Friends, I’d crossed that ordinary pedestrian bridge dozens of times. Big Dry Creek flowing picturesquely under the flat concrete slab. Pretty, yet somehow unremarkable. Then, one day, I notice it. In an instant, the mundane pothole transformed into a puzzling mystery. The crumbling cement revealed a bone. Now, I’m no bone expert, but I am an expert speculator. In no time flat, a narrative had emerged in my head. The telltale bone had freed itself to seek justice. Surely this was no mere cow bone. Any self-respecting engineer would eschew a building material so likely to create a structural weakness. No, it must have been hidden there under the cover of night, in hopes of never being discovered. Could it be human? Could it be… murder? Was the rest of the body laying there waiting to be unearthed? How had this poor soul come to such a foul end? The bridge must be several decades old. Had the family found closure? Surely I’ve let my imagination go too far. Again. Or have I? Best grab a d
Friends, Saint Patrick was not Irish, yet St. Patrick’s day is the quintessential Irish holiday. There probably were no snakes in Ireland, yet he drove them into the sea. Potatoes are native to the Americas, yet the Irish diaspora forever associated them with famine. As we prepare to celebrate with shamrocks, green beer, leprechauns, beef and cabbage, I ponder how many of these things are truly Irish. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I bite into my lucky green donut and enjoy that pinch-proof feeling conferred by my green boxer briefs, which cover ~12% of my body—roughly corresponding to my Irish DNA makeup. Happy St. Patty’s day, y’all!