If you’ve walked the earth long enough (or at least as long to have witnessed Prince go through three name changes) you know that one’s choice of words can make or break a given situation.
I’m a Midwestern native – a part of the country where tornado shelters and weather radios are issued to people shortly after they are aspirated and given an Apgar score. This past month our county was branded seven ways from Sunday with tornado watches. One stormy evening I had to figure out where my toddler and I were going to hunker down should the state song start blaring. When it did, we tucked ourselves away – not in a “storm shelter” or a “tornado bunker” – but a “storm hideout.” While referring to our refuge as a “hideout” made it more appealing to my child, I knew the truth. We could have called it the clubhouse, the roadhouse, or Isengard, for that matter – despite the cutsie name, the basement closet was still just a closet.