While everyone watches eclipse skies, I'll be gazing at license plates ❘ Average Joe

As Northeast Ohio prepares for the skyward spectacle of a lifetime next month, I’m having a tough time envisioning precisely how one big prediction is going to pan out — the overwhelming visitor surge to view the eclipse.

There’s the school of wisdom that points to past experiences for places in the “path of totality.” Yes, swarms of people will almost certainly how up at our doorstep to enjoy the best glimpse of a dazzling (albeit bad for improperly protected eyeballs) solar phenomenon. And, well, if they insist on pumping millions of dollars into our economy, who are we to stand in their way?

And then there’s the school of common sense that says Akron is a predictably soggy place in early April. How much so? National Weather Service records show that only 16 times in the last 50 years, there was no precipitation in the Akron-Canton area on April 8. So, a rainy forecast could heavily bend expectations of a mass influx of humans from everywhere.

Hey, I’m not trying to throw a wet blanket over the second-hottest star in our solar system (behind Taylor Swift, of course). Just being realistic about our odds for optimal eclipse viewing.

I’ve been called a doubting Thomas more times than I can count (and an English muffin, too; gee, I can only wonder why). Believe it or not, I actually WANT to see what all the fuss would look like. For selfish reasons, I don't want to rain on the eclipse parade.

Visions of standstill highways are bombarding my brain, with everyone climbing out of their vehicles and wandering about in a daze. My mind has been programmed to believe that such situations only happen when a) REM is filming its “Everybody Hurts” music video; b) the movie “La La Land” is shooting its elaborate rush-hour song-and-dance number and c) the “The Walking Dead” zombie apocalypse is arriving.

Honest to goodness, the first realization that smacks me when I consider the possibility of such staggering gridlock actually materializing here is this: Wouldn’t this be a GREAT opportunity to play the license plate game?

Oh, don’t you sit there and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You know, the license plate game? That beloved boredom breaker for long road trips where you try to track plates from as many states possible on the cars and trucks zooming alongside you?

OK, you might never played this if you’ve been attached to a smartphone as far back as you can remember. But, by golly, once upon a time we didn’t have those fancy gadgets, we had to amuse ourselves in other ways. And in my family, we were serious about the license plate game.

No annual trip to Hocking Hills State Park was complete without a dogged team effort to document plates from as many different places as possible. My mother kept score, jotting down as we rolled along with voices calling out from every seat in a jam-packed station wagon.

“Alabama!”

“New Hampshire!”

“Oklahoma!”

“New Hamp...”

“We already have that!”

Climbing the hill to the dining lodge and cabin area, we’d still be so stuck on the game that we’d take a slow roll through the parking lots to scan every plate there, too.

"Kentucky!"

"Indiana!"

"New Hamp..."

"I told you, we already have that one!"

We were so committed that our version of the game evolved into a two-pronged challenge. Collect as many states as possible, but ALSO see how many Ohio counties we could rack up.

You see, back then, Ohio drivers were issued county stickers to be placed along the bottom center of the plate. Nowadays, the county is represented a number that you affix to a corner of the plate instead — which kills the joy of being the first person to shout out “Pickaway!” and thus triggering a giggly onslaught of nose-excavation gestures and booger jokes.

So, I’m imagining hundreds of thousands of vehicles coming from afar, just stuck out there on our roads and highways for perhaps as long as two and a half hours. Sitting ducks! This is the dream, the mother lode. JACKPOT! The kid in me wants to roam about until I locate a plate from every state. Would you expect anything less from an oddball who collects rocks in the shape of Ohio?

(I feel obliged here to warn anyone who will listen that the Ohio Department of Transportation and likely every law enforcement authority and emergency response department everywhere do NOT want streets and expressways turning into parking lots for the eclipse. This is a serious public safety issue. First responders need to get places, and a real traffic jam is not a safe setting to exit your car and wander about.)

But if my Thurberesque daydream were to come true, I could see myself getting really annoyed and impatient for about three minutes when some inconvenient celestial event makes it too difficult to read plates.

I’d get even more annoyed if Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling jump up on top of my car and boogie down while I’m trying to record my log.

I sure wouldn’t mind meeting REM’s Michael Stipe someday — just not on this day.

And Rick Grimes and Michonne ought to know better than to block my view while I am on this mission, even if they are helpfully clearing undead people-eaters out of my path.

Out of my way, everyone. I’m on the hunt for visitors from every state in the USA. Right here, in the middle of Summit County. In the middle of an epic eclipse.

(Uh-oh. Did anybody else just hear thunder?)

When he isn’t toiling away as the Beacon Journal metro editor, you can occasionally find Joe Thomas musing about everyday life as the Average Joe. Reach him at jthomas@thebeaconjournal.com

This article originally appeared on Akron Beacon Journal: Average Joe predicts license plates will distract him from the eclipse