Life and Death on Midway : Lifestyle: A traveling priest and his wandering congregation celebrate the rituals and traditions of carnival workers.

As a light rain fell in Evergreen Cemetery, Msgr. Robert McCarthy gave his eulogy before 25 people huddled under a tent near 400 graves decorated with purple, white and yellow mums.

They came to remember people such as John LeVaggi, an Italian immigrant who made his living making toys that were given as prizes to those lucky enough to burst a balloon or knock over a milk bottle.

And Sam Steffin, buried next to LeVaggi, who worked “joints”--carnival lingo for bingo and other games.

There was also Emily Bailey a 300-pound “fat lady” who danced her way into the spotlight and out again when she lost the weight that was her fortune. Bailey, who is fondly remembered by her friends as “the sweetest gal,” lived to be 99.

In this sprawling 116-year-old Boyle Heights cemetery, members of the Pacific Coast Showmen’s Assn. come each January to honor those who have gone before them. They always come in winter, when the Ferris wheels have been put in storage along with the cotton candy machines that churn out pink bouquets of sugar.

It is here, in a place called Showmen’s Rest, that the carnies bury their own.

“Today, as we reflect on the time we have left here, never be ashamed of what you do. Be happy because you bring joy into the lives of people, especially the children,” McCarthy, who was appointed by the Vatican to spread God’s message to the carnival people, told the mourners last week. “But remember, true happiness is when the show on Earth is over.”

The Pacific Coast Showmen’s Assn. was founded in 1922 as a chapter of the Showmen’s League of America, which got its start in Chicago in 1913 with Buffalo Bill Cody at the helm.

The service organizations were formed to give food, clothing and other help to carnies in need. This included burying those who couldn’t afford it, so they didn’t end up in a potter’s field with no headstone to mark their existence.

The Los Angeles-based group began buying plots in Evergreen Cemetery. Since then about 400 carnies, from sideshow performers to the owners of some of the most successful carnivals in the world, have come to share a spot in Showmen’s Rest, their own cemetery within a cemetery.

This year the organization, which boasts 300 members, celebrated its 70th year with the christening of a new clubhouse, a presidents ball and, of course, their annual memorial service, complete with McCarthy, the “Carny Priest.”

“I think that people in the outside world have no idea how carnival people work,” said Sharie Davis, chairwoman of the memorial service. “We work harder and longer than anybody else, but the benefits and rewards you get out are far greater. It is a wonderful life.”

On this day, all the markers in Showmen’s Rest have been adorned with flowers. A tent has been placed in the road to protect the mourners from the rain. And a stereo is hooked up from a car to pipe in the “Star-Spangled Banner” and taps.

In 1992, 14 more carnival people were added to the memorial list.

“I can remember coming to the memorial service and seeing the names and not recognizing anyone,” said Earl (Butch) Butler, outgoing president of the club. “But a lot of these people have been really close friends.”

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Among the recently departed are 103-year-old Minnie Spring. She joined husband, Tony, who was buried at Showmen’s Rest more than 20 years ago. The Springs made their living peddling candied apples and running a few kiddie rides, said Minnie’s niece, Myrtle Brecto of Huntington Beach.

“They were carnival people for many, many years; they would travel all over,” said Brecto, 84, who would often take to the road for a day or two when she wanted to spend time with her aunt and uncle. “They didn’t talk much about their adventures. I guess for them it was just a way of making a living.”

Tom (Pineapple) Henos, 37, who came from Hawaii looking for a better life and found it as foreman of the Zipper ride, died last year of complications from pneumonia. He is remembered, along with Charley Walpert, described as a “man of a few thousand words,” who loved to dance.

For some at the service it is the first chance they have had to pay tribute to their friends, who may have died months before.

Typically when a showman dies on the road, he is quietly buried at Showmen’s Rest and honored with a small service, usually by his immediate family. His friends and relatives, who have traveled countless miles and endured the hardships and triumphs of the road with him, are out on the midway hawking tickets or tearing down rides for the next fair. The show must go on.

“It is the very nature of our work that we can’t be there for the funerals of our brothers and sisters who passed away,” McCarthy said. “But we do remember them. They are not forgotten.”

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In 1913, Foley and Burk was the first show to set up headquarters in Los Angeles. Since then dozens have come and gone. Today there are 15 existing carnivals that work Southern California.

In the days of Foley and Burk, carnivals were much different from the midways of today. Circus acts and “freak” shows with fat ladies, snake charmers and Siamese twins were common. The large rides that clutter churchyards and fairgrounds--known as “spectaculars”--didn’t come about until after World War II, with the introduction of advanced technologies.

During the ‘20s, when the Showmen’s Assn. got started, the group would elect officers and hold monthly meetings in local hotels, clubs or wherever they could find an empty room. By the 1940s, members were able to purchase a clubhouse on South Hope Street in downtown Los Angeles for $30,000.

As inflation and the high cost of housing have forced performers who winter in Southern California to move to the suburbs, the club has had to adjust. This month, the group opened a new clubhouse in Upland; they had sold their downtown Los Angeles headquarters four years ago.

“For four years we haven’t had a clubhouse,” said Butler, who served as president in 1992. “We would meet in a stuffed-animal company in Riverside that was owned by a member.”

The new $1 million club is (what else?) a carnival. Canvas tents with gold-colored stakes are propped up around the converted warehouse. The bar is fashioned like a red and gold carousel with an elaborately decorated lead horse watching guard over the refreshments.

One wall of the large meeting room is covered with portraits of all the past presidents. The names of the carnivals that have roots in the Los Angeles area are also on the walls, along with photos of the Ladies Auxiliary presidents, from Nell Ziv in 1931 to current chief Lucy Strickland.

But while some things have changed in the carnival, many things have remained the same.

The bright lights and endless travel are still draws for kids, who whether escaping home life or just possessed by a hankering to see the world, have a little wanderlust in their hearts.

Something else that has not changed is the prejudice that many carnies say they face in the outside world.

“They give us such a hard time. You don’t hear about the good people,” said Patsy Duran, 73, who joined the carnival when she was 16. “What makes our business is the love of children . . . the kids of the world ride the merry-go-round.”

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Working to improve that image is McCarthy, the “Carny Priest,” who counts the more than 100,000 outdoor showmen who roam the country as his congregation. He was named to the spot by a special Vatican council in 1970 and since has become much like the people he ministers to.

McCarthy has been to countless carnivals, logging thousands of miles with his vestments in one hand and plane tickets in the other. He attends as many fairs as he can in the regular season, to perform weddings, Masses and baptisms, returning to his home parish in Watertown, N.Y., briefly in the fall.

During the winter he is off again to perform funerals and memorial services. In addition to his spiritual duties, “Father Mac,” as he is known by his congregation, serves as the industry’s public relations man. He grabs any opportunity he can to tell local service groups, the media or anyone else who will listen that carnies are just regular folks who worry about paying their bills and love their children.

“They are just ordinary people who chose to do this for a living,” he is often heard saying.

Having lived the carnival life for so long, he is accepted in this tightknit group that generally distrusts outsiders. Whenever he walks into a room, he is immediately recognized and welcomed.

“He thinks the world of us,” said member Lee Flott. “I am not Catholic, but I love him.”

His understanding of carnival people spills over into his religion. The traditional stole he wears during Mass is specially tailored for a carny priest--adorned with a cross, Star of David, elephant and Ferris wheel.

He can often be seen conducting Mass and other services on rides on the midway, such as the bumper cars. And even a solemn occasion such as a memorial service takes on a carnival flair.

This month he concluded his tribute to the carnies in Showmen’s Rest with a poem that assured the people gathered that yes, there are carnivals even for the dead.

“When the show on Earth is over and the Master says “Time to go, the angels in heaven are waiting for your show. . . . Yes, there will be carnivals in heaven with bright lights and fun galore. . . So let’s make the show a good one, while here on earth we dwell, so when we set it up in heaven, God will say a job well done.”