A Day at the Circus
by Steve Clapp
What was it like for a little boy at the Great Hartford Circus Fire?
In 1944 I was the five-year-old son of the Congregational minister in Portland, Conn., a small town 15 miles south of Hartford. Down the street from our parsonage lived a 25-year-old Sunday school teacher, Ruth Campbell, who dreamed up fun things for us preacher’s kids that wouldn’t occur to our high-minded parents.
Ruthie, who lived with her mother and stepfather, hatched a plan to take me and a boy next door to the circus in Hartford on July 6. The neighbor boy’s mother declined the invitation because her son was too young. Ruthie then invited an older boy, Bill Conklin, whose father owned the drugstore where she tended the soda fountain.
In the weeks before the circus, my parents promised a Surprise Big Treat if I was a good boy. I could earn gold stars by cleaning my plate, brushing my teeth and helping my mother. I earned plenty of gold stars, but I resisted going to the circus without my parents, which my mother later attributed to premonition rather than anxiety.
My first recollection of the fateful day is sitting on the front lawn of the parsonage waiting for a car driven by Ruthie’s pipe-smoking stepfather, whom we knew as Pop. The July sun was already beginning to dispel the shade-filled cool of early morning. The party finally arrived, and I climbed into the back seat with Ruthie and Bill.
Our ride from Portland to Hartford was uneventful, except for the crowded back seat. After parking near the circus area, we walked along a dirt path through woods and a meadow until we entered a gate leading to a field of tents.
We had little time in what was left of the morning to view all the attractions. I don’t remember seeing any of the sideshows, but I do recall touring the animal cages and smelling the odor of hay, sweat and dung. We stopped at a souvenir stand, and I chose a toy whip that I snapped throughout the afternoon.
After waiting in the hot sun to enter the big tent, we went inside to our seats. I was quickly fascinated by the circus acts and lost my anxiety about the trip. I never noticed the lick of flame that climbed up the side of the tent, causing panic among the onlookers.
Bill scooted past my knees toward the exit, but I remained riveted to my seat. Pop began gesturing in the same direction and urging me to run. When I didn’t respond, he shoved me along to a wooden railing overlooking the exit. He then picked me up and dropped me over the side.
The distance from the railing to the ground wasn’t great, but I wouldn’t have jumped on my own. I landed on my hands and knees on some long boards and quickly scrambled to my feet. I joined the crowd moving out through the flaps of the exit, which had been opened earlier by circus attendants.
My relief at escaping an unknown danger quickly evaporated as I looked in vain for a familiar face in the crowd. I rushed around crying, “Mommy! Mommy!” Fearing I might never be found, I picked out a nice-looking lady who could serve as my new mother. Before I could tug at the woman’s dress, Ruthie grasped my hand and helped me dry my tears and blow my nose. Together we squeezed in and out of groups of people, searching for her parents.
Pop had jumped from the stands, and Ruthie’s mother followed. She had fallen down upon landing and been stepped on by the jostling mob jamming the exit. She joined Pop after they came outside, and they found Ruthie and me. Bill had already proceeded to the parking lot without difficulty.
We joined a long parade of men, women and children moving toward the parking area. Eyes turned away from the dirt path to the flames and smoke rising skyward from the doomed tent. I was afraid the inferno would quickly consume the tent, travel swiftly across the meadow and devour us all in one mighty swoop. But the path took us through trees that blocked our view of the tent, and our concern then shifted toward getting home.
Eddies of choking dust spewed from the tires of sun-baked cars as we entered the parking lot. Bill was standing by our locked car, as expected. Pop fished in his pockets for his car keys without success. However, the old car had an auxiliary starter that didn’t require an ignition key. If only we could get inside the doors, the day would be saved.
One of the car’s side windows was open about two or three inches. Inside the opposite door was a pushed-down door lock that could be pulled up by a stick poked through the open window. Pop made numerous frustrating attempts before opening the door.
During Pop’s efforts to open the car door, we saw tiny bits of wind-blown ash sailing overhead and heard ambulance and fire-truck sirens pierce the air. Once the car started, we waited long in line for other late-departing cars finding their way onto the streets of Hartford.
At home in Portland, it had been a hot afternoon. Inside the parsonage the shades were drawn to keep the rooms cool. If my parents turned on the radio, they would have heard reports of casualties from the circus fire. However, they were outside working in our wartime victory garden. They did notice neighbors assembling in the back yard next door for what they later learned was debate over notifying them of the fire.
As suppertime drew near, the circus-goers hadn’t returned. My mother heard the phone ring in the parsonage and hurried inside. “There has been a fire up here, but we got out all right,” Ruth said on the phone. “All of us are all right.”
I occasionally describe myself as a survivor of the Great Hartford Circus Fire, although I got off very lightly. I wasn’t burned or injured or directly threatened by the heat and fire. My one moment of panic occurred when I lost contact with the adults in our party. Even my parents were spared, learning of the fire only when told we were safe.
But the fury of those leaping flames, seen briefly from a distance, caused me for weeks afterward to draw pictures of the Big Top destroyed by fire.
I mourn the 167 adults and children who perished in the blaze and pity the dead children’s parents, who are now likely dead as well. I’m 75 myself and can only speculate as to how many years I have left. Before long there will be no one alive with first-hand memories of the Great Hartford Circus Fire.
-- Stephen Clapp
Jeffersonton, Virginia
In 1944 I was the five-year-old son of the Congregational minister in Portland, Conn., a small town 15 miles south of Hartford. Down the street from our parsonage lived a 25-year-old Sunday school teacher, Ruth Campbell, who dreamed up fun things for us preacher’s kids that wouldn’t occur to our high-minded parents.
Ruthie, who lived with her mother and stepfather, hatched a plan to take me and a boy next door to the circus in Hartford on July 6. The neighbor boy’s mother declined the invitation because her son was too young. Ruthie then invited an older boy, Bill Conklin, whose father owned the drugstore where she tended the soda fountain.
In the weeks before the circus, my parents promised a Surprise Big Treat if I was a good boy. I could earn gold stars by cleaning my plate, brushing my teeth and helping my mother. I earned plenty of gold stars, but I resisted going to the circus without my parents, which my mother later attributed to premonition rather than anxiety.
My first recollection of the fateful day is sitting on the front lawn of the parsonage waiting for a car driven by Ruthie’s pipe-smoking stepfather, whom we knew as Pop. The July sun was already beginning to dispel the shade-filled cool of early morning. The party finally arrived, and I climbed into the back seat with Ruthie and Bill.
Our ride from Portland to Hartford was uneventful, except for the crowded back seat. After parking near the circus area, we walked along a dirt path through woods and a meadow until we entered a gate leading to a field of tents.
We had little time in what was left of the morning to view all the attractions. I don’t remember seeing any of the sideshows, but I do recall touring the animal cages and smelling the odor of hay, sweat and dung. We stopped at a souvenir stand, and I chose a toy whip that I snapped throughout the afternoon.
After waiting in the hot sun to enter the big tent, we went inside to our seats. I was quickly fascinated by the circus acts and lost my anxiety about the trip. I never noticed the lick of flame that climbed up the side of the tent, causing panic among the onlookers.
Bill scooted past my knees toward the exit, but I remained riveted to my seat. Pop began gesturing in the same direction and urging me to run. When I didn’t respond, he shoved me along to a wooden railing overlooking the exit. He then picked me up and dropped me over the side.
The distance from the railing to the ground wasn’t great, but I wouldn’t have jumped on my own. I landed on my hands and knees on some long boards and quickly scrambled to my feet. I joined the crowd moving out through the flaps of the exit, which had been opened earlier by circus attendants.
My relief at escaping an unknown danger quickly evaporated as I looked in vain for a familiar face in the crowd. I rushed around crying, “Mommy! Mommy!” Fearing I might never be found, I picked out a nice-looking lady who could serve as my new mother. Before I could tug at the woman’s dress, Ruthie grasped my hand and helped me dry my tears and blow my nose. Together we squeezed in and out of groups of people, searching for her parents.
Pop had jumped from the stands, and Ruthie’s mother followed. She had fallen down upon landing and been stepped on by the jostling mob jamming the exit. She joined Pop after they came outside, and they found Ruthie and me. Bill had already proceeded to the parking lot without difficulty.
We joined a long parade of men, women and children moving toward the parking area. Eyes turned away from the dirt path to the flames and smoke rising skyward from the doomed tent. I was afraid the inferno would quickly consume the tent, travel swiftly across the meadow and devour us all in one mighty swoop. But the path took us through trees that blocked our view of the tent, and our concern then shifted toward getting home.
Eddies of choking dust spewed from the tires of sun-baked cars as we entered the parking lot. Bill was standing by our locked car, as expected. Pop fished in his pockets for his car keys without success. However, the old car had an auxiliary starter that didn’t require an ignition key. If only we could get inside the doors, the day would be saved.
One of the car’s side windows was open about two or three inches. Inside the opposite door was a pushed-down door lock that could be pulled up by a stick poked through the open window. Pop made numerous frustrating attempts before opening the door.
During Pop’s efforts to open the car door, we saw tiny bits of wind-blown ash sailing overhead and heard ambulance and fire-truck sirens pierce the air. Once the car started, we waited long in line for other late-departing cars finding their way onto the streets of Hartford.
At home in Portland, it had been a hot afternoon. Inside the parsonage the shades were drawn to keep the rooms cool. If my parents turned on the radio, they would have heard reports of casualties from the circus fire. However, they were outside working in our wartime victory garden. They did notice neighbors assembling in the back yard next door for what they later learned was debate over notifying them of the fire.
As suppertime drew near, the circus-goers hadn’t returned. My mother heard the phone ring in the parsonage and hurried inside. “There has been a fire up here, but we got out all right,” Ruth said on the phone. “All of us are all right.”
I occasionally describe myself as a survivor of the Great Hartford Circus Fire, although I got off very lightly. I wasn’t burned or injured or directly threatened by the heat and fire. My one moment of panic occurred when I lost contact with the adults in our party. Even my parents were spared, learning of the fire only when told we were safe.
But the fury of those leaping flames, seen briefly from a distance, caused me for weeks afterward to draw pictures of the Big Top destroyed by fire.
I mourn the 167 adults and children who perished in the blaze and pity the dead children’s parents, who are now likely dead as well. I’m 75 myself and can only speculate as to how many years I have left. Before long there will be no one alive with first-hand memories of the Great Hartford Circus Fire.
-- Stephen Clapp
Jeffersonton, Virginia