Back on the Board

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: David Bowie, "Heroes"

Time: Night

Today, I played Scrabble against my 15-year-old son. Two games, won both. (The king is still the king.) That's only part of the point.

I used to play against my father, whenever I could -- and our games were epic. Scores of 302-301 weren't unheard-of. We scraped and scrapped and challenged for every point, so fiercely that nobody else would play with us.

He always hoarded the "Q" tile. Consequently, I held every "U" I could get my hands on. When he died, a little over a decade ago, I buried the "Q" with him.

And until today, I had played once since he died. But it was time. We've had a new Scrabble set for several years now (my son, if you'll recall, pulled it out of storage earlier this year) and I'd slowly been working up to the idea of playing again. When my son challenged me this morning, I accepted.

He has some of his grandfather's mannerisms. He fidgets. He takes forever to make a play. Even when he's about to score big, he never pounces. He gives the board one last look-see, to make sure he's not missing one or two extra points by playing something else.

And he doesn't want any help, from anyone. If he's going to win, he wants to earn it.

It was odd in ways, comforting in others, to be hunched over the board and the letters again. I have a feeling it won't be long before we're at it again.

Someday he'll beat me ... if I'm lucky. After all, great rivalries need winners on both sides.

Tonight's scary story: Lettice Galbraith, "The Trainer's Ghost"