I saw a documentary called Carny tonight, and it brought back a few memories.

The film, by director Alison Murray, is about some individuals working with some mid-sized travelling American midway. It's based on the photo book Carny: Americana on the Midway by Virginia Lee Hunter, who was the film's director of photography (here's the trailer -- and it has better quotes in some cases than what appeared in the film! Here's the Hotdocs synopsis).

Carny makes the point that carnivals are a community of people who, generally speaking, had hard childhoods, don't fit anywhere else and have joined the show to get away.

The film mostly rang true for me. I can say this because my family was in that business.

When he was a teenager in the 1940s, my dad hooked up with Conklin Shows, Canada's biggest midway. He was still going out on the road now and then well into his sixties, or nearly a half-century later.

My brother had the bug too. He bought a ride and worked the circuit into his early 30s, his travels taking him from northern B.C. and the Prairies to as far south as Cajun country in Louisiana, but love and declining profit margins redirected him toward towards the "normal" life (a common joke among carnies is "running away from the carnival to join a home" :) ).

When I was growing up, the whole family went out in the summer (when I was very young, dad owned a merry-go-round that he operated at a resort area near Edmonton called Seba Beach). My first job was selling popcorn to cowboys at rodeos at about age eight (my dad was particularly impressed when, if turned down by the cowboy, I'd follow up by saying, "how about buying some for your horse?"). I operated a Crown and Anchor wheel in my early teens.

By the time I hit 17, I spent my summers working in forestry, but I helped my brother out a few times in the early fall after forest fire season ended.

Here's one scene the film didn't portray about the reality of the carny experience.

My brother had his ride at the Pacific National Exhibition* in the fall of 1983. I helped him out. I was taking tickets and directing people to the buckets. I was minding my own business, waiting for a cycle of the ride to end, when some charming Vancouverite said to me: "You don't even have a high school diploma, do you?"

* My three favourite activities there were using breakdown passes to ride the old wooden rollercoaster there, listening to the ginsu knives pitchmen, who were geniuses, and arguing politics with the guy who manned the B.C. NDP booth.

I fixed her with an icy, withering stare (and if you know me in real life, perhaps you could vouch for me when I say my icy, withering stare can be quite icy and withering) and coldly told her: "I have a degree in forestry from the University of Alberta. I graduated in the upper ranks of my class, and I undoubtedly have a better vocabulary than you do. So if I were you, I wouldn't talk down to me."

And that ended that. Let's keep in mind I'd never seen or spoken to this person before in my life. But she had obviously formed some judgments about me based on solely on the fact I was working as a carny.

The simple fact remains that carnies really aren't granted full human status by some people who no doubt consider themselves quite normal. I'll leave it to others to decide what that says about normal.

If you see evidence in the film of camraderie among carnies, that may help explain why. As one character said, there's a high degree of acceptance on the carnival.*

* On the little show my dad and mom worked, we had Vietnam draft dodgers, Vietnam veterans, gypsies, ex-cons (nuisance criminals for the most part, not the dangerous type) and one couple that met as patients in a mental institution -- to name a few. Everybody got on pretty well and there were some very funny people in the mix. I have some good memories of that period. I like quirky people to this day.

I'd recommend checking Carny out, if you're interested in the topic (unfortunately, it just finished its run at the Royal). It's a reasonably well-crafted documentary with some interesting characters that clocks in at an economical 75 minutes.

Now, about my first reporting assignment ...

It would have been late spring/early summer of 1969, making me about 10 years old. My dad went out to Wainright to work a show there. I went out with him, a father-and-son bonding expedition.

Actually, I remember one vignette from that trip -- eating fried chicken and drinking chocolate milk while sitting in the car with him -- as a particularly happy childhood moment.

Dad was operating a Crown and Anchor wheel there. If you've never visited a midway, a Crown and Anchor wheel has a crown, an anchor, and the hearts, diamonds, clubs and spades symbols on the wheel. The agent, as they're known, spins the wheel and you bet on where it will land.

Wainright is has a military base nearby, and two soldier boys were hanging out with the old man. They were betting big, had a bottle of whiskey, and were getting on famously with dad -- who was taking the occasional sip with them. Even better, they were losing big!

The apron was filling up with money. Wally, the show's owner, noticed this and decided to "help."

At one point, one of the soldier boys told Wally: "You owe me fifteen dollars."

Wally told him to blow. Wrong thing to say to say to the wrong guy at the wrong time.

The guy started punching poor Wally out. His buddy jumped over the counter, pulled out a knife, and started cutting the canvas of the "joint" (booth) to pieces -- fortunately not cutting anybody's flesh in the process.

My dad leaped to the aid of ... the money! :)

But he yelled, "hey Rube!" -- the carny equivalent of an SOS signal.

Soon, a mini-riot developed. I was standing off to the side, munching popcorn, watching events unfold and thinking this was pretty damned exciting stuff!

Monday was a school day, and things started off with a tell-us-about-your-weekend segment. Things went a little something like this:

Suzie? "We went to the zoo!"

Timmy? "My family went camping!"

Bill? "Well, my weekend was a little different than Suzie's or Timmy's."

Then I told the story.

When the old man found out, he went absolutely ballistic. "Never tell people about stuff like that!" he hissed.

Had I listened, I might never have become a journalist. But I didn't. :)