I last lived in Ohio nine years ago. I grew up there, but since I started my career, I’ve only ever been back around Christmas.
A friend of mine from high school was getting married last weekend, so I decided to make a trip home during the year. Without the holidays looming, I had a lot more free time than usual to see old friends and relive the memories that defined this stalwart journalist’s formative years.
First, some observations:
1.) Everyone I went to high school with has become old.
2.) Even though I lived in Ohio for the first 18 years of my life, I had no idea you were supposed to spell “O-H-I-O” during “” target=”_blank” title=”Links active once published”>Hang on Sloopy.”
I know “Hang on Sloopy” well. I played it frequently in the high school marching band (until I was kicked out for being an instigator, that is). I’m also very much aware that people who went to Ohio State thoroughly enjoy ” target=”_blank” title=”Links active once published”>spelling out the state’s name.
I just never knew you were supposed to spell out the name during “Hang on Sloopy.” Instead, I started kicking air. It felt like the most natural move, but I quickly realized how buffoonish I looked on the dance floor with dozens of people spelling “O-H-I-O” in unison.
It surely would have ruined the wedding if not for Homer Bailey’s subpar start against the Pittsburgh Pirates taking attention away from me that night. Which brings us to…
3.) People in Ohio talk about the Cincinnati Reds. A lot. On the way to the wedding, I was listening to the radio. The host was taking phone calls about whether Billy Hamilton was outstanding or very outstanding when his show came to an end.
“Coming up after the three o’clock news,” he said. “[Some other host] will be talking Cincinnati Reds playoff scenarios. That’ll take you up to the pregame show at six, followed by first pitch at 7:05.”
This wasn’t on a sports-talk station, either. This was on Cincinnati’s equivalent to WBAP.
That’s a lot of Cincinnati Reds baseball. There would only be a fleeting mention of the Bengals, long enough for a brief celebration that the next day’s game had sold out in time to be broadcast locally.
Conversely, when I got back to Texas, I turned on the radio and heard, ahead of the first game of that pivotal Angels series last Thursday, extensive analysis of how the Cowboys were poised to beat San Diego. They, in fact, weren’t.
I felt like a man without a home. Ohio seemed so foreign to me, and yet Texas still wasn’t my homeland.
On the flight back, I was having an identity crisis when the woman sitting next to me intervened as we pulled up to the gate. She had a connecting flight to San Antonio.
“Is San Antonio on Central time like Dallas or is it Mountain?” she asked.
“Central,” I replied.
“Good. I thought I’d ask because Texas is such a big state,” she continued.
“El Paso is the only part that’s on Mountain time,” I explained. “Actually, Hudspeth County is Mountain, too, but there’s not really much out there.”
I leaned back in my seat, proud of my ability to help this poor woman become acclimated to her new surroundings. Granted, she stopped looking at me and started typing on her phone during my explanatory remarks about Hudspeth County, but I assume that was just so she could excitedly pass along to her friends her newfound knowledge of west Texas geography.
Maybe I’m not a native Texan, but maybe I have become some sort of ambassador. Perhaps my unique perspective can help others adjust to life in Texas. After all, isn’t that what this website is all about?
Tomorrow, I’m going to go out and get a sash.
Alan Scaia
