It occurs to me that after my father passes, I may never hear the word “cockamamie” again. Other words, too. Like hullabaloo, hanky-panky, life of Riley. But among all of the words embedded in my father’s vocabulary, cockamamie is my favorite. The sheer force of its syllables, its whimsical nature, its versatility. It’s an old-fashioned word, to be sure. But my father is old. He turns 96 this week. I honor him by celebrating the vocabulary of his Bronx childhood. Cockamamie,