The Scrabble Queen

Digital art collage by Stella Kalaw

Late last summer, I happened to catch sight of a familiar maroon box tucked away on a bookshelf. Blowing off the dust, I brought it back to the kitchen table and asked, tentatively, if anyone felt like a game. My Mom’s face lit up as she responded with an enthusiastic yes and, from that day onward, Scrabble became a regular family activity again.

My mother had always been the family’s word person. I can still see her seated at our white formica kitchen table, eagerly tackling the Saturday Globe and Mail crossword, armed with her ever-sharp Number 2 pencil and trusty pink Pearl eraser. If she left the room, I would make a beeline for the puzzle — but looking was all I did. Grabbing a pencil and jumping in would have been the same as dipping a spoon into someone’s dessert before being invited to. I eventually realized that any time she asked me to lend a hand with the last clue, it wasn’t because she needed reinforcements: it was to give me the thrill of finishing it.

The maroon box had earned its rest. Scrabble had always figured prominently in our family life, alongside Boggle, where you raced against time; Spill and Spell, with its trademark bright orange plastic shaker cup; the esoteric Royalty, which dangled the faint hope of a standing ovation if you managed to spell out the word itself; and Balderdash, from which several notable made-up words entered the family vernacular permanently.

But once my brother, sister and I had graduated from high school and left for university, Scrabble became the stalwart — the one game that endured as a holiday ritual, brought down from the shelf after tea and homemade treats, set up on the lazy susan donated to the cause. Then we would pass around the velvety purple Seagram's Crown Royal whisky bag, swirling it for luck and listening to the familiar click of the wooden tiles as we chose our first seven, plotting our opening gambits.

As the family grew and holiday time was given over to the logistics of entertaining, feeding, bathing and bedding down energetic grandchildren, the game was shelved for quite a few years. And then, about three years ago, it stayed shelved — this time for a harder reason. Our Dad had died unexpectedly, and we were painfully aware of the hole his absence left at the table.

That hole is why I asked tentatively.

My sister’s steady hand now keeps score and, as per family tradition, deposits each record of the game in the now-jam-packed maroon box, holding onto a family Scrabble history that stretches back over fifty years. My daughter joins in whenever she visits, channelling the same spirit of fun and creativity her grandfather always brought to the game.

Our mother remains a formidable player, amazing us with frequent bingos as she plays all her tiles in a single turn. Although my sister and I pretend to beg for mercy and jokingly bemoan every loss, there is nothing more wonderful than having our 92-year-old Mom beat the pants off us both on a regular basis. Each of her victories is a gift — for us all. Long may her reign as Scrabble Queen continue.