The Perks of being a Grandmother

Monday is Scrabble day.  My grandson and I hole up for a couple of hours at a local coffee shop for serious word competition.  Well, perhaps I’m overstating … friendly, word building is a more accurate description. 

After setting up the board, we went to the counter.  The owner smiled, “Hi, ready for your game?  You two want the usual?  Hot Chocolate with marshmallows?” (He’s got us down.  We are what you would call:  regulars.) 

Scrabble between us began this past fall and, as I said, I made sure my grandson knew that vocabulary building is the intent.  During the first couple months he played open dictionary – this variant, dictionary use, was my idea and I thought using it would keep him on a level playing field. I recall those first few games me saying: Let’s not worry about who wins.  We’ll go for improving our personal score each week.  Deal? 

I thought he agreed.  Me, I babbled away in a kindly fashion about how fun it would be to play for the joy of making words and improving.  I went as far to discuss with him sportsmanship, like if he drew a challenging combination of letters.  In fact, in the beginning games, we strategized together instead of staring blankly at a rack of lackluster tiles, for example: iiiiooe – boo hiss.

About 30 minutes into this past Monday’s game, an employee stops by our table, chatting us up a bit.  Who’s winning?  Every week, someone asks that question:  Who is winning?  Why does everything have to be about winning?

I humbly adjusted my halo, “Oh we play to improve our vocabulary … the score doesn’t matter.”  I offered a smile.  How could anyone expect a twelve year old to beat an ole Scrabble fan like me? 

Glancing over at Jax, I noticed he was studying his letters not even aware that a question was asked.  And, he was taking a long time with his play. 

“Do you want me to look at your letters?”  I asked sweetly.

“No, I want to figure it out myself.”

“Well, remember, you can use the dictionary if you want.”

“No, I’m okay.” 

He reorganized the tiles several times on his rack.  Stopped, then bit his upper lip suppressing a smile.   He gleefully contained his excitement, then  looked at me, smiled full out and plunked down the word:  perkish.  The “k” covered a double letter, the “h” on a triple word and also joined to the word “ut” at the right angle forming “hut” – yes, another triple word.  And, since he used all seven letters, a 50 point bonus was allowed. 

Arrgh … my back straightened.

“Perkish?  Is that a word … perkish?”  I was  taken back at the play.

“Well, if you are perky then can’t you be sort of perky?” We locked eyeballs, “That would be perkish,” he stated in a matter of fact tone.

I grabbed the dictionary.  Yes, I know we are playing for fun but … what kind of derivative of perky is that? 

Here is the answer to that question:  perkish is not in Webster’s nor Oxford Dictionaries (I know this because later that evening, I looked it up at home – and, yes, I recognize what this act states about me; don’t remind me) BUT, it is in the Scrabble Dictionary.  And, according to Scrabble, a person can be sort of perky.   

I added up his score: 131 points.  I added it again … are you kidding me?  131 points.  I also lost my next turn for questioning the move and being proved wrong.

“Well, Grandma,” he smiled, “at least you improved your vocabulary.”

“You are so not using a dictionary for help ever again,” I mumbled as I earnestly scrutinized my next play.

“I didn’t use the dictionary,” he said quietly as he pulled seven letters from the black felt bag. 

His final score:  414.  Yes, 414!

Vocabulary be damned. (The halo is not remotely near me and likely never has been.)  Yes, the Susan guidelines have officially changed.  Monday’s game will no longer be “sort of” anything to do with me demurely correcting folks who ask about the score. 

Oh, I forgot to mention that the coffee shop also serves beer and wine … could become my new “regular” order.  Hmm, I’ll have to remember that: “regular” is a seven letter word.  I could place the “g” on a triple letter space and the "r" on a triple word square,  and receive the 50 point bonus. A perkish move, wouldn’t you say?

(A final note:  I have had to hit the ignore key six times when spell checking this article.)

Zebra Stripes on a Winter Morning

The birds that feed from my railing are the only color to contrast against this bleak, brittle cold day.  The 5 inch Black-capped Chickadees are first, followed by Blue Jays, Cardinals, Finches, Sparrows and Doves.  One of my favorites is the Red-bellied Woodpecker.  It is the female that I most often spot.  Although, only approximately 9 inches in size, she is a stunner to view in her zebra stripped cape that extends from her neck with a sassy white rump slightly exposed beneath.  From beak to the back of his neck, the male is crowned in scarlet, orange feathers.  She, on the other hand, is distinguished because she has a subtle, gray crown proceeding the red that covers the nape of her neck.  Both have a tan breast with a tinge of red on the underbelly.

I do not often view the male.  Does he say:  “Hey, Susan’s feeding.  Fly down there and get me a seed, will ya?”  Or, does she get the sunflower offering only for herself saying:  “Go get your own seed!”

Doesn’t matter to me why she visits.  Each morning I look for her because, to my tastes, she outshines the other winter birds.  She is smart too; takes her seed off the rail quickly and flies back to her tree.  “Quurrrr …. Quurrr; chimp, chimp”; no lollygagging around.  She does not trust humans and that is as it should be if you are a bird. 

I wonder at the nature of the tiny Chickadee that feed right from the palm.  Not the Red-bellied Woodpecker, nor the Blue Jay nor the Mourning Dove will eat from the human hand.  Well, at least not mine.