COLUMBUS - ''Have we ever done anything that resembles this?'' one lawmaker asked.
''It's a pig in a poke,'' another one said.
''This whole thing is nothing but a scheme or a scam upon the people,'' grumbled a third.
The other esteemed members of the Ohio General Assembly rocked back in their leather chairs in the House Finance Committee, rolled their eyes and changed the subject back to safer, more comfortable territory: spending.
Later, they did as expected and agreed to ask voters for a one-cent, $1.1 billion statewide sales tax for ''education.''
The gang from the teachers union, wearing large-print buttons that loudly announced ''OEA'' (Ohio Education Association), quickly gathered their coats and notebooks and returned to their classrooms. They won. The bill would permit schools to spend their sales tax windfall on teachers, along with buildings or books. Lawmakers still have months of votes and hearings ahead, but the 500-pound gorilla had finally climbed off their chest, letting them breathe again. They met the deadline to get a tax increase on the May 5 ballot, satisfying the teachers' union, and perhaps even the Ohio Supreme Court order to spend more on schools.
FRANKFORT - Four hours south, the honorables of the Commonwealth of Kentucky were under a tougher deadline: Finish all state business in 60 days, then get out of town for two years - unless the governor rings his ''come runnin' '' bell and drags everyone back to wrestle an issue.
Kentucky lawmakers ''gentleman'' and ''lady'' each other in leisurely drawls as smooth as derby silks. They come from ''Looville,'' Harlan and Horse Cave, not the breathless, clipped, hurry-up cities of Cleveland, Akron and Toledo. Their crimson and electric-blue jackets yell out loud in the solemn halls of government, like cheerleaders for their beloved Cardinals and Wildcats. In the back rows on the floor of the House, they support a leading state agricultural export by chain-smoking cigarettes. They introduce bills to honor anyone who drops by - school kids, young pages, an Abe Lincoln impersonator. They mill and flutter like a rainbow of butterflies that hatch every two years for two brief months.
These are the real Dukes of Hazard, the Princes of Paducah, the Kings and Queens of Covington. They get the job done, but they still have time to ''Welcome, y'all,'' and tell visitors, ''The statehouse is your house.''
As a cardinal would fly (and he must fly more than Delta to be the official bird in both states), it's about 150 miles from Frankfort to Columbus. But miles don't measure the actual distance.
The governor's mansion that is now home to Kentucky Gov. Paul Patton and his wife, Judy, sits as close to the Capitol as a carriage house. It's showy, plush, restored to museum-piece perfection, a regular government Graceland.
Gov. George and Janet Voinovich occupy a more secluded home, three miles from the Capitol, deep in a tree-lined Lincoln and Cadillac neighborhood, where houses as big as schools sit on lawns that could be mistaken for small parks.
The Pattons stay upstairs, because the first floor is full of public tours. Anyone who knocks on the Voinovich's door is X-rayed by a surveillance camera.
One says ''C'mon over anytime.'' The other says ''Call first.'' Those could almost be state mottos.
Unlike Kentucky's quaint ''citizen legislature'' of 60-day volunteers, Ohio has turned Columbus into the home of the permanent General Assembly. Career politicians who are paid to argue full-time do their best to deliver. But too often, they mistake powerful lobbyists for real people, and a genuine taxpayer-eye-view is greeted with glances at the ceiling, giggles and blushes, like a trucker's belch in a white-linen restaurant.
Kentucky lawmakers are debating a constitutional amendment to meet every year, by adding a 25-day session in odd-numbered years. From there, it's a short hop across the creek to break the 60-day barrier and go full-time. The goal is to bring order and predictability to all the unexpected special sessions called by the governor. But order and predictability are overrated. Ask Ohio voters, who had to resort to term limits to break it up.
Thomas Jefferson said, ''That government is best which governs the least, because its people discipline themselves.''
He'd feel right at home in Frankfort.
In Columbus, he might say, ''No man's life, liberty or property are safe while the Legislature is in session.''
One of these capitols is out of touch.
It's not the one in Kentucky.
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The Enquirer. If you have questions or comments, call 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.
BRONSON ARCHIVE
