a gesture of humility but also an encouraging signal telegraphing the message that “you can do this too.”
Someday - given discipline, practice, and dedication - some of these children will be exactly where the troupers are now.
Last night was different. As soon as the audience began filing out, the tent crew had already started the disassembly process.
Smirkus was on the move again, pulling up the stakes and moving on.
* * *
One of the most impressive things to watch in a traveling circus is the jump, which begins the evening immediately following the conclusion of the final show at each site.
Audience members have barely left the tent when the crew begins removing the sidewalls. The bleacher pads - where the audience was sitting just moments before - are stripped and tossed into a pile outside; they are still warm with body heat as they lie in the grass.
Quickly and suddenly, the energy and efforts of all who are part of the Smirkus tour converge into a synchronized dance, the kind that demands everything from all and lasts as long as necessary.
The work continues late into the night and, after sunset, the work continues by the light of four massive floodlights on the top of the Big Top's cupola and of balloon-like “Air Stars” on stands that, when fully lit, resemble miniature suns.
Moths and mosquitoes smash themselves into them all night long, and the day's heat and humidity lingers thickly in the nighttime summer air.
Everyone is put to work, and the mosquitoes feast on anyone who is standing still: a perfect motivator when combined with the fact that the sooner everything is packed, the sooner everyone can sleep.
The tent crew puts on a heavy-metal soundtrack, and the pace intensifies.
The workers separate into two groups: the troupers work on the props truck, storing props and equipment and pieces of the set, as the tent crew disassembles everything else.
Anything that can be manually lifted and carried is unstrapped, unbuckled, or unbolted and carried to a given place to wait until a space can be found for it. Everything has a place, and everything must go.
The troupers' work is relatively short-lived; they soon retire with the families in each community that open their homes for an evening snack and a good night's sleep. The tent crew's job lasts into the wee hours.
During the teardown, I work with the troupers on dismantling the set and backstage tent, packing the contents into a 26-foot-long Ryder truck. The space is just enough, and every square inch is packed with anything that doesn't go on the tent crew's massive rig.
At times, the work is chaotic and confusing. There is a great deal of technical jargon, slang, and inside jokes to describe the order in which various parts are packed. I do my best to keep up and keep lifting, carrying and heaving until my staff t-shirt is damp with sweat, grass-stained, and grimy.
Late at night, after my work is finished, the work lights flood my room, and I fall asleep listening to Metallica. My sleep on these nights is understandably lacking.
By the next morning, both the Big Top and the rig it was packed upon are gone. Breakfast is abbreviated, as our site rapidly shrinks. As the sun rises and any final preparations are made, the power is shut off, and we lose our running water.
Aside from the repaired divots in the field and a circle of dead grass where the ring was, you would never guess that a circus was there just a few hours before.
By 8:30 a.m., our caravan pulls out of the fairground's main entrance, and the journey is now officially under way.
* * *
With the same intensity as the night before, everything is put back into its right place to create an environment identical to that which we left behind.
The tent crew labors long into the afternoon, taking breaks to drink water. The risk of heatstroke can be high.
When the cupola is raised, the bleachers are set up inside. The space feels unsettlingly empty, like it is missing something.
Troupers arrive later in the afternoon, driven in three vans. They will all be responsible for unloading and installing the set they packed into the truck the night before.
The “pie car” (cook wagon) sets up shop and, in a remarkably short time, our cooks turn out something hot and delicious for everyone, and we can finally sit down and relax. We have running water, and the electricity is back.
Finally, at the end of it all, Smirkus has fully established itself in its new site, until the next jump.
* * *
Yesterday morning, I drove to the Albany airport to pick up our new backstage intern. It was my longest time away from Smirkus since I started.
At the arrivals board in yellow letters next to the flight number flashed one of the dirtiest words in every traveler's vocabulary: delayed.
My cell phone's battery was almost dead, and I had nothing to read. At the information desk, the front pages of the local papers were covered in headlines and pictures from the previous day's matinee. The man behind the desk noticed me perusing them.
“Have you seen it?” he asked me.
“I work there.”
“What's it like?”
“I ran away to join a circus for the summer. I love my job.”
I still had time left, so I settled into one of the benches and commenced one of my favorite pastimes: people watching.
If you want to know what humanity looks like, I suggest you spend a morning sitting at the arrivals or departures gate in an airport. In Albany, these two portals are next to each other, and you can see farewells and greetings of all kinds.
It's an emotional roller coaster that's both heartwarming and heartbreaking. Kids ran to meet Grandma, men in suits and portfolio cases shook hands, and the limousine drivers stood off to the side with signs.
In front of the security checkpoint, I watched a soldier and his family say farewells. Dad looked grim and snapped pictures with a disposable camera, while Mom shuddered and looked scared. Everyone hugged, and after a long kiss with his wife or girlfriend, she sobbed as the young man walked away.
Between the joyful reunions and the tearful goodbyes, my time waiting for a plane to land was emotionally draining.
It's times like these that create the need for levity of some kind, and I'm beginning to find that that's where we come in. After sitting and watching the daily grind for the better part of the morning, I can understand where circuses like Smirkus belong in the grand scheme of things.
So maybe that's why people go to Smirkus and eagerly await our return the next year: because it's so different and carefree when compared to the crush of the quotidian. In one of the newspapers I read, trouper Jessica Roginsky told a visiting reporter: “The circus is a totally unique experience. It doesn't feel like reality, but it is.”
How true, Jessica. How true.
It is reality, but simultaneously, it's a very special one that serves a very special purpose. I'm beginning to feel it's needed now more than ever.
* * *
After driving north away from the coast of Rhode Island, I have found myself in a much more familiar place: Brattleboro.
This is my hometown, nestled into the bank of the Connecticut River with Mount Wantastiquet rising up on the New Hampshire side. When I was in the Boy Scouts, I would trudge through feet of snow with friends to the top of that mountain across the river and throw the switch on a massive star of light bulbs that would shine for the duration of the holiday season until the end of January.
I graduated in 2009 from Brattleboro Union High School, just yards away from Smirkus's latest site at the Vermont Agricultural Business Education Center. I used to practice soccer at our current site. Neither this field nor the mountain across the river has changed - it's me who has been on the move, and constantly so.
I have lived in this area since the age of 8, and to find myself at the site of much of my childhood was a testament to the powerful connections people can have with their surroundings.
I would have never guessed that I'd be coming back with a circus.
We drove downtown, past my previous employer's office and past the coffee shops where I spent many wintery afternoons and thrift stores where I found clothes for all occasions.
We drove north and out of town on Route 30 toward Jamaica, where the troupers visited longtime friends of Smirkus, Hank and Toby, who own and operate their own studio where they blow beautiful glass.
We met Hank at the shop and followed him to their house. Before pulling onto a road with a “Road Closed” sign, Hank cautioned us, “This was one of the most heavily damaged roads in the state after Irene. Where you see dirt, there was nothing.”
The warning was not without warrant.
As we drove, the road became more rugged, and the pavement gave way to rough dirt. The gravel road followed a riverbed that had been transformed into a raging torrent of water which destroyed houses and business and swamped entire towns when Tropical Storm Irene smashed through Vermont last August. Some places in Vermont are still recovering.
Given the transient lifestyle to which I've subscribed, it felt very strange to eat dinner with my family, do my laundry at home, and sleep in my own bed.
I could write forever about the creature comforts of home: the sensation of carpet under my feet, a refrigerator full of food, fresh vegetables from the garden, my yellow Lab, and a deck overlooking the field to the west behind my house.
The feeling of familiarity here is welcome but, like at any other site, time is limited, and I will find myself on the road again before I know it.