Jane Jones stands in front of her car at an Ohio State tailgate — just like every other game, for the past 65 years. Jones and her family have extended the invite to friends, extended family and anyone who wants to join. Credit: Sandra Fu | Managing Photo Editor
The stairs off Woody Hayes Drive spill fans into a tide of scarlet and gray, and just to the left of the bus stop, an old ritual is already in motion.
Folding tables go up. Coolers full of Miller Lite and soft drinks thump open. A white flag snaps in the crisp August breeze: The Jones Family Big Buckeye Bash. Another banner ripples beneath it, reading: LAST CALL.
If Ohio State Saturdays have a heartbeat outside the stadium walls, it sounds a lot like this corner, where the Jones family has staged a tailgate for 65 years.
In October 1959, Jane Jones and her husband, Stu, pointed a red Chevrolet convertible east out of California and drove all the way to Columbus. Stu had just returned from military service in Korea, and their destination was Ohio Stadium, where the Buckeyes hosted Purdue for Homecoming.
“We drove straight through,” Jane said. “We got here on Friday night and had a tailgate the next day.”
What began as a simple pregame picnic between a young couple and a few friends has grown into a gathering that now stretches across four generations.
Jane, now 88, who cannot remember the last time she missed a home game, still sets the tone for the tailgate. She is always one of the first people there, directing the setup and making sure the tailgate never skips a beat. Her four children — Elizabeth, Marcy, Grant, and Stu — now help shoulder the workload.
“She’s incredible,” said longtime attendee Scott Shaffer. “She will be the first one out here to set up at 6:00 a.m. It’s amazing.”
At the Jones’ tailgate, trays of Giant Eagle mini sandwiches sit beside bowls of corn dip and piles of chips, with steaming cups of Chick-fil-A coffee cutting through the morning chill on a table in front of an open trunk of a black Infiniti.
To the left, two cars sit with their trunks open — one belongs to Stu’s longtime friends, Butch Moore and his tailgating partner, Paul Ballinger, their spot marked by a flag that reads Butch and Paul’s Tailgate. The other is owned by Cliff Aiken, who has been part of the group for 25 years. Together, the three camps have built a gameday neighborhood, showing up early to defend their spots, swap stories, and raise their flags side by side.
Stu and Moore talked football all week leading up to game day, and when Saturday came, he made sure the tailgate had a sense of timing. Years ago, he had three tongue-in-cheek signs made: First Call, Next to Last Call, and Last Call. The joke still hangs on the tent poles — a reminder to laugh, linger, and then finally head inside.
Stu, who passed away in 2019, is still everywhere at the Jones tailgate. His name ripples on the Last Call flag, and talk of the humor, energy, and warmth he brought to every Saturday is widespread.
“You couldn’t pick a better father-in-law,” said Dave McKee, who married Elizabeth, the Joneses’ oldest daughter. “He was funny. He was a good athlete. He had just as much energy as Jane did, and then some. He was a lot of fun and just a great guy to be around.”
Before kickoff, the air around the Jones tailgate vibrates with a shared feeling. It’s in the laughter that spills from one table to the next and the steady pop of cans being opened. It’s in the way old friends lean in to swap stories.
This enduring tradition isn’t about the food or the drinks. It’s built on a foundation of people—a four-generation chain of returners who show up, year after year, to keep the rhythm of this sacred spot alive.
“Many of our friends who tailgated with us the last 60 years have passed,” Jane said. “But now their children and grandchildren still come. Everyone is welcomed.”
Born from a cross-country drive in a red Chevrolet convertible, the tailgate lives on. The car is long gone, but the people who first drove it to Columbus built a tradition that continues today.
“You couldn’t pick better people to build a tradition like this,” McKee said. “They made it fun, and they made it last.”
And when Last Call comes, Jane and her crew pack up, lock the car, and leave their sacred corner behind as they join the scarlet-and-gray stream toward the Horseshoe — just as they’ve done for 65 years.
