The Old Coot Takes A Language Lesson

By Merlin Lessler —

I had a conversation in Owego-speak the other day. It’s a language I’ll never be fluent in. It’s spoken by native Owegoites. They give you the genetic history of anybody whose name comes into the conversation.

“Oh, there’s Tom Smith,” the Owegoite declares. “Who’s he?” you naively ask. “You know,” they respond, in perfect Owego-speak, “his sister’s husband’s first wife is the one who set fire to the house next to the Great American.”

Now you’re confused. “Where’s the Great American?” you ask, in a puzzled voice. “It’s where the CVS is now,” they explain.

You start to get a little irritated. “Why didn’t you say, next to CVS?”

But you’ve been down this road before. You chide yourself for not keeping your mouth shut. You know you’ve just kicked off a whole new round of Owego-speak. They pick up your fumble and take off down the field, “Because it wasn’t the CVS when she lived there, DUH!”

They go on and on, entwining more local names into the discourse, ending with, “And it doesn’t matter anyhow because she now lives on Front Street.” You do it again; you ask another open-ended question, “Where on Front Street?”

They reply in Owego-speak, “Across the street from the Bassett House. I lived in the Bassett house when I first moved to Owego.”

“Then I moved to the Ross– Farrington– Loring- Rutherford house,” depending on who you are talking to. You never live in your own house in Owego-speak.

People who converse in this kind of language aren’t unique to Owego. A version of it is spoken in small towns across America. I’m a foreigner in Owego; I don’t really belong, but I’m taking “OSL” lessons (Owego-speak as a second language). Our friend Nancy is teaching me. She knows how everybody is connected.

I’ve lived here since 1986, but I don’t know anything, according to Nancy. I’m forever asking her, “Who’s that guy?” She stops what she’s doing and patiently outlines his family tree, his residence history, his work history, and marital connections. It’s hard to get a clear picture, especially if he’s been married a few times, had kids with each wife, and they all have extensive family connections in Owego.

By the time Nancy gets done connecting the dots, I’ve forgotten who we were talking about. I’m starting to see some light at the end of the tunnel, though. I’m slowly learning the Owego dialect, but it’s taking a toll on Nancy. She’s picking up some bad traits from spending time with me.

For one thing, her memory is starting to malfunction. Every once in a while, the name of the “connection” she is searching for won’t come to her. She starts to sputter when this happens. It stops her dead in her tracks. She makes a futile attempt to get anybody within earshot to help her with the name, “Oh, you know who I mean. His brother is the one who threw the pumpkin at that guy in the Strawberry Festival parade, back when what’s-his-name owned that, what-do-you-call-it gift shop next to the Barleycorn.

Everyone stares at her with a blank face, having no idea who she’s talking about. She gives up and lets out a low growl. She’ll eventually be forced to retire from her teaching position. You can’t teach Owego-speak when your vocabulary is limited to “what’s-his-name” and “you-know-who.”

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