Some tall tales are uniquely Cincinnati.
Be they truth, fiction or merely wishful thinking, the Queen City overflows with stories that have been passed around so many times at the lunch table they’ve got chili stains on ’em.Well, it’s about time someone pinned down these rumors. Or, at the least, had some fun while perpetuating them. That’s our job. It’s what we do.
From the gypsies who convene at Spring Grove each summer to the submarines that prowl the Ohio River, these are the urban legends that define us — all classic Cincinnati fables, every one. Some, as it turns out, even have a grain of truth.
Let the rumor mill commence:
That the gypsies secretly convene at Spring Grove Cemetery.
As this tale goes — and everyone from docents at the Cincinnati Historical Society to librarians at the downtown Public Library confirm they’ve heard it often — gypsies from all over the country gather at Spring Grove each Memorial Day for a special tribal celebration. According to one version, the gathering began after Spring Grove allowed one of the gypsy kings, who happened to be traveling through Cincinnati in the 1940s when he died, to be buried for free.
“Heavens, I haven’t heard that one,” said the Spring Grove receptionist we talked to.
“But if anybody knows, it would be Jackie DeWitt.”
DeWitt didn’t call us back, leaving us to wonder if maybe, just maybe, the gypsies do make a very sacred and very secret pilgrimage to the posh cemetery.
Finally, we asked Janice Forte to survey her colleagues at the Cincinnati Historical Society, and she returned with this consensus: The gypsies do indeed visit each Memorial Day, but it’s to bury their dead from the previous year in one single ceremony.
“The bodies are sent to a local funeral home all through the year, which holds them until Memorial Day,” says Forte. “Then the gypsies come to Cincinnati, all driving the same kind of car. It used to be Cadillacs, but now it’s a particular brand of SUV.”
If the caravan of identical SUVs doesn’t tip you off, look for the mourners all carting lavish orchid arrangements. Gypsy headstones, adds Forte, are identifiable by the thistle engraved on red granite.
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That a freight train is buried in Westwood.
Few who live around here haven’t heard whispers about a massive, brand-new freight engine sealed somewhere inside a Westwood hillside. The reason for the burial varies with the storyteller, but the legend persists.
We started with Westwood Town Hall, where one town clerk responded, “Gee, I don’t know about that one. We have a ghost, though. Have you heard about the Town Hall ghost?”
We moved on to the president of the Westwood Civic Association, Mark Menges, who said, “Yes, I’ve heard that, too. There was a tunnel apparently built, a tunnel started by one of the railroad companies, at the crest of a hill overlooking the valley.”
What reason the company would have for sealing a perfectly good diesel engine inside the hill, Menges couldn’t answer.
Another Westwood resident, who asked to remain anonymous, said, “The version I always heard was that the engine was owned by Mr. Gamble (of Procter & Gamble Co.), and it pulled his private passenger train. One day, he just gave the order to seal it up inside a tunnel, even though it was new and pristine. No explanation.”
Hmmm. Whatever the actual origins of this legend, next time you’re playing with a metal detector in Westwood and it goes haywire, start digging.
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That there’s a secret pact between Cincinnati Catholics and coaches.
You might have heard this one: That there’s some kind of secret agreement between the Cincinnati Archdiocese and the local public school systems. Well, yes and no, according to records at the Cincinnati Historical Society.
Wonder why your public school never seems to schedule practices, games or extracurricular activities on a Wednesday night? It’s part of an unwritten “Dark Wednesday” agreement with the local Catholic church. The decades-old gentlemen’s agreement assures that high school students are free to attend services and church youth groups.
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That there’s a circus elephant buried in (take your pick of neighborhood town squares).
For years, folks have talked about the two-ton elephant buried in Sayler Park (and the East End, and Mariemont, depending on the teller of the tale). Word was, the Big Guy was part of a traveling circus that rolled through town back in the 1950s. As they unloaded ol’ Dumbo from the train car, he dropped dead in his tracks of a heart attack. (They say Cincinnati can do that to a visitor, though we’re generally tougher on donkeys than elephants.)
Anyhow, as the story goes, non-plussed circus workers buried the huge creature right where he fell. What were they gonna do? Cart an elephant carcass with them all over the country?
Don Walker from the Cincinnati Historical Society’s Heritage Program had a different take on this tale: “The elephant is actually buried out in Mariemont, according to what we have on file in the library. The story there is that this circus used to winter in Mariemont, and they kept the elephants on a farm out there.”
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That cabbies won’t pick up fares in Newport.
We’ve heard varying versions of this one, usually having something to do with a cab driver murdered in Newport and a perpetual “strike” by nervous Cincinnati cabbies ever since. A call to a couple of local cab companies debunked the murder tale and offered a more credible explanation for the taxi drivers’ reputation of having a collective aversion to the south side of Cincinnati: Apparently, it’s the law.
“Very few cabs are licensed to pick up passengers in both states,” relates one dispatcher. “So once a taxi driver crosses the river to deposit a passenger, he can’t legally pick up a new fare in the other state — much as he’d like to.”
Sorta explains why that taxi doesn’t slow down as you’re wildly waving it down outside the Southgate House.
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That it’s bad luck to pass a hearse.
Preposterous? Seems we take our funerals seriously ’round these parts. So seriously, in fact, that according to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles crossing a funeral procession’s path, or even passing it in the same direction, will cost you an $80 ticket plus a two-point moving violation in Ohio. In Kentucky, it’s even worse: It’s a misdemeanor punishable by 90 days in jail. Talk about your bad luck.
A procession is defined as two or more vehicles accompanying the hearse, driving in daytime with headlamps on. The cars have absolute right of way, except if they encounter emergency vehicles.
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That there’s a private bank open just for Fat Cats every day of the year.
A few calls to the Federal Reserve and local banks put a factual face on this piece of fiction. Yes, there is one single bank in Greater Cincinnati that’s open for business every day of the year. But this bank, anybody can use.
It’s the Fifth Third Banking Center at the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport. Located inside Concourse B, Terminal 3, it’s open daily 7:30 a.m.-8 p.m., federal holidays notwithstanding. Tellers can change currency from 60 different countries or just cash a check if that’s all you need.
The 365-day bank “is not just unique in Cincinnati, but I think in the entire United States,” notes manager Pat Pike. “I work Christmas Day. I should know.”
So much for banker’s hours.
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That UFOs routinely buzz Adams County.
Or perhaps you’ve heard the companion myth, that secret government black helicopters routinely buzz Adams County. Whatever version you choose to believe, the truth is nowhere near as exciting.
Turns out that, if you’re driving around Adams County or even Maysville, Ky., you could well expect to see weird lights, fireballs or synchronized blips in the sky at night. Don’t rush to dial 911, though.
Truth be known, the area is a designated MOA (Military Operational Area), a restricted airspace where Air Force pilots practice mock dogfights. Sorry, X-Files fans.
(It is, however, absolutely true about the little green men they’ve got locked up at Wright Patterson AFB. Pass it on.)
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That Cincinnati is some kind of Mecca for world-famous magicians.
True, and for good reasons. First, some fly in to do research at the magic library located beneath the estate of baker Ken Klosterman; the private museum is touted by Smithsonian magazine as having the world’s largest collection of books on prestidigitation and witchcraft. (Klosterman himself confirmed to us that David Copperfield is one such visitor.)
Others head to the Vent Haven ventriloquist museum in Kentucky.
And, finally, there’s Haines House of Cards in Norwood, whose customers are magicians worldwide and include conjurer Harry Blackstone Jr. The top of the line invisible deck is $27, but prices range from $4 and up for us amateurs. Why all the fuss? The shop, opened in 1945, long ago perfected a secret formula for a spray that keeps playing cards from sliding, ruining the trick.
With all this, little wonder that the Society of American Magicians chose Cincinnati this year as the site of the national conjuring convention.
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That submarines have been spotted on the Ohio River.
Yeah, and we’re sure that Nazi U-Boats cruise beneath the Sunlite Pool at Coney. We’d have filed this one under “N” for nutball and simply moved on until we discovered reliable eyewitnesses.
“Back in 1961, I saw a submarine, honestly,” says Janice Forte of the Cincinnati Historical Society. “We were just standing down by the river and somebody says, ‘My God, look at that!’ It was not submerged, and it was headed north. Nobody wrote about it in the papers, that I saw. It was really strange.”
A search of The Enquirer and The Post library databases, by the way, did turn up that there is a local veterans’ group angling to turn the U.S.S. Cincinnati, the U.S. Navy nuclear submarine launched in 1975, into a local river tourist attraction whenever the sub is finally mothballed. No word from the Navy yet on yea or nay.
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That the University of Cincinnati is located in Clifton.
This is a geographical myth that won’t go away, but “it’s definitely not true,” says school spokesperson Greg Hand. “We don’t even touch a border of Clifton.”
The main campus does sprawl across Clifton Heights, University Heights, Corryville and Avondale. But not Clifton. So stop saying it. Now.
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That everything’s against the law in Cincinnati.
Actually, it’s the state of Ohio that’s supremely anal retentive. At least more so than the city.
Whether you’re talking the state law that makes it illegal to braid somebody’s hair unless you’ve taken 1,500 hours of cosmetology classes, or the state law that makes it a crime to badmouth blueberries, slander squash or carp about cauliflower (the so-called Veggie Libel Law), it’s the statehouse producing the weirdest dictates. Well, not counting Cincinnati City Council’s stance against bead-throwing during Mardi Gras parades.
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That folks have sworn to having seen cattle and cowboys up by Kings Island.
Yeah, pardner, there really are cattle drives up there. It’s all thanks to the cowpokes at The Dude Ranch (899-DUDE), located about 10 minutes north of Paramount’s Kings Island and offering two longhorn cattle drives daily. Yee-ha.
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That an empty Grippo’s bag, if kept stuck in your back pocket, brings good luck.
The belief persists among Cincinnatians and isn’t discouraged by the Grippo family of Groesbeck, which has churned out potato chips for generations. Can a potato chip bag really bring good luck? We’re trying one out right now. No word on which flavor is luckiest: Sweet Bermuda onion, BBQ or pepper & sour cream.
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That the McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish sandwich was born in Cincinnati.
Now here’s an urban legend that’s actually got some truth to it. The Filet-O-Fish sandwich was indeed created here, according to archivists at the McDonald’s Corporation. Seems that, way back in 1963, a Mickey D franchisee named Lou Groen cooked up the sandwich at his North Bend golden arches, satisfying an overwhelming demand from his Catholic customers during Lent. The rest, as they say, is McHistory. ©
This article appears in Sep 15-21, 1999.