Last week, thanks to Nova Scotia Power’s inability to cope with an Osprey nest, we lost power. Our second outage that week. No doubt a fresh rate increase will be instituted to cover the cost of repairs!
The outage occurred on a wet and windy day; a rarity this glorious summer. Despite the possibility of starting a heated battle, I suggested a board game. Mitchell likes Risk. This often turns into a marathon session and bores Sylvia to tears. Her preference is Would You Rather? This one drives me up the wall since she poses questions like, “Would you rather kiss Grandma or mom’s Aunt Tootie?”
My loyalty remains with the old favourites. Give me Monopoly over Sylvia’s no-win questions any day!
Amazingly, Sylvia suggested a game we all liked: Scrabble. Mitchell and I quickly agreed before she changed her mind. I got to start but this was no advantage. My letters were terrible!Only four looked promising so I used them in the first word: TURD. This elicited laughter and the game was off to a flying start.
“Anyone want an ‘i‘ for an ‘i’?” Sylvia asked. Mitchell and I groaned at the pun.
A few turns in, Sylvia got serious. “I’m playing LAXES,” she said.
“That’s not a word,” I said, confidently flipping through the Scrabble dictionary. Darn, there it was!
“I love words that come up in a dictionary,” Mitchell announced.
Sylvia cocked her head. “What else would come up in a dictionary?” she asked.
We laughed but knew what he meant. Part of the game’s fun is in making up weird words and then seeing if they exist. Strangely enough, the ridiculous sounding ones are often real while others that sound good are either non-existent or the rules don’t allow their use. For example, as we discovered near the game’s end, TURD is not included in the official Scrabble dictionary.
“This whole game is based on a lie!” Sylvia cried in mock-disgust, pointing at my illegal word. But it was too late to change it now. Not that it mattered. Shortly after power was restored, Mitchell handily triumphed.
Less than hour later another outage struck, which I’m sure was blamed on a wayward butterfly or cosmic radiation.
“Rematch anyone?” I asked.
Kevin Toal is a freelance writer who discovered he’s not a man of letters.