A Grand State Fair! Are You Ready?

This week at Sunnyside, Troy discusses the history and meaning of the Iowa State Fair, encourages folks to check it out, and provides some insight on how things could change for the better.

For more info on the 2026 Iowa State Fair visit: https://www.iowastatefair.org

Sign up for our Sunnyside Farms Newsletter here: https://lp.constantcontactpages.com/sl/so8PkyQ

Transcript

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SPEAKER_03 0:00

Hello friends and neighbors. Welcome to light.

SPEAKER_01 0:17

Hello, friends and neighbors, and welcome to Sunnyside. You know, I always try to find the silver lining in every cloud. The sunny side of life isn't just the name of the show, it's a mentality and a lifestyle. One that we hope showcases the good life, our liberties, and those pursuits which make us happy. You can be the judge of whether I achieve that goal each week, and I admit sometimes I have fallen short. But I hope most of the time I can give you a little pick me up for the day, an idea or two to consider, and maybe a few laughs. Well, this last week or two there have been plenty of clouds for us to find that proverbial silver lining with chances of rain that have dropped precipitation on us on or about every other day. I think that's because well, I think it's because I cut hay, and since that time I've had some real challenges getting that hay put up. I'm not the only one, of course. And I'm thankful for the first two cuttings that I seem to time perfectly, but this third cutting, well we'll just have to see. My neighbors have informed me that everything I've been doing on the farm these last few years has been part of getting my ag degree. And Mother Nature, I have to say, has been a pretty demanding professor. I've learned a lot, and I have a whole lot more to learn. That's good though. I think when we stop learning new things, well we stop living. And nobody wants that. So, in line with the lessons I keep signing up for in this homemade syllabus of agriculture agricultural exploits, a week or so ago I thought I could turn that cut hay, but first I had to repair the cross bearing on the rear axle knuckle of my old John Deere six hundred seventy two hayrake. That seemed simple enough. It had come apart at the very end of the last usage, so I confirmed so I conferred with the good folks at John Deere, and since there aren't any computers or modern components on this piece of legacy equipment, I felt I could handle the repair myself. They ordered the parts, the parts came in, and they were the wrong parts. Okay, so I learned how to read the parts catalog myself, and ordered new parts. They were the right ones. All I had to do was put it together. So I asked my favorite farm mechanic for some advice. That would be my dad. He told me well he had never fixed that kind of joint. Said he had always taken it to someone else to fix. But he wished me well and was very curious as to how his oldest son would come out. Well, I came out with a very frustrating but completed repair. I don't think it's perfect, and I'm a little more nervous about whether it will hold. But Dad showed up at just the right time as I was about to test it out. He asked me, does it work? And I told him we're about to find out. And so he watched me climb in the tractor and drive away. Rake engaged, and to our delight, it worked. But there was a new problem. As I pulled back to the shop, I noticed one of the wheels that drive the ground driven rake was noticeably askew. Uh oh. Dad said he got a bearing out. And he was right. With the rainy weather threatening me each coming day in the forecast, we tore the wheel apart, pulled out the bearings, and they were indeed out. I mean out. Shredded, really. And I went back to the John Deere parts manual. I ordered the parts. Dad took the axle piece back to his shop and cut off the bearing remains, and we waited. And waited. And well, I'm still waiting for those three parts. Maybe they'll be in today. We'll see. But there's a silver lining in every cloud, right? And the clouds were certainly building. Dad also has a rake. A classic New Holland fifty six side discharge rake. It worked for him, and it was the first implement I ever used as a kid, raking oat straw on an old M tractor. To get it, though, we had to move out well just about every other piece of equipment he had in the shed. Wagons, an old John Deere forty twenty that hasn't run in a while, an old field mower, some of those big wooden wire spool things that people keep, I guess, for tables or something, and so forth. All of that just to get to the new Holland. And there it was. Tires, still pretty much inflated. We pulled it out and I brought it back to my shop, power washed it, lubed up everything, greased all the zerts, and added oil to the gearbox because it was bone dry. Good thing I checked. Once again, Dad showed up out of curiosity, I think. Does it work? he asked. You're just in time, I told him. I'm about to find out. And once again, he watched me climb into the tractor and pull away. But this time it didn't work. It didn't spin at all. The ground driven gears weren't driving and the rake didn't spin. It just hung there. Maybe if I go a little further and a little faster. Nope. Nothing. Remember that bone dry gearbox I mentioned? Well, it wasn't bone dry anymore because I had added that 8090 oil. And good thing I noticed. But we noticed something else. That gearbox was apparently determined to be bone dry. Because both seals were leaking the new oil right back out onto the pavement. I think Dad was a little embarrassed. His old faithful rake that hasn't been used in a decade, but had always done the job was now locked up inside its gearbox and leaking oil out weathered seals. Now, his rake is at his shop and he has parts on order. Two rakes, two repairs. The hay stays where it's at. The clouds keep building, flaunting their silver linings and occasionally giving us the showers they have promised. The weather made it impossible to get things turned even with the help of neighbors that have working rakes, and so I wait. I wait for another grade from a hard professor in this midlife ag degree I am so earnestly pursuing. And that got me to thinking, as these things usually do, I should have taken some of those ag classes in high school, or maybe even joined FFA. Maybe I would have learned some things in a shop class if I'd taken it, to help me be a better mechanic today. I saw the old retired ag teacher from my high school days in the farm store recently. I told Mr Vold I should have taken some of his classes and let him know what I'm up to these days. He chuckled and said he agreed with me, but that he'd also heard that sentiment before. And he wished me luck.

unknown 8:04

Hmm.

SPEAKER_01 8:05

Luck indeed. I was in four H and I was involved in the county fair, and I even went and exhibited at our state fair once upon a time. And that's what I've been thinking about. This Thursday, the Iowa State Fair kicks off once again, and this year it's a big one because of our two hundred fiftieth celebration as a nation. So let's put aside the hayrakes for now. Parts aren't in yet anyway, and if God wants it to rain, who am I to suggest otherwise? Pull up a rocking chair, friends. Welcome to Sunnyside, and let's talk about the Iowa State Fair. It was October eighteen fifty four. The autumn wind was kicking up the dust in Fairfield, Iowa. A handful of local farmers, pioneers with calloused hands, and big dreams, pooled together exactly three hundred twenty three dollars. They charged adults a single shiny quarter to step onto six acres of open prairie. There was no midway, there were no neon lights, no roller coasters, and certainly nothing served on a wooden stick. There was just a long, passionate speech, a few local crops, some handmade textiles, and the proud livestock of a young state just eight years old. For the next few decades that little gathering became a bit of a nomad. It packed up its tents and wandered from town to town, towns like Muscatine, Oscaloosa, Dubuque, Cedar Rapids, searching for a place to call home. Then came 1886. The fair finally found its permanent anchor on two hundred sixty two acres of rolling land on the east side of Des Moines. They built Pioneer Hall, they planted trees, they laid out a racetrack. And an Iowa tradition was officially carved into the bedrock of Americana. Over the next century, that patch of land grew right alongside the country. Through the roaring twenties, tens of thousands poured through the gates to see the marvel of modern farming machinery. In nineteen eleven, the first butter cow was sculpted, beginning a dairy rich legacy that would capture the world's imagination. During World War II, the fair took a brief hiatus, quietly giving up its grounds to the U.S. Army to serve as a vital storage depot for the Army Air Corps. By the 1970s, the political world realized that if you wanted to make it to the White House, you first had to eat a pork chop in Des Moines. Today, that modest $323 event is a massive, spectacular four hundred forty-five acres celebration drawing well over one million people every single August. It features premier grandstand acts, more than 80 different foods wrapped around a wooden stick, and the finest agricultural showcases on the face of the earth. And it all starts again this Thursday. It is a monument to the American heartland. Our history books will tell you about the dates, of course. They will tell you about the growth, the politics, and the economics, but they might miss the real heartbeat of the fair, because back in those early days, well, a young woman could enter a humble fruit display into a competition. She didn't win a blue ribbon, but while standing by the apple tables, she caught the eye, say of a young livestock judge. Maybe they started talking. Maybe they shared a laugh. And a year later, maybe they were married. Decades later, their great grandchildren can still pitch a tent in those very same wooded campgrounds, keeping a multi generational family tradition alive under the Iowa stars. The millions of visitors, the shifting locations, the global fame, none of it was ever really about the spectacles. It was about the people who built the backbone of a nation. In the mid-1940s, the world was fractured, bruised, and weary from war. The American public was hungry, not just for food, but for something to believe in again. They needed a reminder of who they were when they weren't fighting. Enter Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein. The second. They had just conquered Broadway with Oklahoma, but Hollywood came calling with a unique proposition. They wanted a brand new musical written directly for the silver screen. The setting? Well, not the high society streets of New York or the glamorous hills of California. Rather, they chose a four hundred acre patch of land right in the beating heart of the country. Des Moines, Iowa. The nineteen forty five film State Fair hit theaters and suddenly a country trying to heal fell head over heels in love with a slice of the American Midwest. But why? Why did a musical about a family taking their prize hog and some homemade mincemeat to Des Moines resonate from the coasts of Maine to the beaches of Oregon? Well the answer was woven directly into the lyrics. You see, Rogers and Hammerstein didn't just write catchy show tunes. They tapped into a collective, deep-seated American yearning. Take a listen to the opening lines of the Fair's anthem.

SPEAKER_00 13:44

Don't miss it, don't even it's the best day.

SPEAKER_01 13:57

Now on the surface, it's just a playful, boastful jingle. And I mean, they really made us sound kind of hicky. But to a restless nation, those lines represented a proud, unabashed local identity. It was a celebration of community, the idea that the things we build with our own hands in our own backyards are worth shouting about. It stood for an America where neighbors still rooted for neighbors. And then there was the longing. Hammerstein penned lyrics. Is it Hammerstein? Hammerstein. Why don't I always get that confused? Well, you can write the show. Anyway, he penned lyrics for a young girl staring out a window, capturing a universal feeling of youthful transition that every American could recognize. By the time the full company swelled into the chorus of It's a Grand Night for Singing, telling of a bird throwing his heart at the sky, the Iowa State Fair had ceased to be just a local agricultural expo. It had become a beautiful, idealized symbol of a unified American culture, anchored by simple virtues, romantic ideals, and a deep connection to the land. The movie was a massive triumph. It brought the sights and sounds of Iowa to millions who would never cross the Mississippi River. If Hollywood executives then thought the magic was all in the scripts and the cameras and the colorful studio lights, well they missed the real story. Because while the movie introduced the idea of Iowa to the world, the real Iowa State Fair didn't need Hollywood to tell it who it was. The Frasier family, those were the real life inspirations behind the original story, weren't actors. The livestock judges, the pie bakers, the families camping out under the August stars. They didn't read from a script. Hollywood didn't create that beautiful piece of American culture. They merely held up a mirror to a spirit that was already thriving on the east side of Des Moines. A spirit of hard work, simple joys, and community that the rest of the country recognized, envied, and deeply appreciated. And hopefully still do. We Americans have reached the grand milestone, the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, a quarter millennium of the American experiment. And naturally, minds have turned to how a nation should celebrate such a momentous birthday. If you cast your mind back to the summer of 2025, President Donald Trump stood on the historic fairgrounds in Des Moines and made a bold promise, as he does, to the people of Iowa. He looked down at the crowds and announced the launch of a year-long celebration called the Great American State Fair, and he explicitly promised that this grand nationwide spectacle would start right here in Iowa. The vision, coordinated alongside Governor Kim Reynolds, was to ground America's two hundred fiftieth in the authentic agricultural heartbeat of the country. But as the calendar marched toward 2026, the blueprints shifted, as they seemed to do. When the gates finally opened for the sixteen day national exposition from june twenty fifth to july tenth, the massive Ferris wheel, the state pavilions, and the agri and the agricultural showcases weren't set up at the crossroads of America. They were sprawled out across the National Mall in Washington, DC. So what changed? Why did the Grand Festival pack up its bags before it ever truly settled into the Iowa soil? Well, the official word from the White House Task Force, of course there is a task force, and the organizers was all about scope and symbol. To pull off a true world's fair scale event representing all fifty states and our territories simultaneously, planners argued they needed a centralized, federally managed canvas. Sounds very conservative. They wanted the backdrop of the U.S. Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the global spotlight that only the nation's capital could provide for a July 4th milestone. July 4th from a document penned by an agrarian. Those politicians and the urban planners, they looked at the map and they saw Washington, D.C. as the center of power. And of course, they still do. But I think they missed what the people already knew. They missed the fact that if you want to find the true geographic and cultural crossroads of the American people, you don't look to the marble columns of the East Coast, beautiful, but kind of desperate in their attempt to replicate the architecture of an expired empire. You look to the asphalt intersection of interstates eighty and thirty-five, right here in the middle of the country, and the blissful architecture of wood and brick and limestone. The kind of architecture that made Walt Disney homesick. Think about what could have been. For millions of everyday families from, say, Ohio to Utah, from Texas to Minnesota, driving to the center of the nation is a proud, accessible pilgrimage. In Iowa, they wouldn't have had to navigate federal security checkpoints, gridlock, beltweight traffic, snipers on roofs, or the corporate polishing that inevitably takes over a DC event. In Iowa, Americans from every corner of the land and people of the world would have looked out at the fields that feed them. They would have stood on soil won by pioneers and kept by generations of honest, hard working folks. They would have experienced the American spirit not as a museum exhibit or a political statement on the mall, but as a living, breathing community. The Washington event had its grandeur, sure, with its massive fireworks and its global headlines, but a birthday party for America belongs to the people who built it, not just the people who occasionally govern it. And while the official flagship sailed east, the Iowa State Fair, well, it's still preparing to open its own gates this week, just as it always has, proving that you can move the stage, but you can never truly transplant the heart. As the summer heat and humidity settles over Des Moines, 400 acres of rolling fairgrounds are buzzing with an energy that only comes around once in a generation. This isn't just any fair, folks, this is the real America 250 celebration. And the Iowa State Fair has woven the red, white, and blue into the very fabric of its celebration. Century old traditions. If you stroll past the historic Pioneer Hall, you'll see a breathtaking sight. Two hundred and fifty American flags snapping proudly in the Iowa breeze. They snap so proudly that we might be careful. Or the wind energy companies will probably try to harness them. Beneath the grand concrete steps of the grandstand, a special historical exhibition chronicles the spirit of Iowa through a quarter millennium of American history. Step out onto the grand concourse, and your ears will catch the thud of bass and the roar of the crowd. The grandstand lineup this year is sweeping. It's a cross section of the American soundtrack. You have the modern country grit of Hardy and Laney Wilson, the timeless rock legacy of Rod Stewart, and who doesn't like Alabama? Also, the nineties rhythm of TLC and Salt and Peppa. And a massive indie pop celebration with AJR and many others. And long before the first guitar note strikes in the evening, the heartbeat of the fair belongs to the barns. The livestock exhibitions are in full swing. Young 4 H and FFA kids with crisp shirts and serious eyes are leading their prized steers, sheep and swine into the judging rings, carrying on a legacy of agricultural excellence that predates the tractors, of course, themselves. And if you walk toward the Equine territory, you will see a masterpiece of preservation. The historic horse barns have just unveiled a magnificent thirteen million dollar top to bottom renovation. The century-old brickwork stands tall, but underneath the rafters, new lighting, modernized stalls, and updated facilities ensure that Iowa's draft horses and majestic stallions have a home worthy of their stature for another hundred years. Down at the Varied Industries Building, the massive commercial displays are a testament to American innovation. Farmers and suburbanites alike will crowd the aisles to look at the latest cutting edge machinery, shiny new pickup trucks, home goods, and the notoriously gigantic competing displays of Iowa State and the University of Iowa. Meanwhile, the fair's other educational displays, like the beloved Little Hands on the Farm, are teaching a brand new generation of city kids exactly where their food comes from. And speaking of food, nobody does it quite like Iowa. This year's menu features a wild array of new culinary creations, including a savory porky parm gnocchi. And a sugary, sweet Americana. There is even a nod to the 250th anniversary with 1776 Parmesan ice cream. I don't know about that. Layered with tart cherries and buttery pound cake. That's for real. But for the purists like me, the true culinary North Star remains the Iowa pork tent on the Grand Concourse. It's operated by a small army now of 900 proud pig farmer volunteers. Oh, the memories, by the way, of this place when my dad would volunteer his time as a pork producer back in a time where there were so many more of them on just as many smaller family farms. Today, those remaining pork producers are still serving up the legendary Applewood smoked pork chop on a stick. And to honor the nation's birthday, they have staged the grand 1776 pork chop salute, giving away 1,776 free chops to hungry faregoers to celebrate the farmers who feed the world. Well, sort of. When the food gets heavy and your feet get tired, you can head to the iconic Skylift. You settle into that open air seat, lift your boots off the pavement, and glide silently above the sea of humanity. From up there, looking down at the neon midway, the historic brick buildings, and the thousands of smiling faces, you truly get a bird's eye view of pure, unadulterated Americana. Now the bloggers and the influencers will write about the millions of dollars spent on renovations, the star-studded concerts, and the thousands of pork chops grilled over the coals. We've already mentioned those. But even they miss the real story, in my opinion. Because as you ride that sky lift over the grounds, well you might look down and notice an elderly man sitting on a newly dedicated park bench. He may be watching a young teenager brush down a Herford heifer in the wash racks. Maybe he just showed up and is wondering aloud, is it ready? Perhaps fifty years ago, during the bicentennial of nineteen seventy six, that old man was the teenager in the wash rack, receiving a quiet word of encouragement from his own grandfather as the kid stepped off and said you're just in time to find out. The buildings get updated, the technology changes, and the grandstand acts come and go. But the spirit, the dedication to family, the pride in an honest day's labor, and the deep love for this land, well that remains entirely untouched by time. Friends, Washington, DC may have the monuments, but Iowa Iowa has the soul. For sure, a few decades back, a young Iowa teenager had a choice to make. He had raised a fine pen of three hogs. At the Winnebago County Fair, he took home the reserve grand champion ribbon. Now, standard fair lore says you hold out hope that the grand champion pen backs out, so you can punch your ticket to Des Moines. But this young man was practical. He looked at the premium auction check from the county fair, looked at the extra month of daily feed and labor it would take to keep those hogs market ready for the state level, and he decided his time was better spent elsewhere. Because he was going to the Iowa State Fair. Just not in the livestock ring. Instead, he spent long, humid summer afternoons tucked away in the family garage. His hands were covered in sawdust, wood stripper, and sweat. He was working on a piece of history, an ancient battered oak three drawer dresser. He sanded away the decades of wear, carefully brought the rich grain back to life, and applied the finish with the patience of an old world master. Well, an old world master in his mind anyway. That dresser earned a blue ribbon at the county fair. Then it made the journey south to Des Moines in the back of the family's Chevy conversion band, covered with a blanket so it would not scratch, earning top honors at the state level. It was a profound moment of pride, but it was more than just a ribbon. It sparked a lifelong love affair with wood, a deep reverence for the craftsmanship of long forgotten furniture makers, and a vital life lesson. The difference between a cheap, hasty patch job and a complete, careful restoration that honors the heritage of the past. And for the most part, that carried over to continuing life lessons that involve legacy machinery with faded decals, rusted frames, and busted cross bearings. I I mean, that young man wasn't finished with the Iowa State Fair. Not by a long shot. On a warm afternoon in the early 1990s, a medium-sized crowd gathered under the welcome shade of the fairground trees. Four teenage boys stepped up to the microphones. They called themselves three men. And a Mike. One of the guys' name was Mike. There was Ben, James, Mike, and uh our young craftsman singing the deep, resonant bass tones. And he would argue, by the way, the bass was the most important notes. Well, they sang a cappella, pouring their hearts out into the summer air. They did it completely for free. And as the old saying goes, entertainment has always paid well. Years passed, and that young man traded his fair ribbons and quartet music for the uniform of his country and became a soldier, spending the better part of his adult life serving the nation, moving from assignment to assignment while raising four fine sons. And because of that military life, farming and the rural fair traditions came too late for his boys, none of them ever got to show a project or step onto a stage in Des Moines. Now an outsider might look at that and think the family's fair legacy simply came to an end. But I would argue that's simply not true. Because today, if you walk past the bustling show rings or the outdoor performance stages at the fairgrounds, you might see a man sitting quietly on one of those green park benches. He isn't holding a grooming brush or a microphone anymore. He is a grandfather now. And as he watches a new generation of nervous teenagers lead their cattle or steady their voices under the trees, he leans forward with a knowing smile, offering a quiet word of encouragement to a youngster who is right where he used to be. Are you ready? You're just in time to find out. The uniform may change and the generations may shift, but a heart dedicated to encouraging the next generation well that never truly retires. When you look at a massive rolling operation like the Iowa State Fair with its millions of visitors, hundreds of millions in economic impact, and four hundred and fifty acres of prime real estate, it is only natural to ask, who actually holds the keys? Which corporate conglomerate or government monolith pulls the strings behind the scenes? Well, the answer might surprise you because the Iowa State Fair doesn't belong to a billionaire, and it isn't run out of a corporate boardroom in New York or Chicago. It belongs entirely to the people of Iowa. Legally, the fairgrounds and the event itself are managed by a unique independent entity known as the Iowa State Fair Authority. It isn't a standard government agency, and it doesn't take a single dime of taxpayers' operating money to run the August Spectacular. Instead, it is governed by a dedicated board of directors. These are men and women representing the congressional districts of the state, chosen by agricultural delegates from all ninety nine counties, sitting alongside the governor, the secretary of agriculture, and the president of Iowa State University. They are the stewards of the tradition. But running the fair is only half the battle. Who protects it? Who ensures it thrives for the next generation? That is where a powerful, passionate network of advocates steps into the arena. First, there is the Blue Ribbon Foundation, established back in one of my favorite years, 1993. This nonprofit powerhouse acts as the guardian angel for the fairgrounds. While the fair authority handles the day-to-day operations, the Blue Ribbon Foundation raises the millions needed to restore, preserve, and modernize those historic brick barns and century-old pavilions. Then you have the mighty engines of the Iowa Department of Agriculture and Land Stewardship. Alongside the Iowa Tourism Office, they broadcast the glory of the fair to the entire nation, framing it as the ultimate showcase of American agriculture. And of course, the fair's greatest promotional army doesn't even wear suits. Well, sort of. It is spearheaded by the Iowa 4H and the Iowa FFA Foundation. These youth organizations don't just advocate for the fair, they populate it, bringing the brightest, hardest working young minds to Des Moines every summer to show that the future of farming is in good hands. It is a seamlessly orchestrated alliance of independent board members, charitable fundraisers, state promoters, and farming youth. If you look at the legal charters and the organizational charts, you will see a beautifully structured system of management and promotion. But the paperwork doesn't tell the whole story either. Because back in the mid-1990s, when the fair's infrastructure was crumbling and the historic buildings desperately needed a lifeline, a group of everyday citizens didn't wait for a government handout. They launched a program called Iowan of the Day and started selling personalized bricks on the grand concourse. Tens of thousands of regular folks, teachers, mechanics, retired soldiers, grandpas and grandmas, you name it, bought a brick just to have their family name etched into the pavement. The state might hold the legal title, and the foundations might balance the ledger books, but the true ownership of the Iowa State Fair can be found right there under the soles of your boots. It is owned by every Iowan who ever saved up their quarters to buy a ticket, and it is managed by a shared sacred promise to keep a beautiful piece of Americana alive. Now, every spring, long before the first corn stock breaks through the black Iowa loam, a very different kind of cultivation takes place under the Golden Dome of the State Capitol in Des Moines. It is an annual ritual, a tug of war played out in the legislative hallways. On one side of the rope stand the advocates for the Iowa State Fair and the powerhouse lobbyists representing the Iowa tourism industry. On the other side stand local superintendents and education officials, like me. The bone of contention? The school start date. For years, the tourism lobby has marched up those capital steps with a stack of economic brochures. They argue that if you let local schools open their doors in early August, you are effectively cutting off the lifeblood of the state's summer economy. They show that millions of tax dollars in revenue hang in the balance. If the kids are sitting in air conditioned classrooms instead of walking the grand concourse or working the family food stands, fare attendance plummets. Family vacations simply vanish, and the state budget takes a heavy hit. Back in twenty fifteen, then governor Terry Branstead, our hometown kid and the longest serving governor in American history, took up their mantle, pushing through a strict mandate that legally drew a line in the sand. No school could start before August 23rd, ensuring the state fair could finish its run completely uninterrupted. But do those big money claims actually compute? Or is this a case of political ledger sheet balancing at the expense of our children's classrooms? If you talk to the economist, the numbers do carry some weight. The hospitality industry relies heavily on that final August push, and thousands of Iowa teenagers make up the essential seasonal workforce that keeps the fair's gears turning. But if you look at the other side, you will see a very different kind of cost. Because by forcing a one size fits all date from Des Moines, the state legislators stripped away the creative sovereignty of local school boards, which they love to do. For generations, the principle of local control meant that the elected folks in your hometown, the neighbors who know your community best, decided when to start the calendar. When the state stepped in, local boards lost the ability, the flexibility to design calendars that fit their own needs. It meant less wiggle room for winter snow days, shorter preparation windows for advanced exams, and forced school years to drag further, sometimes into the sweltering heat of June. Unless you think e-learning days count. Local school boards argued that a date that makes sense for a tourism hub might not make any sense at all for a rural district trying to align with a community college or local university semesters. The battle has grown so fierce that just recently lawmakers have been forced to reconsider, advancing bills like Senate File 205 to try to find a floating compromise and give a little bit of that stolen freedom back to local decision makers. But you see, the politicians and the lobbyists view this entire debate as a conflict between two competing institutions, the schoolhouse versus the fairgrounds. Well, they forget that the Iowa State Fair and the local schoolhouse aren't enemies at all. In fact, they are fed by the exact same stream of constituents. The very same teenager who needs those early August days to finish grooming her 4-H steer for the livestock pavilion is the same student who steps into the classroom two weeks later, bringing with her a work ethic, a discipline, and a sense of responsibility that no textbook could ever teach. Education doesn't stop when you walk through the fair gates, and character isn't built solely behind a school desk. However, when you trample on local control, you don't just restrict a local school board, you forget that the people in those local communities are perfectly capable of balancing their own families' education and vacations and traditions without a mandate from the State House. This is a battle where the tourism lobby and the state fair have long held the winning end of the rope. By keeping classrooms dark until late August, the State House has protected a beloved tradition. But out in the communities, a quiet, modern revolution, I think, is brewing inside local education boards. Many local school boards look at the current calendar and see an outdated relic of the nineteenth century. They want the freedom to experiment with balanced calendars, what educators call a ten two or a nine three year round system. I've discussed this before on other shows. Under these models, students don't vanish for three straight months of summer. Instead, they attend school for nine or ten weeks, followed by a structured two to three week break, repeating the cycle all year long. The data supporting the shift is immense, by the way. It drastically reduces summer learning loss, that frustrating phenomenon where teachers spend the first six weeks of autumn reteaching everything the kids forgot over the break. It provides regular, predictable rest for exhausted students and burnout weary educators. And if you sit down with a blank calendar, well you quickly realize you could easily structure those short regular breaks to completely accommodate county fairs. Oh, and the state fair alike. Yet local boards are told, well, our hands are tied. The state mandate remains, heavily justified by the idea that our youth are desperately needed back on the family farm or participating in traditional agricultural youth organizations. But if you look up the actual numbers of the modern era, the justification starts to look a little different. Let's look at the record books. Today, youth engagement in agricultural programs is actually booming. But maybe not in the way you think. The Iowa FFA Association has surged to an all-time record high, eclipsing 20,500 active members across more than 280 chapters. When the organization was founded back in 1929, it had fewer than 600 members. Similarly, Iowa 4H engages tens of thousands of young people every single year. On paper, it looks like a massive farm army. But you see, if you look closer at the rosters, you'll find a fascinating shift. Fifty or a hundred years ago, a 4-H or FFA ribbon almost always meant a kid who woke up at 4 30 a.m. to milk cows on a multi-generational family homestead. Today, the Iowa 4-H Foundation and FFA organizers report that their fastest growing demographics are actually coming from suburban and urban areas. Thousands of these modern kids are now participating in leadership, STEM, and AI agricultural challenges. The reality of the labor market tells the final tale. See, a century ago, the vast majority of Iowa teenagers were intimately tied to daily farm labor from spring planting through fall harvest. I was one of them. Today, due to massive industrialization and shifting demographics, only a tiny fraction of Iowa teens are actively engaged in actual production agriculture or daily farm labor. The economy has changed. The workforce has changed. The politicians and the tourism lobbyists well, they're still using a 1950s rural label model to dictate a 2026 educational system. The real story isn't that our kids are too busy baling hay to go to school in early August, you know. Considering the weather and breakdowns and such. The real story is that our local school boards are fully capable of innovating for the modern world while still respecting our heritage. A balanced school calendar doesn't threaten the fair. It simply requires the kind of flexible local common sense that built this state in the first place. By refusing to trust local school boards with our own sovereignty, the State House isn't protecting a farm workforce. Well, they're just protecting a vacation schedule. Friends, we have journeyed together through the rolling history of the Iowa State Fair in this conversation thus far. We've watched it grow from a $323 pioneer gathering into a million-dollar visitor modern marvel. We've seen how it its heart rests resisted the pull of Washington, D.C., and how its timeless traditions bravely adapt to a changing educational world. And now all the roads of this conversation converge on a single inescapable conclusion. This Thursday, August 13th, 2026, the Grand Gates in Des Moines will swing wide open once more. And if you are looking for the absolute perfect place to finally celebrate America's 250th birthday, we need look no further than that 450 acre patch of Iowa soil. Because right there, under the mid-August sky, is the ultimate living encyclopedia of the American spirit. If you walk through the newly restored $13 million horse barns or watch the 4-H kids in the showrings, you are admiring the deepest roots of American agriculture. If you step into the cavernous varied industries building, you are witnessing the absolute cutting edge of commercial industry and human innovation. From the hands-on youth exhibitions teaching the next generation to the heavy machinery displays, which I love, it is a masterclass in continuing education. And Lord knows, we love that continuing education here at Sunnyside. And when the sun dips below the horizon and the grandstand lights flare up for the likes of Hardy, Laney Wilson, Rod Stewart, and so many others, you're experiencing world-class entertainment that feeds the soul, especially salt and pepper. It is exactly what Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein, the second, felt when the world was trying to heal the scars of World War, the second. They looked out at the rolling hills of Iowa and saw a culture worth singing about. They saw a community anchored by things that last. But you see, those travel brochures will tell you to buy a ticket, to see the exhibits, to taste the new foods, and to sit in the grandstand. And again, I think they miss the real purpose of it all, because back in the early days of the 20th century, an old Midwestern phrase caught fire across our heartland. Folks started telling each other to look for the sunny side of life. That deliberate, stubborn choice to find joy, to appreciate your neighbors, to celebrate the harvest, and to look toward tomorrow with an unshakable optimism. That is what I think the Iowa State Fair truly is. It isn't just an exposition, it is a cultural sanctuary. It is a place to pioneer back to the heartland. It is a place where a retired soldier can sit on a green park bench and pass the torch to a nervous teenager. It is a place where we remember that no matter how loud or divided the world outside may seem, the core of this nation is still remarkably good, remarkably whole, and remarkably strong. So pack up the family car. Or maybe you can find an old Chevy conversion van. Set your sights for the crossroads of I-80 and 35. Because it's time to make hay when the sun shines. Come admire the trades, marvel at the industry. For heaven's sake, eat a pork chip on a stick. Come celebrate America's quarter millennium milestone, the way it was always meant to be celebrated, surrounded by the people who build it. Step through those gates this week and the next ten days. Until school starts, of course. Lift your boots onto the grand concourse. Take note of those names underfoot and brick. And allow yourself to revel in the sunny side of life.

SPEAKER_03 48:46

When the shadows fall and doubts begin to creep, remember together we're strong never weak. Lift your neighbor up with kindness every day. Let your actions speak the words you want to say.

SPEAKER_01 49:03

The sunny side of life is a weekly production about our life on the family farmstead here in Iowa. The liberties we prize and the pursuits which make us happy. None of this is possible, of course, without Christ in our lives. For the Lord God is our stun and our shield.