Timeless Appeal of Almanacs

Farmer’s almanacs are old as dirt. Technically, soil. Ideally, nutrient-rich soil, the kind that yields robust crops because farmers studied the long-range weather forecasts in their almanacs. It’s a circle of life thing, agriculturally speaking.

But here’s the rub. No rational person, including farmers, should trust in the accuracy of the meteorological forecasts published yearly in the two national almanacs — the Old Farmer’s Almanac (it’s been around since 1792) and the similarly named Farmers’ Almanac (since 1818). These guides, unlikely survivors in the brutal world of publishing, are anything but transparent about their meteorological methodology. Each maintains its secrets in much the way Coca-­Cola guards its formula. And yet there are people who schedule weddings on the basis of what these almanacs predict about future skies. No, you should not do that. At this point, the almanacs are basically marginal, if delightful, cultural phenomena — an admixture of advice and guidance aimed chiefly at rural Americans. Most of their content is available elsewhere. And yet I’m glad they’re still around. The Old Farmer’s, with its iconic yellow cover, has grown slick and handsome over time, while its comparatively youthful cousin, printed on pulp stock, hews closer to its primitive roots. They are different from one another, yet also similar.

What they share is a throwback, homespun sensibility. It’s what makes them fun to flip through, even if the way-long-range weather bits are essentially no more reliable than what you might tease out of uncle Jeremiah. Jeremiah may be eccentric, but he’s likable. Tim Goodwin, associate editor of the Old Farmer’s, told me that the then-editor dared to ditch the forecasts in the 1938 edition. Oops. “There was an outcry. Things did not go well for him.”

Obviously, the alma­nacs aren’t intended exclusively for those who grow our corn and rutabagas. Not anymore. Aside from the forecasts, which earn them a blizzard of publicity every fall when the new editions drop, they are chockablock with sections about cooking, gardening, star-gazing, pets, wisdom, and, specifically in the Old Farmer’s, tales of adventure. My favorite department, which runs in the more free-wheeling Farmers’ Almanac, is labeled “Best Days.” Here you will find science-defying recommendations about precision-­timing various life events. The exact days of the year during which you’re advised to potty-train your children, for example. (How so? Moon/zodiac positions.)

All you need do is look at the ads to get a sense of the almanacs’ target demographic. They’re keen for burials at sea. Also, bladder control and erection issues appear to be of interest. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) In other words, these guides aren’t for the kiddos. Goodwin described his audience to me as “farmers in the Midwest, retired folks down South.” Sure, but his readers can in fact be found everywhere across the country. They are intensely devoted to the ephemera packed into these almanacs; some collect them. Not surprisingly, the print editions have lost some sales in recent decades. But Goodwin says his book, which is the larger of the two competitors, currently sits at 2.5 million circulation, which, honestly, is hugely impressive.

Finally, you cannot ignore this one iconic feature seen in both almanacs: the punch hole in the upper-left corner. “It was originally so you could hang it in your outhouse,” Sandi Duncan, editor of the Farmers’ Almanac, told me, laughing. “Or, if you ran out of toilet paper … but I don’t like to point that out.”

In the November/December issue, Cable Neuhaus wrote about the popularity of magic acts.

This article is featured in the January/February 2025 issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Subscribe to the magazine for more art, inspiring stories, fiction, humor, and features from our archives.