Under the Electric Sky

by Christopher A. Walsh

Well, as kismet would have it, young William Palmer Lynch’s father was a lighthouse keeper and not a crooked millionaire. Although born in 1903 and living most of his young life on the hedonistic island, Master William had drilled in his head early a collection of fundamental Maritime values that included a hard work ethic, the true appreciation of a dollar’s value, loyalty, integrity and an inherent compassion for his fellow man.

  With these essentials firmly entrenched, ten-year-old William Lynch took a summer job driving a horse and wagon in Halifax for the princely sum of three dollars a week. It was good work and correlated conveniently with a few of those intrinsic principles. Not a glamorous job, but it was a hard earned buck and work to take a bit of pride in. On those hot, dusty summer days of driving team, thoughts of the island crept into Lynch’s imagination and lingered like smoke from a fantastic firework display on a still night. It was hard to concentrate on a menial job when there was excitement and magic out in the harbour, devoured by a thirsty crowd, all of them escaping the eternal pits of boredom for at least a few hours. There seemed to be no escape for Lynch on some of those tedious afternoons.

  So he quit the dull routine life and took a job at Findlay’s Pleasure Grounds racking balls for one of the games and offering his assistance on the old Merry-Go-Round when the opportunity presented itself. Gladys, too, took a job working the canteen on the island. The Lynch kids knew there was more to life than settling for a day-to-day existence and that fun didn’t necessarily mean the lack of hard work.

  The Halifax Explosion of 1917 changed things forever. The real world came roaring back to this newly fashioned Neverland in a large flash. Lynch found work in one of the local machine shops that were operating full-tilt after the disaster. He quit school around then, after finishing the tenth grade, and settled down to hard work and everyday realities with everyone else. Those afternoon revellers started to take things seriously as well, forced to stay home and put their lives back together after the explosion, rather than sneaking out for thrills. Things went like this for a couple of years, until the old twitches started to itch their way up Lynch’s skin.

  During the winter of 1919-20, Lynch escaped the humdrum life again, this time sneaking out in the evenings to play the banjo with a local orchestra. He had seen musicians years before on the island and figured that would at least break up the monotony he had thus far avoided with great care. Musical talent is a tangible thing, however, and an intelligent man possessed with none can usually figure it out quickly. And so Lynch did, after comparing himself to a few experienced musicians the orchestra had recently hired. He was a man blessed with unshakable determination, but he wasn’t blind with pride, either. So he left the orchestra and again found his way back to that enchanted little island that was never far away in his thoughts.

  The island had changed after the explosion and the crowds were not showing up in the same magnitude they had before. But Lynch knew he wanted to be in the amusement business for himself and in the spring of 1920, he bought the Merry-Go-Round for $800 with money he had saved from working at the machine shop. He operated it on McNab’s until the end of the 1924 season, at which time he was forced to face the reality that there just weren’t enough people coming to the island to make it profitable. Those magical nights he remembered as a child were over.

  If the people weren’t coming to Neverland, Neverland would have to go to the people, he figured. So in the spring of 1925, Bill Lynch and a fellow by the name of Ray Rogers formed a partnership to play the small villages around the Maritimes. Lynch supplied the Merry-Go-Round and Rogers operated the concessions, which in this case meant those tricky games of chance. They travelled the rural communities of the Maritimes by rail in one baggage car, setting up wherever a place would have them. The two parted ways after the end of that first season. Rogers went on to form Barnett Bros. Circus, which operated as a successful enterprise in the States for some years, and Lynch stuck to his native territory where he would, in a matter of a few years, become the renowned Showman Bill Lynch. “Smilin’ Bill,” as one paper called him, “who never gets sore, he gives more than you pay for every time. That’s Bill’s motto...”

  By the start of the 1926 season, he had acquired a string of concessions of his own and continued to travel the small community circuit. Two years later, he was playing small venues with a Ferris Wheel, a chair-o-plane and the old steam-powered carousel, which still had a little magic left in its creaking platforms to offer weary Maritimers.

  Lynch was never content to play only small towns. He harboured a much larger vision of his carnival and worked hard to see it born into this world. In what would prove to be the biggest leap of his career, Lynch put a bid in for the Halifax Exhibition of 1929 and won it. Although he only possessed three rides and three shows, the venue demanded seven of each. Lynch cashed in his savings that winter, borrowed wherever he could and by August had acquired the necessary amount of each. And by all accounts, the show went well.

  It was the second year of the Halifax Exhibition’s revival after the war and promoters were counting on it to make money as it had the previous year. There were feelings amongst a lot of citizens that the exhibition was a drain on the taxpayer, but two years of profit would have proved the doubters wrong. And although the first year of its resurrection had proved successful, there were a few problems. The editorial board of The Halifax Herald were sufficiently annoyed after the 1928 exhibition to express their concern for a group of 12 or so American carnies who had managed through cunning, of course, to seize control of a few concessions and work the grift. They were subsequently arrested after local police raided their stands. There was no place for this kind of behaviour in Halifax, the Herald made it known.

  “The slick gentry who regard the public as so many ‘rubes’ and ‘suckers’ to be ‘trimmed,’ must be taught that there is no place for vicious games at the Nova Scotia Exhibition,” proclaimed the editorial in the August 24, 1929, newspaper. “Things went on in the midway last year that provoked most vigorous protests from press and public. It should not be necessary this year to repeat the warning.”

  Lynch’s contract did not call for concessions, so those matters were out of his hands. But the rides and entertainment he provided were impressive enough to earn Lynch an invitation back. The show made money and the directors declared the whole exhibition a success for the second year in a row. There was the grim business of the Minister of Natural Resources being struck and killed by a streetcar on Gottingen Street as he made his way home from the Ex Grounds one night, however. John Mahoney was killed in his automobile as he passed through an intersection and collided with an oncoming streetcar.

  Twenty-six-year-old Bill Lynch had problems of his own arise shortly after fulfilling the exhibition date. Ben Williams, the Glace Bay barber who had established himself as an American showman and held with great esteem the sobriquet of “Carnival King of the Maritimes,” took exception to Lynch’s run and made it known to the young upstart. The two met in a Halifax hotel in early September of 1929 to hammer things out. Williams arrived for the encounter immaculately garbed in a fine suit and hat, chomping on a cigar, with a few rough words for this new kid who had the audacity to think he could usurp dates and locales from the king.

  Ben threatened in loud, violent tones. Bill shot back with matched intensity. There was something about Williams’ persona Lynch admired, even if he was the enemy on this night. He seemed to take his role seriously and he had that air about him the best showmen have – maybe it was the cigar. But the kid was not going to back down, no matter how high and fast this rotund royal figure roared. Lynch understood he was where he belonged and nobody was going to tell him any different. After a few hours of bad noise, they agreed Williams would keep the New Brunswick circuit and Lynch would take Nova Scotia. It was the big break he needed after doubling the size of the business. He was now guaranteed the contracts for the large fairs in bigger centres across
the province, still retaining the smaller villages in between. The gentleman’s agreement held up until the Second World War suspended the big fairs across the region.

  Little is known about Williams’ operation as it existed throughout the Maritimes between the two wars. He held contracts for all the major fairs in the Maritimes and Maine and around the end of World War One he purchased the Joseph G. Ferari Shows out of the states and toured it through the Maritimes under its original name, later renaming it Williams Standard Shows. He died at his home in New York in 1943 and was repatriated in a ceremony at Hardwood Hill cemetery in Sydney.

  Lynch, on the other hand, took a right at the second star and rolled into the future, purchasing the most exciting rides found anywhere and growing his business as fast as he could. Within five years, he had cemented a strong reputation throughout Atlantic Canada as a showman with extraordinary class. His name was quickly becoming synonymous with warm summer evenings and magical midway excitement. It wasn’t a real summer in Maritime communities until the Bill Lynch Shows arrived, lugging the necessary equipment to transform any town into the City of Lights.

  “August evenings are just made for loitering and there is no gayer, happier place to loiter than an exhibition midway,” proclaimed a story in the August 25, 1934, issue of The Halifax Mail. “Bill Lynch and his carnival boys and girls will be back again. No need to introduce him, for his aggregation of tents, rides and booths is known from one end of the Maritime Provinces to the other...There is surely no brighter, cleaner, better-run outfit of a similar type on the road.”

  Stories from a variety of publications throughout the 1930s demonstrate Lynch’s expanding eminence. The Nova Scotia Provincial Exhibition News of September 1, 1931, called Lynch “the showman with a conscience” and went on to commend his operation. “Bill Lynch, a local boy, deserves credit for his enterprise in presenting the greatest midway attraction that Halifax has ever seen.” The same impressions popped up all over the region. Charlottetown’s The Guardian of August 18, 1934, said Lynch “is a far cry from the days when he started out comparatively unknown to his position today as the premiere midway proprietor east of Toronto.”

  Legions and fire departments everywhere were clamouring to book Lynch to play their town. He was the man they wanted and accepting less was not considered an alternative. He was a fair businessman, they were beginning to learn, and willing to share a portion of his profit with the different organizations that booked him. “The legion is to be congratulated in being behind the move to bring a good clean show to town with business methods above board,” the Sydney Post declared in July 1934.

  To fully appreciate the significance of Lynch’s reputation, it is important to understand how the travelling carnival began on this continent. The phenomenon of the rolling carnival has its origins in the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago. The mile-and-half-long midway at the Chicago World’s Fair was the first of its kind, offering rides (including the original Ferris Wheel), entertainment, games and sideshows which, although proving financially successful and attractive to fair-goers, was deemed on the lower end of social activities. It lacked sophistication and was considered generally immoral by many, which meant it was separated from the respectable parts of the fair that were of “high culture”. The whole aim of the fair was to educate and enlighten people with the world’s greatest technological and cultural advances, but the midway steered away from that, a lot of people felt. The term midway originated at the World’s Fair that year, when the rides and sideshows were sectioned off from the rest of the fair in an area known as the “Midway Plaisance”. To elevate its cultural significance, fair directors had labelled the Midway Plaisance an “anthropological” exhibition but near the end of the fair it was clear the midway was only erected to provide cheap entertainment and amuse the patrons. But it also proved to be one of the more lucrative exhibitions.

  The amount of money it brought in was a strong enough motive for a number of shady businessmen across the United States to enter the travelling carnival business, taking the vulgar display on the road. Even if it was immoral or obscene, people were itching to experience it and they would even fork over a lot of money for the temporary diversion.

  By the 1930s, the travelling carnival enterprise across North America was corrupt, run mostly by grifters and other men of dubious character and criminal backgrounds. The games were rigged, the ticket sellers skilled in the deceitful art of short-changing, and there were enough fast-talking fanatics to rope people into things they had no intention of doing before they set foot on the midway. But if The Halifax Herald editorial board was upset about the criminal presence on the midway in 1928, they would have to tolerate it if only because every show was criminal to some degree in those days. Many fair and exhibition boards across the continent regarded the travelling carnival as lacking sorely in respectability, but necessary in getting people out to their fairs. There is no conclusive evidence that Williams’ shows were crooked, but most carnival owners in those days hired independent contractors to provide concessions, so it stands to reason that transient and possibly disreputable workers would have hired on with him from out of the United States to fill some of the dates he had around the region playing local fairs.

  Lynch was determined to change the nature of the business that was quickly becoming his life. The reputation of the travelling carnival had already been established, however, and there was a general uneasiness in many communities throughout the region that carnivals were in town only for cash grabs and then out with whatever they were able to hustle off the locals, whether by legitimate means or not. A fairly good cross-section of Maritimers had been duped in the past and they would only tolerate that kind of abuse once.

  Lynch understood the public’s concern and made every effort to change the way his show was perceived. He hired mostly Maritimers to run his games and partnered with different service groups in every community to give something back. He made large donations to charities in every town his show played and always reserved time for underprivileged kids to come to his show free of charge. He also owned everything on the show and didn’t need to contract any of the rides or concessions out to independent owners. Such independence was an anomaly back then, but it gave Lynch the control he needed to run the business his way. People started to notice the difference in the few short years he had possessed the fair and exhibition contracts across Nova Scotia.

  A letter to the editor of The Glace Bay Gazette from an August 1934 issue entitled “A Public Spirited Showman” recounts one local fireman’s take on Lynch and his operation.

  Sir, -- Bill Lynch of the Bill Lynch Shows has donated to the Maritime Firemen’s Association a valuable silver cup, to be won by the best department on parade at tournaments. This gives us an opportunity to tell the public something about this man Lynch.

  As Bill Lynch he is known in every city and town in the Maritimes. We have had Bill Lynch playing for us for a number of years, and in Lynch we found a man of sterling qualities, as true as the sun and as straight as a die. Mr. Lynch’s word is as good as his bond and I can assure the Lynch knockers that Bill Lynch is as true as steel and not a mean man in his make-up.

  We are not asking the public to take our word for it, but I refer them to all the fire departments and war veterans that he has played for in the Maritimes, and [they] will find our opinion of Bill Lynch is o.k. As to his shows, Bill Lynch Shows are clean, nothing dirty about them, and everything is run on the square; if they were not I can assure the public the Glace Bay Fire Department would have nothing to do with them. You play his concession, you take the same chance people do who play the stock exchange. As to Bill Lynch taking a lot of money out of town, between Bill Lynch and his 59 helpers they spend a lot of money in town, and with what he gives the fire department I do not think Lynch takes out much more money than he leaves behind.

  We will stake our reputation and I can tell you, sir, we have a re
putation we are proud of, that Lynch leaves more in Glace Bay than any of the other travelling shows 100 per cent of which goes to the U.S.A, and 100 per cent of the Lynch money stays in the province of Nova Scotia, and at least 50 per cent of it stays in Glace Bay, when he is staying here.

  Bill Lynch is a gentleman from the toes up, a true and loyal friend and one thing can be said of Lynch is that he never goes back on a friend.

  Yours truly,

  A GLACE BAY FIREMAN

  The City of Lights was moving. Lynch was just getting started.

  Those Crazy Rocking Bunks; New Minas, 2008

  Bill Durham angles the Dodge Ram down the off-ramp, through the fog and onto Highway 101 heading northwest from the Halifax Exhibition Grounds to New Minas with the Hampton Umbrella Ride swaying slightly in the rear-view mirror. It’s late afternoon and Bill is on the first of a few runs to move the carnival rides to their next stop in the Annapolis Valley. It will be a long night, he understands, and pulls a cigarette out of the pack with oil-stained hands.

  It had rained heavily earlier in the day and Bill’s “tear-down” clothes are still a little damp. Tear-down clothes are old, typically worn-out sweats carnies wear to disassemble the rides, although in some cases, there are no discernible differences between these threads and their everyday clothes. But Bill’s leather jacket is hung up somewhere grease won’t find it. He takes a puff of the smoke and before exhaling asks the question that’s been percolating in his mind.

  “Where are you sleeping, anyway?”

  “They told me the bunkhouse,” I answer, still not exactly sure what the bunkhouse was or what form it would take.

  “Ha,” he chuckles in a smooth, clear tone, turning his head in my direction with a look in his eyes that suggests he’s about to fill me in on a matter I should be aware of without explicitly stating it. “Some nights those bunks get to rockin’.”