My father's gambling career

I know, Father's Day was several days ago. But I miss my dad every day, not just on Father's Day. Besides, I had no working computer last weekend, so I'm writing this now.

Last week, Governor Kasich announced the details of the revenue sharing agreement (read: shakedown ) between the state and Dan Gilbert, et. al., so construction of Ohio's casinos can now go forward. That brought to mind one of my favorite Dad stories.

We Snows are not a gambling clan. No particular reason - it just doesn't seem to be something we do. One notable exception is the time my father, waiting for my mom and my younger brother to come out of a store somewhere in Nevada, dropped a nickel in a sidewalk slot machine. He pulled the lever and out poured $20 in nickels. Being Dad, he didn't play the machine again, and walked away $19.95 to the good.

I've known about this for years. The story is embedded in the family canon. But not until he was 85 years old did my dad reveal to me the full extent of his sordid past.

Once, while in college, Dad admitted to me, he went to the races.  My father, Charles D. Snow, went to the track!  It's hard to picture, but while there he bet $2 on a horse to show. (Someone told me that betting on a horse to show is the most conservative thing you can do, horse-betting-wise. That would be as characteristic of Dad as going to the track was not.)

"So," I asked, "did your horse win?"

"No," said Dad. "He didn't win." Of course there was more to the story and, of course, if I wanted to hear it, I had to ask.

"Well, what happened?"

"My horse died," he said. "Dropped dead in the back stretch. They tied some rope around him and pulled him away with a tractor."

"The horse died . . . "

"Yep," Dad answered. "My horse died."

I waited. Finally I said, "O.K., Dad. I give. What's the rest of it?"

He smiled his Dad smile, already amused by what he was about to tell me. "The horse's name, "he said, pausing for emphasis, "was Charlie's Choice."

I've yet to go to a racetrack, but I think I should sometime. When I do, I'll look for a horse with Charles, Charlie or Chuck in its name and bet the smallest permissible amount on that horse to show. Whether my horse wins or not, I'll think of my dad. And hope the poor horse doesn't have to be hauled off by a tractor.

A new state slogan for Ohio

          I live in Ohio, the southern-most northern state, the northern edge of the Appalachians, the eastern-most midwestern state and the western reach of the east, a state that is everywhere and nowhere all at once.   

Specifically, I live in the north-east corner of Ohio, a.k.a. the Western Reserve. We were once a branch office of Connecticut. Scattered about our region are white-spired churches and village greens that would make you swear you’re in New England.

          But you’re not. You’re in Ohio, “the heart of it all.” Somebody told me that’s no longer our state slogan. I hadn’t heard, but if we need a new one, I’m suggesting, “Ohio: a mostly disaster-free zone.”

We get winds high enough to knock down some trees and take the power out for a bit, but we never have hurricanes. No tsunamis, either, and rarely a tornado like the one that chewed up and spit out Joplin, Missouri. Downstate may get a twister from time to time but this definitely isn’t Kansas, Toto.

 Hundreds of acres along the Mississippi were flooded out this spring. Yes, we had some high water and a few folks ended up with mud in their basements – no fun, I’ll admit - but we’ve yet to lose a whole town.

A Lake Erie wind farm may be in our future but as far as I know, there’s no oil to be drilled or spilled, just salt being quietly mined far beneath the water.

California has wildfires and mudslides, neither of which plague beautiful Ohio. We get a baby tremor now and again, but a full-grown Big Daddy earthquake could drop Los Angeles into the ocean at any moment. (This would not necessarily be all bad; I’ve been to Los Angeles.)

Right this minute, huge wildfires are burning in eastern Arizona. Earlier this spring, wildfire took as many as 40 homes around Fort Davis, Texas. That’s a lot for grief for a community of 1050 souls in a county of just 2200 residents.

No hurricanes, no mudslides. No tsunamis or wildfires. No major flooding, no oil spills. Rarely a big tornado and almost never an earthquake. So, how’s this for a state slogan? “Ohio: nothing much happens here, and that’s a good thing.”

Double-barreled budget balancing

This spring I’ve spent more time on our state’s roadways than is usual for me. It seems I have driven here, there, everywhere. Several times. In the rain. Other than wearing out a set of windshield wiper blades, my journeys have been uneventful. As I traveled I noted that the distinctive features of Ohio motoring remain as in past years: pot holes, of course, and slow-downs due to lane closures, marked by long lines of orange barrels.

Sometimes there are signs announcing ‘Road Work Ahead’ but often not. And when there are such signs, it’s likely to be false advertising. Again and again, I encountered lane closures with long, long lines of orange barrels but no road work (or road workers) to be seen.

This puzzled me. Why would all these orange barrels be arranged single file on our highways if not to mark construction zones? I pondered, but remained clueless. Then, driving back from Kent one afternoon, it hit me: these barrel queues are evidence of not one but two of Governor Kasich’s brilliant budget balancing measures!

It’s elegantly simple. Put all the orange barrels out on the roads, and you can sell off whatever facilities normally house the barrels when they’re not in use. (Cha-ching!)

Too, given the sheer number of orange barrels out there, it’s hard to believe that the impoverished State of Ohio actually owns them all. I’ll bet we clever Buckeyes are picking up a little extra revenue by providing orange barrel accommodations for someplace that has actually repaired its roads and is done with them for the year: Ontario, maybe (cha-ching, again!).

Those lane closures with their miles of orderly orange barrels? Those aren’t construction zones - they’re storage areas. Way to go, John!