The Oklahoma City Fairgrounds buzzed with energy as I stepped into the show barns, my 1974 Mamiya RB67 Pro-S slung over my shoulder. It’s a beast of a camera—solid, mechanical, and brimming with character—just the kind of tool I love for capturing portraits on film. I’d been dreaming about this day for weeks, the Oklahoma Youth Spring Livestock Show, a perfect chance to wander among the kids and families prepping their animals, their faces full of focus and pride. There’s something special about pointing an old film camera at these scenes, loading up some Kodak Tri-X, and letting the grainy black-and-white magic unfold. I’d used the Mamiya just a few days earlier without a hitch, so I was brimming with excitement to shoot the chaos and excitement of the barns on this crisp March day in 2025.
The Oklahoma Youth Spring Livestock Show—better known today as the Oklahoma Youth Expo (OYE)—has deep roots. It kicked off back in the 1920s, born from a simple idea: give rural kids a chance to showcase the livestock they’d raised and connect agriculture communities across the state. By 1934, during the Dust Bowl’s grip, it had already taken hold as a lifeline for youth in 4-H and Future Farmers of America (FFA). A story from The Daily Oklahoman that year noted how these kids, showing off their cattle and hogs, had bank credit when their parents didn’t—a testament to their grit. Over the decades, it ballooned from a modest gathering into what’s now billed as the world’s largest junior livestock show, drawing thousands of exhibitors from all 77 Oklahoma counties to the OKC Fairgrounds every March. By 2025, it’s a juggernaut—$25 million in economic impact, millions in prizes and scholarships, and a proving ground for the next generation of agriculturalists.
For the kids here, this isn’t just a weekend gig. It’s the culmination of a year’s labor—raising pigs, goats, sheep, and steers from wee ones into show-ring contenders. They learn the ropes early, some as young as eight in 4-H or later in FFA, guided by parents, ag teachers, and their own stubborn resolve. Feeding at dawn, mucking stalls, grooming coats to a sheen—it’s a masterclass in responsibility and discipline. Over the years I’ve watched kids wrestle a skittish goat into a bath or clip a steer’s hair with surgical precision, skills honed over months. The hard work isn’t just physical; it’s emotional, too—naming an animal you’ll later sell or butcher, balancing pride with pragmatism. For rural communities, this show is everything: a tradition, a paycheck, a shot at college funds, and a loud declaration that agriculture’s future is in good hands.
I’d planned to capture all this with my Mamiya, a camera that was cutting-edge when I was a kid showing hogs and cattle in FFA from 1974 to 1978. Back then, it was a marvel—medium format, leaf shutter, all manual. I’d loaded it with Tri-X, set my ISO to 400, and started framing shots: a girl brushing her lamb, a boy adjusting his steer’s halter, dust swirling in the barn light. But fate had other plans. After a few frames, the mirror refused to drop back down. I cocked the shutter, fired again—nothing. I popped off the film back, reattached it, checked the lens mount. No dice. A 51-year-old camera, I reminded myself, comes with quirks. I dug out my phone, scouring forums for fixes—mirror lockup, maybe? Battery contacts? Can’t be that. It doesn’t have a battery. I fiddled for what felt like hours, sweat beading despite the cool air. I managed a handful of shots, but my frustration threw me off—shutter speeds misjudged, exposures dim and muddy. The Mamiya was fighting me, and I was losing the battle.
Finally, I’d had it. I trudged back to my Jeep, dumped the Mamiya on the passenger seat, and grabbed my Nikon Zf with its sleek 40mm f/2 lens. I flipped it to black-and-white mode—Tri-X vibes without the hassle—and suddenly, the day opened up. For the next two hours, I roamed the barns, free from mechanical gremlins. I caught a kid leaning on a feed sack while playing with his phone, a young girl walking her pig off to give it a bath. The Nikon melted away in my hands; I wasn’t tweaking settings or cursing gears—I was just there, soaking in the stories. Don’t get me wrong—I love the film process, the anticipation of developing a roll, the tactile joy of cranking the film winder. But sometimes, I’d rather ditch the fiddle and focus on what’s in front of me. Modern cameras let me do that, turning the tool into an extension of my eye instead of a puzzle to solve.
As I snapped away, nostalgia hit hard. I was one of these kids once, back in ’76, hauling my own animals to this exact same event, learning life through calloused hands and early mornings. My Mamiya was brand-new then, a pro’s dream, while I was a lanky FFA member dreaming of a blue ribbon. Now, here I was, full circle, chasing the same spirit through a lens. The kids today have fancier gear and bigger stakes, but the heart’s the same—hard work, hope, and a love for the animals they raise. My underexposed Tri-X shots might not make the cut, but the Nikon’s frames? They’ll tell the tale just fine. And maybe next year, I’ll give the Mamiya another shot—or maybe I’ll stick with what works and let the story take the lead.
