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The pizazz, perils, and pratfalls of life under the Big Top

The pizazz, perils, and pratfalls of life under the Big Top

Boston Globe28-07-2025
He's setting up the Circus Smirkus 2025 Big Top tent at the Cracker Barrel fairgrounds on a Monday morning, bright and early. The tent crew arrived late the night before
after
breaking down
the last show, 100 miles away in Greenfield.
Circus Smirkus, based in Vermont, is the only traveling youth circus performing under the Big Top in the USA. There are 18 'troupers,' as performers are called, ages 12 to 18. A staff of 30-40 grownups complete their 'circus bubble' that travels around New England in 25 vehicles.
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Nelson Wilson, 18 of Providence and Sekora Berge, 15, of Plymouth, Wis., do a warmup before going in for the 7 p.m. show.
Stan Grossfeld
The kids stay with host families at each stop. The grownups live in trailers at the tent site. They have a mobile kitchen, aka the 'Pie Car,' and a trailer was converted into six tiny showers.
They'll do 65 shows in seven weeks,
clowning around before some 35,000 people.
It's not all jesting and jokes, and risks are present. That became clear the day after the circus was set up when an aerialist fell 15 feet while performing, suffering serious injuries. He is now recovering, his mother posted on social media.
Salix Wraith, a senior Tent Crew member, puts up supporting beams in the tent.
Stan Grossfeld
In many ways, Circus Smirkus is a throwback to a simpler time.
'It's called a mud show, because it's set up in fields as opposed to stadiums,' he says. 'We're carrying on the history of doing circus tours like this.'
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Story Gemmati, 14, of Huntington Beach, Calif., puts on her makeup before the show.
Stan Grossfeld
Ringling Brothers is taking 2025 off to regroup but Smirkus Circus keeps on trucking in its 38th year. This year's high-energy show is called 'Game On.' It's guaranteed to make you smile.
'
Yeah, I love them,' Wraith says of the troupers. 'They inspire me. They're incredibly talented and athletic and sweet and creative. It's why we're here. We do it for the kids.'
On a travel day, the performers go to their host families for rest and relaxation. A comfy bed, breakfast, and dinner.
They are an eclectic group of athletes, twisting and turning in the summer air.
Each January, 45 kids are invited to audition in person at the circus headquarters in Greensboro. Those that don't look people in the eye never make the cut.
Nelson Wilson, 18, of Providence, warms up with a Hula Hoop before a show. He will attend Boston University in the fall.
Stan Grossfeld
The performers then meet on Zoom until they spend three weeks in June to finalize the show with their director and coaches.
They also don't make any money, as Circus Smirkus is a nonprofit cultural organization.
Tuition this year
is $9,000, which covers training, housing, food, costumes, coaching, and touring costs. No one is turned down
because of financial need, according to marketing director Genevieve Martineau.
They typically work a 12-hour day. In between their noon and the 7 p.m. shows some troupers take cat naps.
At rehearsal, Oscar Benninga 15, practices with aerial silks in the main tent.
Stan Grossfeld
Oscar Benninga, 15, of Lexington, practices flying through the air on a long swath of silk, which he twirls like a matador.
Is it like being Peter Pan?
'You do get that sense of detachment,' he says. 'It's a different world . . . It's really fun. I get to train all day and perform for new people and make them smile.'
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Lev Eisner, 18, a juggler from Baltimore, says circus life is a bit of a balancing act.
Performers, top from left: Sylvie Merryman-Lotze,15, of Glenside, Pa., Adi Natof, 14, of Lexington, Ky., and Azaria Passini,12, of Plymouth, Wis.; with Miranda Myer,15, of Bellevue, Wash., at bottom left.
Stan Grossfeld
'We know how to stay up all night and swing off the roof, and we also know how to get to bed on time the night before a show and wake up at 6:00 a.m. to start warming up our bodies.'
The performers also do a multitude of other tasks. Last summer in Hanover, N.H., they were assigned to clean the tarps and mats.
'There's decomposing slugs all over the tarps,' says Eisner.
Four teenagers lugged them down to the river, a half mile away.
'It turns out the current is really strong. They're in, they're unfurling, they're billowing away. We're pulling on them for our lives because we can't lose the tarp,' he says.
We're going to be in so much trouble.'
Somehow they managed to get back on land but the wet tarps were too heavy to carry. A fisherman who was a Circus Smirkus fan took them back in his pickup truck.
'I don't think they quite dried before the show, but at least we were on time,' he says.
Sylvie Merryman-Lotze, 15, of Glenside, Pa., has been doing circus training since she was 5.
She says her sister was taking piano lessons in Philadelphia and a circus school was right down the street. 'It was just something to kill time,' she says.
She discovered her calling to be a contortionist. It has gotten her into a lot of tight spots.
'I love working with my body, and I love working with other people.'
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So many things can go wrong.
Charlotte, 11, and Daley Murphy, 4, of Mansfield enjoy the show.
Stan Grossfeld
'A few shows ago, there were four nosebleeds during the show. Some people had to run off stage. We just had people sub in. We were behind the curtain, whispering, 'All right, who's going to do this trick'? It was crazy having to improv on stage to make up for it,' Sylvie says.
The accident involving the aerialist brought an outpouring of love and support. The show was immediately stopped and refunds were given.
Some patrons returned them with messages of love and hope.
'I returned to the tent on Wednesday and dropped off a cake to try in some small way to show that you are thought of by so many. It is a helpless feeling but I continue to keep all of you in my thoughts,' one woman wrote.
Azy Berge (top), 18, of Plymouth, Wis., and Jaycee Roethel, 18, of Sheboygan, Wis., nap between shows.
Stan Grossfeld
'I support and care about sustaining all of your hard work and all of the emotional work you are doing right now.'
The accident devastated the Circus Smirkus family, especially troupers, says Rachel Schiffer, executive and artistic director.
"
They're sad. They're curious and concerned. They're frustrated because they want answers, understandably so.'
Two shows were canceled, but troupers bounced back. They spent a day off performing a show in the gym at
Staff member Nora Kempner does the laundry behind the troupers' backstage tent and the shower trailer.
Stan Grossfeld
'They've been amazing in a really tough time,' Schiffer says of the troupers.
For now there will be no aerial acts until the investigation is complete.
'When we do circus, we come into a world of calculated risk,' despite rigorous training, education, safety checks, and balances, she says
in an interview after the accident. 'With all of those things, things can still go wrong.'
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Sylvie Merryman-Lotze, 15 of Glenside, Pa., does chores between shows.
Stan Grossfeld
Schiffer says a safety net is not feasible because the circus tent isn't tall enough.
A few days later, there's good news.
The performer's mother posted a photo of him at home smiling and giving the peace sign with two of his circus besties.
Tawnya Sauer, assistant general manager, displays an old circus saying on her arm.
Stan Grossfeld
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Stan Grossfeld can be reached at
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At the Maine Lobster Festival, the claws come out
At the Maine Lobster Festival, the claws come out

Boston Globe

timea day ago

  • Boston Globe

At the Maine Lobster Festival, the claws come out

A banner behind declares 'No One Wants To Be Scalded Alive! Go Vegan.' The rubber bands are off in the battle of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) against the festival celebrating the state's world-famous cultural delicacy. Advertisement 'Damn,' says one passerby. 'He just ruined my lunch.' A PETA demonstration on the opening day of the Maine Lobster Festival called the steaming of lobsters as torture. Stan Grossfeld PETA calls the steaming of lobsters here in the world's largest lobster cooker 'torture.' They filed a lawsuit on July 24 in Knox County Superior Court against the City of Rockland and the festival to stop the 'systematic torture of approximately 16,000 live, sentient animals on public land (Harbor Park).' PETA contends the lobsters are 'painfully scalded to death through prolonged exposure to superheated steam,' without any effort to spare them pain, such as by 'stunning' them, an electrical process that would render them insensible to pain. 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The pizazz, perils, and pratfalls of life under the Big Top
The pizazz, perils, and pratfalls of life under the Big Top

Boston Globe

time28-07-2025

  • Boston Globe

The pizazz, perils, and pratfalls of life under the Big Top

He's setting up the Circus Smirkus 2025 Big Top tent at the Cracker Barrel fairgrounds on a Monday morning, bright and early. The tent crew arrived late the night before after breaking down the last show, 100 miles away in Greenfield. Circus Smirkus, based in Vermont, is the only traveling youth circus performing under the Big Top in the USA. There are 18 'troupers,' as performers are called, ages 12 to 18. A staff of 30-40 grownups complete their 'circus bubble' that travels around New England in 25 vehicles. Advertisement Nelson Wilson, 18 of Providence and Sekora Berge, 15, of Plymouth, Wis., do a warmup before going in for the 7 p.m. show. Stan Grossfeld The kids stay with host families at each stop. The grownups live in trailers at the tent site. They have a mobile kitchen, aka the 'Pie Car,' and a trailer was converted into six tiny showers. They'll do 65 shows in seven weeks, clowning around before some 35,000 people. It's not all jesting and jokes, and risks are present. 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The performers also do a multitude of other tasks. Last summer in Hanover, N.H., they were assigned to clean the tarps and mats. 'There's decomposing slugs all over the tarps,' says Eisner. Four teenagers lugged them down to the river, a half mile away. 'It turns out the current is really strong. They're in, they're unfurling, they're billowing away. We're pulling on them for our lives because we can't lose the tarp,' he says. We're going to be in so much trouble.' Somehow they managed to get back on land but the wet tarps were too heavy to carry. A fisherman who was a Circus Smirkus fan took them back in his pickup truck. 'I don't think they quite dried before the show, but at least we were on time,' he says. Sylvie Merryman-Lotze, 15, of Glenside, Pa., has been doing circus training since she was 5. She says her sister was taking piano lessons in Philadelphia and a circus school was right down the street. 'It was just something to kill time,' she says. 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Stan Grossfeld @font-face { font-family: BentonSansCond-Regular; src: url(" format('woff2'), url(" format('woff'); } @font-face { font-family: BentonSansCond-Bold; src: url(" format('woff2'), url(" format('woff'); } .dipupnext_hed { font-family: "MillerHeadline-Bold", "Times New Roman", Times, Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: .75px; text-align: center; font-size: 1.25em; line-height: 1; margin-top: 3px; color: #000; width: 100%; font-weight: 600; } .dipupnext_cap_cred { font-family: "BentonSansCond-Regular", "Times New Roman", Times, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: .5px; text-align: left; margin: 3px 0px 5px 0px; font-weight: 200; color: #000; text-decoration: none; text-align: center; } .dipupnext_photo { max-width: 100%; height: auto; padding-top: 15px; opacity: 1; } .dipupnext__form:hover { opacity: .5; text-decoration: underline .5px; } .dipupnext__form{ opacity: 1; } .picupnext__container { width: 100%; position: relative; margin: 0 auto; } .dipupnext__content { width: 100%; display: grid; grid-template-columns: 3fr; } .cdipupnextcontainer { display: block; width:100%; height: auto; margin:0 auto; -moz-box-sizing: border-box; overflow: hidden; } .upnext { font-family: "BentonSansCond-Bold", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: center; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.15; margin-top: .5rem; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #000; padding: 8px 8px 4px 8px; margin-top: 5px; letter-spacing: .5px; } .upnext:before, .upnext:after { background-color: #000; content: ""; display: inline-block; height: 1px; position: relative; vertical-align: 4px; width: 32%; } .upnext:before { right: 0.3em; margin-left: -50%; } .upnext:after { left: 0.3em; margin-right: -50%; } .theme-dark .upnext:before { background-color: #fff; } .theme-dark .upnext:after { background-color: #fff; } .theme-dark .upnext { color: #fff; } .theme-dark .dipupnext_cap_cred { color: #fff; } .theme-dark .dipupnext_hed { color: #fff; } @media screen and (min-width: 800px){ .dipupnext__content { grid-template-columns: 1fr 1fr 1fr; grid-column-gap: 40px; } } UP NEXT Stan Grossfeld can be reached at

Joan Anderson, unsung heroine of hula hoop history, dies at 101
Joan Anderson, unsung heroine of hula hoop history, dies at 101

Boston Globe

time28-07-2025

  • Boston Globe

Joan Anderson, unsung heroine of hula hoop history, dies at 101

'Everyone was having such fun,' she added, 'I thought, 'I'd like to do that, too.'' Back in Los Angeles, Ms. Anderson asked her mother to mail her one of the rings from Australia, and it soon brought joy to the Anderson household. Her children played with it. Ms. Anderson swerved it around her hips for friends at dinner parties. When someone told her that it looked as if she was 'doing the hula,' the traditional Hawaiian dance, Ms. Anderson was struck with inspiration. Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up She named the object the hula hoop. Advertisement What transpired next would place Ms. Anderson at the center of what she described as an American tale of shattered dreams and promises, a business deal made on a handshake, and, eventually, a lawsuit. Ms. Anderson died July 14 at a nursing facility in Carlsbad, Calif., north of San Diego. She was 101. Her daughter, Loralyn Willis, announced the death. The hubbub over the hoop started when her husband, Wayne, saw opportunity in the object and decided to pitch it to Wham-O, a toy company that soon became known for the Frisbee. As it happened, he was acquainted with one of Wham-O's founders, Arthur Melin, known as Spud, so he arranged a meeting. Advertisement The encounter, she recalled, occurred in a parking lot outside Wham-O's offices in San Gabriel, Calif. The Andersons opened up the trunk of their car and took out the hoop. 'There were no witnesses,' Ms. Anderson said in the documentary. 'Just Spud and my husband and myself.' 'We told him, 'We've called it the hula hoop,'' she continued. 'He said: 'Looks like it has some merit. If it makes money for us, it's going to make money for you.'' The deal was sealed with what Ms. Anderson characterized as a 'gentleman's handshake' and nothing more. Wham-O began experimenting with the hoop, developing a plastic version of it and trying it out on children at a Pasadena, Calif., elementary school. The company also started giving them away to generate buzz. By the time Wham-O was selling the hoop, lines were forming outside department stores. As the popularity of what Wham-O trademarked as the Hula Hoop grew, Ms. Anderson said, she and her husband heard less and less from Melin. 'We called Spud and asked him what was going on, and he kept putting us off,' she said. 'Then they just ignored us.' The hoop quickly became a national sensation. From Ms. Anderson's home in the suburbs of Monterey Park, Calif., she watched as newspapers landed on her porch with headlines like 'Hula-Hoop Sales Soar to $30 Million in 2 Months.' Over the years, stories about Wham-O's success sometimes spoke of a 'friend' visiting from Australia who first told the company about the hoop. 'I think that bugged me more than anything,' Ms. Anderson said. 'It was never reported correctly at all. I was not a 'friend.'' Advertisement In 1961, the Andersons filed a lawsuit against Wham-O. But the company presented records demonstrating its own woes. Just as quickly as the Hula Hoop sensation took off, it swiftly ended, entering the annals of American fads. Wham-O was left with heaps of unsold hoops and argued that it had not made a profit after production costs. The case concluded in a settlement, and the Andersons walked away with just a few thousand dollars. The couple moved on with their lives. Wham-O went on to release the SuperBall, the Slip 'N Slide ,and Silly String. Melin died in 2002. (Wham-O was sold in 1982 to the Kransco Group Cos. for $12 million. It was later sold to Mattel, which then sold it to a group of investors, and it has continued changing hands ever since.) 'We often talked about the money we could have made from it and maybe changed our life a little bit,' Ms. Anderson said in the documentary, 'but it didn't work out that way.' 'The world isn't fair. But life goes on.' Joan Constance Manning was born Dec. 28, 1923, in Sydney to Claude and Ethel (Hallandal) Manning. Her father was a real estate broker. As a young woman, Joan was a swimsuit model known as the 'Pocket Venus' because she was 5 feet 2 inches tall. In 1945, Wayne Anderson, a US Army pilot on leave from duty, approached Joan on Bondi Beach. They married a few months later and moved to California. Anderson, who went on to run a prosperous woodwork machine manufacturing business, died in 2007. Advertisement In addition to her daughter, Loralyn, Ms. Anderson is survived by two sons, Warren and Gary, and six grandchildren. Another son, Carl, died in 2023. Over the years, Ms. Anderson's brush with hula hoop history faded into family lore. When her children grew up, they sent letters about her story to Oprah Winfrey and Ellen DeGeneres, but nothing came of it. Fate intervened in 2016, when Ms. Anderson's daughter was recounting the story to coworkers while dining at a restaurant in La Mesa, near San Diego. At a table nearby, eavesdropping, was the mother of Amy Hill, a filmmaker. She asked for her telephone number and passed it along it to Hill. Intrigued by the tip, Hill began vetting the story with her husband and collaborator, Chris Riess. They decided to pursue the project and interviewed Ms. Anderson at La Costa Glen, the retirement community where she lived. The resulting short documentary, 'Hula Girl,' premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2018. At 94, Ms. Anderson flew to New York to promote the film, and a writer for Vogue interviewed her for an article. The documentary was also shown at the Sydney Film Festival and received coverage in The Atlantic and Smithsonian magazine. It was screened as well for Ms. Anderson's fellow residents at La Costa Glen. Her friends watched in fascination as they learned about her connection to the hula hoop. At La Costa Glen, Ms. Anderson stayed fit by swimming every week and taking ballroom dancing lessons. She also became a formidable bridge player. And in her apartment, she kept the original wood hoop that her mother had mailed to her from Australia, although it mostly sat collecting dust. Advertisement 'I do it once in a while for exercise,' she said, 'but not as much as I should.' This article originally appeared in

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