By Merlin Lessler —<\/p>\n
I had a conversation in Owego-speak the other day. It\u2019s a language I\u2019ll never be fluent in. It\u2019s spoken by native Owegoites. They give you the genetic history of anybody whose name comes into the conversation.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, there\u2019s Tom Smith,\u201d the Owegoite declares. \u201cWho\u2019s he?\u201d you naively ask. \u201cYou know,\u201d they respond, in perfect Owego-speak, \u201chis sister\u2019s husband\u2019s first wife is the one who set fire to the house next to the Great American.\u201d<\/p>\n
Now you\u2019re confused. \u201cWhere\u2019s the Great American?\u201d you ask, in a puzzled voice. \u201cIt\u2019s where the CVS is now,\u201d they explain.<\/p>\n
You start to get a little irritated. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you say, next to CVS?\u201d<\/p>\n
But you\u2019ve been down this road before. You chide yourself for not keeping your mouth shut. You know you\u2019ve just kicked off a whole new round of Owego-speak. They pick up your fumble and take off down the field, \u201cBecause it wasn\u2019t the CVS when she lived there, DUH!\u201d<\/p>\n
They go on and on, entwining more local names into the discourse, ending with, \u201cAnd it doesn\u2019t matter anyhow because she now lives on Front Street.\u201d You do it again; you ask another open-ended question, \u201cWhere on Front Street?\u201d<\/p>\n
They reply in Owego-speak, \u201cAcross the street from the Bassett House. I lived in the Bassett house when I first moved to Owego.\u201d<\/p>\n
“Then I moved to the Ross\u2013 Farrington\u2013 Loring- Rutherford house,\u201d depending on who you are talking to. You never live in your own house in Owego-speak.<\/p>\n
People who converse in this kind of language aren\u2019t unique to Owego. A version of it is spoken in small towns across America. I\u2019m a foreigner in Owego; I don\u2019t really belong, but I\u2019m taking \u201cOSL\u201d lessons (Owego-speak as a second language). Our friend Nancy is teaching me. She knows how everybody is connected.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve lived here since 1986, but I don\u2019t know anything, according to Nancy. I\u2019m forever asking her, \u201cWho\u2019s that guy?\u201d She stops what she\u2019s doing and patiently outlines his family tree, his residence history, his work history, and marital connections. It\u2019s hard to get a clear picture, especially if he\u2019s been married a few times, had kids with each wife, and they all have extensive family connections in Owego.<\/p>\n
By the time Nancy gets done connecting the dots, I\u2019ve forgotten who we were talking about. I\u2019m starting to see some light at the end of the tunnel, though. I\u2019m slowly learning the Owego dialect, but it\u2019s taking a toll on Nancy. She\u2019s picking up some bad traits from spending time with me.<\/p>\n
For one thing, her memory is starting to malfunction. Every once in a while, the name of the \u201cconnection\u201d she is searching for won\u2019t 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, \u201cOh, 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\u2019s-his-name owned that, what-do-you-call-it gift shop next to the Barleycorn.<\/p>\n
Everyone stares at her with a blank face, having no idea who she\u2019s talking about. She gives up and lets out a low growl. She\u2019ll eventually be forced to retire from her teaching position. You can\u2019t teach Owego-speak when your vocabulary is limited to \u201cwhat\u2019s-his-name\u201d and \u201cyou-know-who.\u201d<\/p>\n