I traveled with the Hoxie Brothers itinerant Circus on one-night stands from the coast of Maine to Florida in 1973. Each night they brought down the great tent and each morning, they drove the stakes into new ground and hoisted the sail.
The blond lady on the flying trapeze soared above the children’s gaze, disappearing momentarily into the webbing of the tent. She felt no fear hanging upside down 500 feet high in the air, only a claustrophobic dread that one day she would die alone in a small windowless room.
A little Mexican boy peered out from a wooden crate. He was placed in the box by the side of the tent during the performance while his parents balanced on the high wire. They assured him they could see him from above. He watched them tiptoe through the air until they became small like him. He was comforted, looking up and seeing them move across the top of the tent like giant spiders. Only when they lifted him out of the box and he felt his father's mustache against his skin did he begin to cry.