When Milwaukee Hosted ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’

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Photo by Freekee - Wikimedia Commons

Great Circus Parade bandwagon - July 2009

A bandwagon in the Great Circus Parade in Milwaukee (July 12, 2009)

On a bright July morning, the lakefront in Milwaukee turned into a storybook. Bands marched. Horses clipped along. Painted circus wagons rolled by, every one of them a walking piece of the past. People pressed close, waving, laughing, taking in a pageant that looked and felt like another century come alive. For many, the Great Circus Parade was more than a show. It was a living legacy of America’s circus days, when a marching band, wild animals, acrobats, clowns and and daring high wire performers made a city stop and smile.

The Great Circus Parade began in 1963 as a big idea with a clear goal: bring the old circus world back to the public. The Circus World Museum in Baraboo, Wis., wanted people to see the wagons and the work that went into them. Chappie Fox, museum director and a tireless lover of circus history, and Ben Barkin, a top-notch promoter who knew how to get attention and money, pulled together sponsors, bands and volunteers. Schlitz Brewing and other local groups pitched in. Milwaukee gave the parade heart and showmanship. The result was a spectacle that fit the city: loud, bold and full of good cheer.

You could feel the planning behind every march step. Starting in the 1960s the parade drew huge crowds. Bands from high schools and colleges came in crisp uniforms. Clowns doffed red noses and waved. Horses—sometimes hundreds—danced in step. People didn’t just watch; they walked among the wagons during the days before the march, touching the carved wood and polished brass, reading the faded names, and imagining the long road each vehicle had seen.

A Show for Stories

In some ways Milwaukee’s parade was a show, and in others it was a classroom. The wagons told the old stories: bold lettering, carved lions and flowers, mirrors and lantern hooks. They had been built to catch the eye from miles away when a circus was a town’s big event. The Great Circus Parade let a new generation see those wagons up close. Volunteers helped restore the paint, the lamps, the tiny details that made each wagon a work of art. Folks came to see the parade and, by doing so, kept the wagons alive.

The wagons themselves came from Baraboo, where the Ringling Brothers started out. Baraboo was small, but it was a home base for families who loved circus life. The Ringlings grew up there and learned ropes, harnesses, and show business alongside neighbors who ran wagon shops and blacksmith forges. The Moellers and Gollmars—names that echo in Baraboo—made and repaired wagons and gear for circuses across the country. Their trades were the kind of work you notice only when it is gone. The parade let people find those trades again.

John Ringling was one of the best-known names in the circus world. He and his brothers turned a rough troupe of acts into a huge traveling show in the late 1800s. They were clever, bold and not afraid to spend money to make a bit of magic. They sometimes argued and fought, as families do, but they also built a business that became famous across the United States. By the time circus travel by rail was the norm, the Ringlings had become part of a new American pageant—big tents, star acts and wagons painted to dazzle.

Save the Wagons!

Chappie Fox’s idea in the late 1950s was simple: save the wagons and let people see them. The Circus World Museum opened in Baraboo in 1959, small at first but full of hope. Fox hunted down wagons and parts that were rotting in fields or tucked in old barns. He had a vision: these wagons were history, and they should be seen and fixed. With a few friends and a lot of elbow grease, Fox and his team started to restore wagons and collect circus signs, posters, and costumes. The museum grew from a handful of pieces into a rolling, breathing archive.

Bringing those wagons to Milwaukee was a parade of logistics. The wagons were old—some nearly 100 years old—and they needed careful travel. Special rail cars and padded trucks were used so the paint and wood wouldn’t crack. In Baraboo, volunteers and museum workers would polish brass and touch up paint, repairing wheels and lanterns with patient hands. Then, in a slow caravan, the wagons made their way to the lakefront. Seeing them arrive was like watching history walk down the street.

People loved the chance to wander among the wagons before they marched. For a few days the lakefront became a kind of open museum. Kids could run from wagon to wagon, tugging on ropes, craning necks for dragon heads and gilt scrollwork. Older visitors would point out a maker’s mark or a familiar carving. The display let people feel the wagons as objects made by hand, built to travel and to be seen under a big top. Those hours before the parade were as cherished as the march itself.

Must-See Event

The parade had its great moments. In the 1960s and ‘70s it was a must-see event, and many years it drew hundreds of thousands of people. It moved down Wisconsin Avenue in Milwaukee from the bright lakefront into the heart of the city. For some years the parade even traveled to Chicago or back to Baraboo. Once, in its heyday, a circus train would roll through, full of animals and wagons, making the trip that circus families had made for decades.

The event was not a single-person project. Barkin helped raise money and attention. Fox worked the archive and the wagons. Ernest Borgnine, the actor with a warm grin, lent his name and energy, becoming the parade’s cheerleader and friend for many years. Their voices and faces gave the parade a human side that made people feel safe to laugh, clap, and be moved.

“I saw nothing but miles and miles of smiles,” Borgnine said after waving and interacting with parade goers who lined the street 6 or 7 deep—his simple words captured the mood of the day.

Stops and Starts

Still, the parade had stops and starts. Running such a grand event takes money, permits, sponsors, and people. In some years funds ran low. Organizers paused the parade for stretches when it was hard to drum up the budget and support. But the love for the wagons and the show never died. In 2009, after a six-year gap, Milwaukee staged a comeback parade that was both a celebration and a reunion. The Circus World Museum marked its 50th anniversary that year, and organizers raised the money to bring back a big show: dozens of wagons, hundreds of horses, and bands filling the air with brass and drum.

For many who were there, the 2009 march felt like a promise kept. Old-timers remembered previous parades, and new attendees got their first thrill. The scene on parade day was the same mix of small miracles: a child reaching out to touch a painted wheel, an old volunteer polishing a bit of brass, a marcher tipping a hat as confetti fell. The wagons and animals moved like living stories, and the crowd filled in the rest of the tale with gasps, claps and applause.

Baraboo kept the story going between parades. The Circus World Museum expanded over the years. What started as a tiny collection grew to many acres, dozens of buildings, and hundreds of wagons. The work of restoring and keeping wagons safe kept a small army busy. Old photos and posters found a home. Summer shows and performances in Baraboo helped teach visitors what the circus once meant—and still means to some communities.

Memories of Summer

There’s a special kind of hush that comes over a crowd when a parade slows and a horse and wagon pass by. People lean in, as if they might hear the creak of a wheel whisper a secret. The wagons are more than painted wood; they are proof that a different kind of show once traveled across plains and tracks, stopping in towns and filling streets with music. The Great Circus Parade gave that proof a place to dance again.

Remembering the parade isn’t just about wagons or bands. It’s about hands—those who built the wagons, those who polished them, and those who pushed to bring them back to life. It’s about the children who found wonder in bold colors and the adults who found a perfect, brief escape. It’s about a city and a few determined people who felt a town’s past was worth showing off.

The last big parades left a memory that feels like a summer day: warm, loud, and full of motion. Even if the march doesn’t come back every year, the wagons keep rolling in the minds of the people who loved them. Baraboo keeps caring for them. Milwaukee keeps remembering them.

On parade mornings you could see it in small things: a ring of shine on a brass lamp, a careful brush stroke on a lion’s mane, the soft shuffle of a horse’s hoof on the pavement. Those details remind us why we bring the past to the public. The Great Circus Parade showed that history can be bright, loud, and joyful—and that sometimes the best way to keep a story alive is to let it step out and march down the street.