The average Farm Show visitor is plugged in, networked and high def-ed to his eyeballs, and about as far removed from tilling the soil as a human being can get.
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So why is he there?
What's the big deal with this old-timey uberfair that makes superstars out of steers and sheep?
Poultry and swine and goats and horses?
That's hard to put a finger on.
But the show
is undeniably a big deal.
Folks throng the place every year. Opening day on Saturday was no different.
Shuffling through the brick-framed portals of the 1-million-square-foot agricultural palace in Harrisburg, Farm Show pilgrims were instantly cast into a crush of thousands.
People fanned out over 25 acres in earnest pursuit of the un-glib.
Paging Bessie Holstein.
In the Main Hall, 2-year-old Max Long, of Carlisle, sidled right up to a fake demonstration cow with udders that squirted out simulated milk.
The boy confirmed that bovines are his favorite animals.
He also "loves seeing the poop fly" from manure spreaders, said his grandmother, Debbie Louey, of Gettysburg.
Animal magnetism explains some of the Pennsylvania Farm Show mystique.
Still more clues: The indoor pageant is the biggest of its species in the country.
It's loaded with free entertainment and authenticity (your chances of hiking through an honest-to-God cow pie are good).
It's sweetened by the gallon with milkshakes and ice cream sundaes. Baked potatoes. Barbecued sandwiches.
It's become a true novelty in a culture drifted far from its agricultural moorings.
But the hook goes deeper for some show-goers, according to those who have given yeomanry serious thought.
Downclimb the family tree far enough, said Patrick Kerwin, executive director of the Farm Show Complex & Expo Center, and everyone has real ties to the land.
People still yearn to connect with their inner farmer, Kerwin said.
Rightly or wrongly, he added, they equate life on the back 40 to a simpler time. Communities were tighter knit then, maybe a bit closer to controlling their own destiny.
"I think people always feel Norman Rockwell-ish about agriculture," Kerwin said.
"I know this is a little goofy," he added, "but they hear the cows moo" and that fascinates people. "They can see the baby pigs and the baby ducks ... the chicks being hatched. ... They can rub a bunny's belly."
Rustic pizzaThis year's event at the complex along Cameron and Maclay streets runs daily, 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., through Jan. 16 and has the theme "Keeping Pennsylvania Growing."
The show will be held from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday, Jan. 17, when it concludes with the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association Circuit Finals competition.
The rodeo finals cost $10 a day to attend and will take place in the large arena Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
In the spotlight for the week, besides the cowboys and cowgirls, are nearly 6,000 animals and 10,000 competitive exhibits.
The usual junior livestock contests, apple pie judging and tractor pulls will be on tap.
All of this rustic razzmatazz anchors the show squarely in the counter current.
Plowing as a way of life hit high stride in Pennsylvania around 1900, when there were about 224,000 family farms.
About 55,000 farms remain today. While agriculture remains a top industry, fewer people than ever — not even 2 percent of the national population — take a direct hand in running it.
Then there's the Farm Show.
True, it promotes shiny ag gadgetry and instructs farmers on the latest scientific methods, just as it always has.
True, it has bright lights and pomp galore, kicking off on Saturday with the state police mounted drill team.
Yet, in this Twitter-y, glittery age of Spears-Pitt-Jolie, a sweetly cornpone aura seems to hug the show.
There's nothing outwardly chic about even the most meticulously groomed champion hog.
The show's totemic 900-pound butter monolith, sculpted this year to depict a Pennsylvania National Guardsman saying goodbye to his family, looms parochially in the lobby.
Yet despite such phenomena — or because of it — people of all ages and walks of life flock to the show.
Which, like some revolutionary genus of hybrid corn, only sprouts more lushly each year.
Annual exhibitor numbers have swelled by 1,000 over the past decade, to 3,800, Kerwin said.
(The Farm Show can be bottled interestingly. Some exhibitors, such as the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections, have only tangential links to farming or agricultural communities. Some have none at all.)
Because the event has never charged admission, Kerwin said, "We really don't know exactly how many people attend the Farm Show."
"We get zillions of buses" and cars filled to the rafters, he said.
In 1994, according to Kerwin, when the show was two days shorter than it is now, attendants parked 27,171 cars. In 2003, they parked 44,072 cars, and, last year, 63,612.
Visitation is thought to regularly exceed 400,000 people a year. It spiked six years ago when more than 600,000 flocked to see the complex after it was updated and expanded by about 40 percent.
Humble beginningsThis breathlessly high level of attraction identification has taken years to nurture.
While the Farm Show is 93 years old, its roots go back nearly two centuries, to the father of all American farm shows, the biblically-sounding Elkanah Watson.
The ball got rolling in 1810 with the Watson-inspired Berkshire Agricultural Society and Cattle Show at Pittsfield, Mass.
Pittsfield broke the masculine farm fair mold by including products made in the home, such as linen and wool.
Women thus became invested in farm shows, according to a 1991 Farm Show anniversary book.
Rural expositions ebbed and flowed over the years. Pennsylvania's first statewide show was held in Harrisburg in 1851, attracting 35,000 to 45,000 people.
The first annual edition took place in the capital city in January 1917 and was identified by an inconspicuous nailed-up sign that read "Pennsylvania Corn, Fruit, Vegetable, Dairy Products, and Wool Show."
By 1927, the midwinter meet had swelled to 50,000 attendees.
Today, the multitudes that descend on the Farm Show mostly have no personal experience of farm life.
Nostalgia does not necessarily draw them, said Mark O'Neill, spokesman for the Pennsylvania Farm Bureau. Curiosity helps propel them to the show.
"I think one of the reasons it's still popular is because there is such a difference between urban areas and rural farm areas," O'Neill said.
Bingo, said Debra Reid, an agricultural historian and associate professor of history at Eastern Illinois University.
"The grass is greener on the other side of the fence," said Reid, who grew up on a farm in southern Illinois.
A person who has fled the hard labor and isolation of the farm "has no romantic interest in petting a Jersey cow," Reid said.
But a city dweller or a suburbanite might feel differently.
"This idea that country life is more morally solid" and more neighborly is widespread, Reid said.
"I believe that people still think that," especially in places steeped in the lore of the agrarian Amish.
Whether those green acres are superior or not, Reid said, they sure look different.
"I think a lot of people take their kids to see what a hog is or see what a cow is. They can't go to grandma's any more" to find out.
Jon Rutter is a staff writer for the Sunday News. His e-mail address is jrutter@lnpnews.com.
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