Last week I flew up to Canada and had a very long layover in Cincinnati due to Delta getting us there late (about 31 seconds after the 35 minute planned connection plane to Toronto had departed). This gave me a perfect opportunity to research this column. Here dear readers, are some mind-boggling statistics from my purely unscientific and studiously non-quantitative, improbably-qualitative unrefined research:
You are probably asking yourself, “What in the heck is riprap?” Maybe it’s some kind of make-believe word. You might assume it’s the newest trend in hip-hop music or some sort of new criminal tactic employed by a wily group of New York gang members intent on wreaking havoc. Riprap is a legitimate word and is defined by The American Heritage Dictionary as “a loose assemblage of broken stones erected in water or on soft ground as a foundation.” Remember this word the next time you overdose on R’s and P’s during your next game of Scrabble.
This spring, I wanted to write a column about Easter. Not just my usual, seasonal shtick about the chirping birds and the blooming blossoms, but a real, honest-to-goodness Easter column. I know it might be a bad idea, that some eyes will roll and my stock will plummet with the local intelligentsia, but I just can’t help myself. You see, after twenty years of wandering and wondering and fancying myself much smarter than my religious friends and neighbors, I’ve gone back to church. And though it’s not the church I grew up in, or even the same denomination, it’s been like coming home.
“I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” These days, I find myself not wanting to sum up parts of my life in the doggerel of ’60s folk rock. Yet sitting in an ancient blue shoe box sits a packet of letters, cards, notes from years I tend to relegate, like the box itself, to some corner shelf of the closet of my mind.