A great day for the HCS district
By
Rory Ryan-hcpress@cinci.rr.com
When Ohio Gov. Ted Strickland told the sizable crowd at the new Hillsboro High School and Middle School Sunday that he “knew how to prime the pump,” I couldn’t help but smile.
Like the governor, I knew how to prime the pump, too. It was one of my many childhood tasks, growing up on our small farm in Fairfax. And like the governor, I knew how to keep a fire going in our wood- and coal-burning kitchen stove.
Ted Strickland and I will, on matters political, disagree more often than we will agree. That being said, I did come to the governor’s defense earlier this year on a few issues because I didn’t like the “piling on” tactics against him. And after his speech Sunday at the dedication of the new Hillsboro school campus, Gov. Strickland paused for a few moments to wish The Highland County Press well, as he moved through the long line of official greeters.
That was a very nice – and much appreciated – gesture from the Ohio governor. It will not be forgotten.
And it was also nice that The Highland County Press was the very first medium to announce the governor’s visit and again the first medium to report on it. We posted the dedication ceremony story approximately one hour after the event’s conclusion. Not bad for a weekly newspaper. Of course, as our online genius, Angie Matticks, keeps telling me: We are not a weekly newspaper. We have a great Web site, www.highlandcountypress.com, which is updated multiple times each day. Please spread the word.
_____________________________________
Approximately a decade ago, I wrote a newspaper editorial encouraging voters to pass a levy for the new Hillsboro City Schools campus. Much to my surprise, retired Hillsboro bank executive Bob Hodson read that editorial during a levy rally at Southern State Community College. As we know, voters and taxpayers did step up for the students in the Hillsboro school district.
To echo the sentiments of the school dedication ceremony, thank you. As Gov. Strickland said, you cared enough to vote to raise your own taxes. That doesn’t happen very often.
_____________________________________
Never dare me to do
something. Or anything. Please. I seem to have arrived in this earthly world with a predisposed genetic malfunction that makes me very susceptible to being dared. Or double-dared. (I am most susceptible to being triple-dog dared.)
For some reason, I also seem to attract a number of friends who are equally unable to resist the challenge of a dare. For example, saying something to my friends like “I dare you to swallow a sword,” or “I dare you to jump off the roof just so you can see if you can fly,” will, more often than not, get the desired results.
Being that the fall season is upon us, I’ll admit, the one seasonal chore I most despise is cleaning our gutters. I’ve been cleaning the same gutters annually for more than a quarter of a century.
We live, slightly off-center, in the middle of a mostly wooded 53 acres. Our insular house is surrounded by a thick woods, which provides great insulation and isolation. But our woods have trees. Lots of them. Mostly oaks, poplars, cedars, and pines. And those trees (not the pines or cedars) have leaves. Lots of leaves. They call this season “fall” for a good reason.
Which brings us back to my gutter-cleaning experiences. As a young man, i.e., prior to crossing that cursed 40-something threshold, I did not mind bringing out the ladder, climbing up to the roof, and removing leaves, twigs and assorted debris from our gutters. It was, simply, one of those mandatory seasonal tasks of the manly variety. And since I was the man, the task fell on my shoulders. (Or knees.)
For the past couple of years, however, I’m having trouble climbing on that roof. Our house, like many, has this one higher side corner, from which you really do not want to fall. Or jump, just to see if you can fly. (You can’t.) Thus far, I have not succumbed to the adrenalin-driven urge to attempt powerless flight from our rooftop. But please do not dare me.
Years ago, I rode a mechanical bull at Bobby Mackey’s on a dare. I think they called the bull El Toro. Or maybe it was El Diablo. Larry Taylor and I rode that dang mechanical contraption in northern Kentucky on the same night in 1982 only because each of us dared the other. Larry was actually a pretty good rider. As for me, I was tossed to the floor on my first, second, third and fourth attempts. Back then, there was a popular TV show called “Eight is Enough.” I didn’t need to find out. Four rides were four too many.
And for the next 27 years, I avoided bull-riding. Both the mechanical kind and the four-legged variety. Granted, my family does have more than its share of bull riders. My dad’s cousin, Wade, was a good one; and my mother once gave it a shot with a 1,600-pound Simmental holstein in the middle of Hillsboro. But that’s another story.
Some of my so-called friends had heard of my former equine and bovine prowess and have dared me to ride a certain electrified version of an angry angus bull. Note to all men over 40: Do not try this. You do not have to prove anything. I dare you. Just say no.
To take the saddle off this already long-winded column, this past Saturday I was taking a few photos at the Southern Ohio Draft Horse show when Lynn Neal looked my way and asked: “Rory, do you even know anything about horses?”
I know how to fall off. I’ve got that part down pretty good.
Rory Ryan is publisher and editor of The Highland County Press.[[In-content Ad]]
Like the governor, I knew how to prime the pump, too. It was one of my many childhood tasks, growing up on our small farm in Fairfax. And like the governor, I knew how to keep a fire going in our wood- and coal-burning kitchen stove.
Ted Strickland and I will, on matters political, disagree more often than we will agree. That being said, I did come to the governor’s defense earlier this year on a few issues because I didn’t like the “piling on” tactics against him. And after his speech Sunday at the dedication of the new Hillsboro school campus, Gov. Strickland paused for a few moments to wish The Highland County Press well, as he moved through the long line of official greeters.
That was a very nice – and much appreciated – gesture from the Ohio governor. It will not be forgotten.
And it was also nice that The Highland County Press was the very first medium to announce the governor’s visit and again the first medium to report on it. We posted the dedication ceremony story approximately one hour after the event’s conclusion. Not bad for a weekly newspaper. Of course, as our online genius, Angie Matticks, keeps telling me: We are not a weekly newspaper. We have a great Web site, www.highlandcountypress.com, which is updated multiple times each day. Please spread the word.
_____________________________________
Approximately a decade ago, I wrote a newspaper editorial encouraging voters to pass a levy for the new Hillsboro City Schools campus. Much to my surprise, retired Hillsboro bank executive Bob Hodson read that editorial during a levy rally at Southern State Community College. As we know, voters and taxpayers did step up for the students in the Hillsboro school district.
To echo the sentiments of the school dedication ceremony, thank you. As Gov. Strickland said, you cared enough to vote to raise your own taxes. That doesn’t happen very often.
_____________________________________
Never dare me to do
something. Or anything. Please. I seem to have arrived in this earthly world with a predisposed genetic malfunction that makes me very susceptible to being dared. Or double-dared. (I am most susceptible to being triple-dog dared.)
For some reason, I also seem to attract a number of friends who are equally unable to resist the challenge of a dare. For example, saying something to my friends like “I dare you to swallow a sword,” or “I dare you to jump off the roof just so you can see if you can fly,” will, more often than not, get the desired results.
Being that the fall season is upon us, I’ll admit, the one seasonal chore I most despise is cleaning our gutters. I’ve been cleaning the same gutters annually for more than a quarter of a century.
We live, slightly off-center, in the middle of a mostly wooded 53 acres. Our insular house is surrounded by a thick woods, which provides great insulation and isolation. But our woods have trees. Lots of them. Mostly oaks, poplars, cedars, and pines. And those trees (not the pines or cedars) have leaves. Lots of leaves. They call this season “fall” for a good reason.
Which brings us back to my gutter-cleaning experiences. As a young man, i.e., prior to crossing that cursed 40-something threshold, I did not mind bringing out the ladder, climbing up to the roof, and removing leaves, twigs and assorted debris from our gutters. It was, simply, one of those mandatory seasonal tasks of the manly variety. And since I was the man, the task fell on my shoulders. (Or knees.)
For the past couple of years, however, I’m having trouble climbing on that roof. Our house, like many, has this one higher side corner, from which you really do not want to fall. Or jump, just to see if you can fly. (You can’t.) Thus far, I have not succumbed to the adrenalin-driven urge to attempt powerless flight from our rooftop. But please do not dare me.
Years ago, I rode a mechanical bull at Bobby Mackey’s on a dare. I think they called the bull El Toro. Or maybe it was El Diablo. Larry Taylor and I rode that dang mechanical contraption in northern Kentucky on the same night in 1982 only because each of us dared the other. Larry was actually a pretty good rider. As for me, I was tossed to the floor on my first, second, third and fourth attempts. Back then, there was a popular TV show called “Eight is Enough.” I didn’t need to find out. Four rides were four too many.
And for the next 27 years, I avoided bull-riding. Both the mechanical kind and the four-legged variety. Granted, my family does have more than its share of bull riders. My dad’s cousin, Wade, was a good one; and my mother once gave it a shot with a 1,600-pound Simmental holstein in the middle of Hillsboro. But that’s another story.
Some of my so-called friends had heard of my former equine and bovine prowess and have dared me to ride a certain electrified version of an angry angus bull. Note to all men over 40: Do not try this. You do not have to prove anything. I dare you. Just say no.
To take the saddle off this already long-winded column, this past Saturday I was taking a few photos at the Southern Ohio Draft Horse show when Lynn Neal looked my way and asked: “Rory, do you even know anything about horses?”
I know how to fall off. I’ve got that part down pretty good.
Rory Ryan is publisher and editor of The Highland County Press.[[In-content Ad]]