In 'Gibtown,' Life Is A Carnival

GIBSONTON - In the carnival capital of the world, a clown rides to Wal-Mart on a tricycle.

Ferris wheels rise out of backyards. Cotton candy booths line the streets. Bags of stuffed animals spill into a trailer park.

For generations, carnies have wintered in Gibsonton, called "Gibtown," in south Hillsborough County.

They eat and drink at the Showtown Bar & Grill. For business, they visit the annual trade show of the Showmen's Association. When they die, they wind up in a local mausoleum called Showmen's Rest.

Lots of carnies retire in Gibsonton, population 8,700. For those still traveling, it is a place for repairs and reunions.

"I just ran into a man that I haven't seen in seven years," said Jeff Vannortwick, 41, who works for Louie's Fun and Games. "There's a saying in the carnival: 'You meet everybody twice.'"

Once on the road, and once in Gibsonton.

Gibsonton straddles a bleak stretch of U.S. 41 just east of Tampa Bay. To the south is Apollo Beach, marked by the quadruple smokestacks of a huge power plant. To the north is Riverview, where twin phosphate mounds dominate the landscape.

In between, there are bars, bait shops, boat stores, food marts, thrift shops, Gomez Tacos, G-Town Auto Repair and First Baptist Church.

"It ain't the carnival town it used to be," said John Curtis, 78, an entrepreneur. "People died off."

The last to go, in late January, was Chuck Osak, owner of the Showtown Bar & Grill. A sign out front read: "Thank you, Chuck. We'll miss you."

Mourners included Little Pete Terhurney, 78, a 3-foot-tall carny and town mascot.

Gibsonton gained fame in the 1930s as "Freak Town," the winter resting place of human oddities and sideshow attractions: giants and midgets, fat men and bearded ladies. And there was The Lobster Boy and Percilla the Monkey Girl.

"Everybody fit in," said Ward Hall, 77, unofficial Gibtown historian. "People came here because they weren't looked at or talked about or asked questions. It's like any immigrant group concentrated in a ghetto. There's a certain level of tolerance. There's a comfort level."

Relaxed zoning rules allowed people to keep trailers on the street and elephants in their yards. The post office had a low counter for little people.

Giant's Place Out, Wal-Mart In

The 8-foot-4-inch Al Tomaini was volunteer fire chief. He ran Giant's Place restaurant beside the Alafia River. He was married to a legless woman, Jeanie the Half-Girl, who sold the business after he died. The restaurant closed last year.

There is still a For Sale sign, topped by "Reduced Price," in front of a crumbling structure.

When Giant's Place closed, and Wal-Mart came to town, some called it the end of an era for Gibsonton. Carnies without cars welcomed the convenience of a discount store.

That goes double - make that triple - for Randall Johnson, who performs as Kalvin the Klown for Tip Top Shows.

He gets around town on a gaily painted tricycle.

"It's for show," said Johnson, 46. "But right now it's for transportation. It carries a lot of stuff. I can load up at the Wal-Mart."

On a cloudy afternoon, Patricia Young carefully hangs her laundry on a barbed-wire fence next to a 50-foot-tall amusement park ride.

Young's boyfriend works as an electrician for Myers International Midways. She runs her own photo booth, taking pictures of children on a carousel horse.

After working at different factories in Kentucky, her home state, Young, 40, joined a traveling show.

"I like meeting new people," she said. "I like all the interesting people with the carnival. And I like kids; I like taking nice pictures of kids.

"Plus," she adds, "I get to be outside. I'm not stuck inside, doing one job all day long."

Young and her boyfriend travel the country in a trailer pulled by their battered Dodge pickup.

She likes to visit flea markets and yard sales. She reads a lot of paperbacks by Stephen King and Dean Koontz.

Across town, Melvin Moore, 58, washes the deep fryers in a glass-walled trailer with a sign for "Aunt Martha's Sausages." The carny learned the concession business from relatives.

"They originated all this," Moore said, pushing back the brim on his NASCAR cap. "Aunt Martha was my aunt."

An Era Is Ending

Times change. The carnival is not such a family business anymore. Fewer people speak "Czarnie," the midway language that inserts a 'Z' sound after the beginning of words.

Moore, like Young, is a Kentuckian who also drives a road-weary Dodge truck. He has been visiting Gibsonton since he was a little boy.

"Some years, we stay all winter, and sometimes we go up to Louisville and freeze," he said with a laugh.

Hall, a lifelong showman, lives at the end of Shirley Avenue in Gibsonton.

Next door is Huston the Illusionist. Across the street is a rusty trailer for the former All-American Family Circus.

Hall still travels with the World of Wonders. It is one of the last sideshows in the country, but few of its performers come from Gibsonton.

There is a 24-inch-tall Midget Lady from Colorado, a sword-swallower from Virginia and fire-eater from Michigan.

Years ago, Hall employed Fat Men and Tattooed Ladies. But those days are over. Today, it is not unusual for people to be obese, or have their bodies covered with permanent ink.

"The next thing to go will be fire-eaters," he said. "Too many kids do that now, too."

Hall wears hearing aids and has lost a few teeth, but his sharp memory scans decades of carnival history. He has had health problems, including chronic bronchitis and heart failure, but he said he will not retire until he is 100.

When Hall dies, his remains will go to Showman's Rest. He has already written his epitaph: "Being of sound mind, he spent all his money."

Meanwhile, Hall will go back on the road with the World of Wonders. He does not mind living out of a small trailer.

Like Gibsonton, it is what he knows. It is home.

"Oh, yes, when I was a kid on the circus train, I only had half a berth, and those were the happiest days of my life," he said.