The Strongman and Bristol's Fourth

The Strongman and Bristol’s Fourth
Fiction by Richard V. Simpson

Once again, Mr. Bald Eagle spreads his wings over the old town. The Fourth of July has returned to Bristol; it is the town’s secular holy day.

Old Glory snaps smartly in a freshening breeze playing off the harbor. Red, white and blue are the dominant colors; flags, bunting, and streamers are everywhere. Boys from the various neighborhoods meet at the old Wood Street dump to construct a tower with discarded railroad ties and tar-soaked barrels for the ritual conflagration on the “Night Before.” The continuous snapping of firecrackers, the screech-bang of rockets, and the sputter of Roman candles that fill the sky with balls of yellow, orange, and red fire make each sleepless night everlasting.

For several evenings before the Fourth, band music fills the air, from the bandstand, our ‘Temple of Music’, in the geographic center of the common. The park is always festooned with gaily-colored Japanese lanterns that trail down the four walkways from the forest of elm tree branches to its outermost corners casting a festive glow over the whole place.

Such were the celebrations during the early part of the 1900s.

A Trunk Full of Memories

One July, not too long ago, my father decided it was time to share some of his memories of past Fourths, some things he’d saved, “Get a couple of sodas, it’s hot in the attic,” he barked in his marine drill sergeant voice. Many years had passed since the last time I had climbed the narrow stairs to the stuffy attic of Dad’s 200-year old High Street Federal.

“There she is,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm and open palm, fingers pointing to the old paperboard and tin-veneered casket-domed trunk secured with crumbling leather straps and rusty hasps. “My chest of Fourth of July treasures.”

I detected a slight catch in his voice as he hesitated and then spoke the word, “...memories.”

 “The celebrations haven’t changed much since I was a boy,” he said as he popped an icy-cold soda can, “the game’s the same, only the players have changed.”

He began rummaging through the trunk’s contents, removing and setting aside posters, postcards, and scrapbooks of clippings. He spoke lovingly of the celebrations of fifty or more years ago, about his sister my Aunt Sarah, and his folks my grandparents.

“Here’s the ribbon Sarah and I received for winning the three-legged race one Fourth,” he said with a nostalgic sigh.

Dad said when he was a boy to go downtown to watch the big parade was like going to church. His Mom got him and Aunt Sarah all slicked up in their best clothes; he would wear a white shirt with red bow tie, Sunday knickers and spit-shined shoes; she wore her best ruffled summer dress with pink-sash, long black stockings and a red ribbon in her hair. They carried small American flags on sticks and waved them furiously trying to catch the attention of the boy scout color guard, or a town celebrity, or when they spied a family friend among the ranks of marchers.

My Grandfather, tall under his Skimmer, sported his best vest draped with a heavy-gold watch chain and jeweled fraternal fob that flashed ruby in the sun. Only occasionally he tugged at his high-starched collar, but he habitually smoothed his large black mustache with a cane-superior air, as he peered over his pinch-nez spectacles.

Grandmother, a woman of humble lineage, walked straight and proud in her layers of best summer linens, with the same practiced imperial bearing as the town’s high-born ladies who rode in the parade in covered carriages, with liveried drivers, drawn by well-groomed, matched pairs of chestnut mares with ribbons of the national colors braided into their manes and tails.

The family always viewed the parade from their favorite spot on the elevated sidewalk under the big elm, in front of the Hope Drug Store, across the street from the Hotel Belvedere. Grandfather liked to watch the visiting yachtsmen who lived at the hotel while their boats were being built at the Herreshoff brothers’ boatyard. That fraternity watched the parade from the hotel’s three stacked balconies from the second to fourth floors.

“As I recall, your grandfather made the same observations each year, ‘There goes Colonel Colt and his brother LeBaron, the Senator.’ He would comment, ‘The old DeWolf coach is holding up well,’ as the town’s most generous benefactors rode by. Each time the fire wagons rolled past us he said, ‘There go the volunteer firefighters, Chief Sparks is Division Marshal again this year.’”

“Your grandfather always thought ‘Sparks’ was the perfect name for a Fire Chief.”

After the Grand Civic, Military, and Fireman’s Parade passed the review, other Fourth of July activities for young and old centered on the Town Common. For longer than anyone can remember, there has been a carnival on Bristol Common for the Fourth of July. Games of team competition, vaudeville exhibitions of talent and unusual feats, and sideshows with wondrous displays of human oddities; all presented as part of the official Independence Day celebration. One particular event, an unequaled feat of strength presented on July 4, 1905, made the day memorable for my father. Witnessed by him at age seven, it made an everlasting impression.

Finally, Dad removed from the old trunk a slightly-foxed, but otherwise amazingly well-preserved copy of the July 2, 1905 issue of the Bristol phoenix. Secure inside the centerfold of the newspaper was a brightly colored, boldly-lettered and illustrated carnival poster which read:

     “Big July 4th, Rouge Bros. National Carnival, on The Midway, on Bristol Common After The Grand Parade. Rides! Games! Entertainment! See the world’s strongest man, Captain Felix Kinderstark late of the Imperial German Army perform amazing feats of physical strength and endurance. The heroic Captain Kinderstark will attempt to support the weight of a self-propelled auto car with passengers on his unprotected and naked chest. Come one, come all, only 10 cents.”

Fanciful drawings of the strongman in various poses illuminated the poster.

“The strongman was in the Civic Division of the parade,” Dad said, as he placed the poster on the growing pile of ephemera, “He rode in the back of an open automobile, presumably the one that was to run over him. He wore a German Army officer’s uniform. His chest was covered with rows of colorful ribbons that supported gold and silver medals the size of Carson City Dollars; around his neck hung a large Iron Cross from a black and silver ribbon, and one of those silver crescent-shaped things that denote a person’s rank. I was really impressed by his plumed-spiked helmet, from which he tossed off stiff-armed salutes to the crowd.”

Next, we turned our attention to the newspaper. Under the front page announcement “Parade participants will muster at 10 AM on Constitution Street, facing east, Chief Marshal Wallis E. Howe will begin the march at 10:30 AM sharp, and proceed to the Town Hall where Exercises will be held.” Listed under “Orders of the Day” we found the proclamation, “An Exhibit of Brute Strength by the World’s Strongest Man on the Town Common after The Parade,” an illustrated story about the man dominated a full eighth of the page.

Captain Kinderstark had submitted to an interview by the newspaper’s master of hyperbole, the so-called Scribe. “Upon arrival at Bristol, Monday, with his fellow troupers,” the Scribe began his report, “Captain Felix Kinderstark, the self-proclaimed ‘King of the Muscles,’ presented himself at our Bradford Street offices to place an advertisement to insure a great turnout of the curious to view his novel exhibition of brute strength. Recognizing the celebrity from carnival posters, we immediately seized upon the rare opportunity to interview the man.

“He is one of the most wonderful athletes that we have been permitted to meet. He seems to have discovered the secret of combining within himself muscular power and beauty of physique. By wise and judicious training, this man who is less than 6 feet in stature, has succeeded in acquiring the faculty of developing powerful muscles. Kinderstark is a student of Attila, a school of physical culture, which is highly successful in forming strong, harmonious, and well-muscled men out of weak and even sickly ones.

“The honorable Captain obliged the phoenix’s quick-sketch artist by removing his shirt and sitting for the drawing reproduced on this page. We encourage all who are able, to visit the booth setup for him on the common and witness a wholesome exhibition of male beauty and strength. This is his only Rhode Island appearance.”

Both Dad and I wondered if the endorsement was considered good reporting or was it paid for in the cost of the Kinderstark’s advertisement.

“We all witnessed that show,” Dad said, as he continued his search in the trunk, “I’ll tell you what I remember, while I keep looking for the next phoenix; that one has the Scribe’s report on the celebration and the strongman’s sideshow.

“Well, with so much pre-show publicity, the common was mobbed for all three shows. After your grandfather paid the ten-cent admission, we walked inside the curtained perimeter of the sideshow tents. Kinderstark’s booth, what ‘Carnie’ folk today call a ‘joint’, was a multicolored-striped tent, about 18-feet square, with pennants flying from the tops of the central and corner poles. The elevated stage appeared to be a platform formed by a mechanical extension attached to a low-gear wagon, like an oversized folding camper.

“We had all come to see a man crushed by an automobile. Sarah and I held hands, my mother held my left hand and my father held Sarah’s right hand as we tried to get close to the stage. Eventually, father hoisted me onto his shoulders for a better view. When from the darkness at the covered part of the stage the strongman came forward, he was wrapped top to toe in a rose-colored, silky looking, hooded-cloak with silver flames stitched on the shoulders, back and chest. With a dramatic flair he swept off the cloak, it flew across the stage, to reveal a very muscled, and except for very abbreviated cotton shorts, a very naked man. I seem to remember the sound of feminine gasps. I looked down at your grandmother who, to protect my little sister from the gratuitous display of masculine flesh, held her hand over Sarah’s eyes, even though she could see nothing but the back-side of the woman in front of her.

“In the glare of the early afternoon sun, the strongman went through a series of poses to show off the development of the muscles of his neck, chest, back, biceps, thighs, and calves of his legs. He performed a series of muscle-rolling demonstrations; with his powerful fingers he tore in two as many as six packs of playing cards as if they were no more than a package of cigarette paper.

“Finally, an open touring car, the same one as we saw in the parade, chugged up. Kinderstark, come down from the stage, mounted the car’s running board, and with a gesture to us to follow, he rode the short distance to the arena prepared for the spectacle. This was the ‘crushing’ exercise we had all eagerly awaited. With showy theatrics, the strongman went to the center of the ring where a platform the width of the automobile’s axle was arranged, unbalanced, on a large sawhorse. There, he rested on the ground on his hands and feet, his body facing upward; imagine his body shaped as an arch. On his knees and chest, assistants placed an apparatus in the form of a bridge made of large beams; now think of him as the pivot-point of a seesaw; the sawhorse was removed, and the formerly unbalanced platform was placed¾balanced¾on the pivot. An assistant tilted one end of the platform to the ground as the automobile with three passengers for a total weight of more than a ton, moved slowly up the incline, and ran over the track of which Kinderstark formed the living support. After the car passed over the part supported by Kinderstark’s body, the vehicle, through its own weight, caused the track to tilt to the opposite side, and then it descended quickly to the ground.

“It was quite a show.”

Just as Dad finished his story, he triumphantly pulled out the old newspaper he was searching for, “Here’s that newspaper. Let’s see how the Scribe wrote-up the side show.” We quickly searched the paper’s eight pages for the expected banner headline; finding none, we looked more deliberately until we found the following:

   Independence Day Celebrated. From all reports, we have heard of the day, everything went off without a hitch. Chief Marshal Howe did his job well; the parade began and ended on schedule. Exercises at the Town Hall were laudable. The carnival and fireworks were entertaining. As we were invited guests to the celebration in Warren, we were out of town on the Fourth.