My grandfather introduced me to the Cardiff Giant when I was about 10 — too young to comprehend the hullabaloo that a petrified giant had ignited a century earlier. When I met him, the giant was on permanent display at the National Farmer’s Museum in Cooperstown, N.Y., up the street from the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum.

“America’s Greatest Hoax” fascinated the post-Civil War world at the height of the evolution versus creation debate — was this petrified proof of giants roaming the earth, as written in the Old Testament book of Genesis; or, was it sculpted evidence of an ancient race that once inhabited the New World?

It turned out to be neither. A tobacco farmer named George Hull had secretly commissioned the creation of the giant, had it buried, then “discovered” it while digging a well on a friend’s farm in Cardiff, N.Y., in October 1869.

Grandpa explained how Hull got the idea for his hoax after arguing with a Methodist minister about whether or not to take the Bible literally — even the part about giants. It cost Hull a few thousand dollars, which he intended to recoup by putting the giant on exhibit, charging 50 cents admission. His investment returned a handsome profit when he sold the giant for $30,000 to show organizers with a bigger venue.

Legendary showman P.T. Barnum offered the new owners double that amount to lease the giant for three months. They refused, so Barnum had a full-size replica made out of plaster. The giant’s owners promptly sued Barnum, but the lawsuit ended badly. Experts convinced the court to determine the Cardiff Giant was a fake — and the judge ruled Barnum couldn’t be held liable for making a fake of a fake.

“It was George Hull who said, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute,’ not P.T. Barnum,” Grandpa told me. “Everybody thinks Barnum said that. But he never did.”

Grandpa would have gotten a kick out of my friend Kristen Michelle Wilson. Kristen was the lead singer for a Florida rock band last year when she auditioned for one of the coolest gigs in existence — ringmaster for the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus.

In January, Kristen became the 39th ringmaster of the 146-year-old Greatest Show on Earth. She’s the first female to hold the job.

Now she’ll be remembered as the last ringmaster. The coolest gig no longer exists. The circus is shutting down after a run of nearly a century and a half. Kristen presided over the Red Unit (Circus Xtreme)’s final performances this past weekend in Providence, Rhode Island. Ringling Bros.’ other division, Out of This World, has a final performance May 21 in New York.

The circus is folding under pressures never anticipated by P.T. Barnum. Competing entertainment options, both live and animated, have splintered the market, making it difficult to sustain a high-priced traveling variety show, while a growing awareness of animal rights issues has pressured circuses to cease large animal attractions like big cats and elephants.

“Ringling Bros. ticket sales have been declining, but following the transition of the elephants off the road, we saw an even more dramatic drop,” said Kenneth Feld, CEO of the circus’ production company. “This, coupled with high operating costs, made the circus an unsustainable business.”

When the circus is gone, something magical about our culture and heritage will have gone with it. It dims my memory of Grandpa and his practical wisdom.

On Monday, Kristen posted a Facebook video of the entire circus cast gathering to pose for a photo between performances. The smiles were universal, unwavering and infectious — what you’d expect from circus performers.

“How are you not crying your eyes out?” I asked her.

“During the shows and PR appearances I just toughen my emotions and do my job,” Kristen replied. “But don’t worry, cry I did. Before and after. And in between. And randomly today. And probably sporadically throughout the rest of my life.”

Along with the rest of us.

Tom Harrison writes editorials for the Butler Eagle.