Scrabbled

It was almost over before it even began.

I love my wife. I love so many things about her. One of them is her stubbornness. When she digs her heals in. They’re in. Unfortunately, I have a tendency to do the same. It makes for some interesting opportunities to see another point of view. One of our first was when we were still dating.

Cindy had asked me to join her for her family reunion in Idaho. I was more than happy to attend. It was going to be camping outdoors (I love the outdoors). She would be there (I love her). There was camping outdoors (I love the outdoors). She would be there (I love her). You get the picture. Anyway, it was a great time. We went for walks, a little bicycle riding, there was a water feature nearby… I know what I wrote.

I call it a ‘water feature’ because I cannot exactly recall if it was a river or a lake. Cindy would probably say a river, and she would probably be right. However, she isn’t here right now, as I write this, so she doesn’t get a say in it. Still, to be fair, she would probably be right. Regardless, there was water right near the get-to-gether. We had a good time. One of my favorite parts of the whole event was a breakfast where someone from Cindy’s family made some massive pancakes. But, that wasn’t even the best part. The best part was that some Aunt (or Great Aunt) brought some homemade chokecherry syrup. It was amazing! I had never had anything like it before. And, I have never had anything like it since. Oh, it was sooo good.

After consuming twelve plate-sized pancakes (I had a bigger appetite back then along with a metabolism to composite) I went back for just one more so I could have a little more syrup. Most everybody had finished eating and the cooks were trying to prevent the soon-to-be leftovers from becoming said leftovers. I asked for just one more pancake, the cook scooped up all four from the griddle and placed them on my plate with a smile on his face. I could not put any back. Once they were coated in the chokecherry yummy-ness, I sat next to Cindy and we discussed what a potentially bad situation I might find myself in, in the immediate future—due to the excess food.

Of topic… But, there were no issues and I didn’t have to eat for the rest of the day. I still did, I just didn’t have to.

It would be the drive home that would prove most eventful.

As the van that carried a large portion of Cindy’s immediate family home neared her father’s father’s town, the van experienced a problem. We were able to limp to the family farm and we would have to extend the trip at least one more day. Fortunately, Cindy’s dad is a more-than-apt mechanic—and his dad was pretty good too. We just needed to wait for shops to open and see if they had the part(s) that were required. We were in Idaho and we would need to reach well into the mid-Utah range to put us all back home before the trip could be counted as successful.

As my future father-(and brothers)-in-law all worked on the van, Cindy and I passed the time by playing Scrabble. The only bored game in the house (I know what I wrote). Now, some of you might be thinking, “Why didn’t you help?” Well, let me inform you: While I am mechanically inclined, I am not a mechanic. At that time, I barely knew anything about car engines. The dad knew. The dad’s dad knew. The brothers that were there all knew. If I were to offer any assistance, not only would they have to take the time to teach me as we worked, but, I would also just be one more body out of four bodies working in a space barely big enough for two bodies. I would slow it all down and everybody knew it. I was not offended and neither were they that I did not help.

So, there Cindy and I were, playing Scrabble in the front room of my girlfriend’s grandparents’ home. Television had nothing to show and the books available were nothing either of us were really interested in. As a gentle way-back-machine reminder for the young kiddies out there, this was well before the internet was a regular thing. The homeowners were old Idaho farmers (technology was not a hobby or a pastime of theirs). And cell phones… HA! Maybe a cell phone here and there, but definitely no smartphones. Scrabble it was.

Cindy was kicking my butt. I was not getting good tiles. I just needed something. Anything. Then, I spotted it. A single letter opening for a chance at some points. I do not recall if I added a ‘B’ to her ‘O’ or if I added an ‘O’ to her ‘B’. Either way, my end goal was to spell the word, “Bo.” I announced with triumphant pride. I then began to calculate my meager points from such a trivial tile set when I was immediately challenged.

“Bee, Oh? That’s not how you spell it. You can’t spell ‘body odor’ with two letters.” Cindy was not allowing it.

“What? No. I spelled ‘bo’. And, that is how you spell it.” I retorted. Probably more hot-headedly than necessary.

“It’s spelled B-O-W.”

“Not that kind of bow. A bo. B-O. As in a bo-keen. A bo staff. A ninja weapon.” I was more than indignant.

Now before a bunch of you get all upset about that ‘bo-keen’ word-thing, hear me out. I’m a product of the ‘80s. Again, before internet. Words and terms were passed around and thought legitimate. In writing this story out, I went to the mighty electronic world wide web, offered up my thoughts, and waited for the information deluge to pour forth. Here’s what I got: You’re an idiot.

Now, I wasn’t outright called an ‘idiot’ by my computer, but, I felt like one. I found nothing that could even remotely be mistranslated into ‘bo-keen’. But, I did find this lovely history, as per Wikipedia, and, I swear I have seen it somewhere in one of many ninja comics or magazines, or heard it from one of the multitude of movies or television shows that were flooding any media outlet during that era. Regardless, I have strayed very far from the point. Let us return…

“Well, if it’s a bo-staff, then you need to spell the whole word.” Came Cindy’s quick, and clearly thought-out, reply.

“Bo staff is two words. Not one.”

“Fine. Spell both words. I’ll let you have it.”

“But, it’s just one-word ‘bo’.”

“Bo is not a word.”

“It is too.”

This exchange went on for too prolonged a time. We even tried to consulate the family dictionary (in tangible book form. a thing every household had back then). It was not helpful (for me).

After some time passed with the two of us bickering over the realities of if ‘bo” was a real word or not, it became apparent that the grandmother was afraid of how this relationship might end if the two of us were to continue the way we were any longer. “Here, let me help you two out.” And she picked up the gameboard, dumped the tiles back into the box, and put it all away. Cindy and I just sat in stunned silence. What to do now? Back to the bad reception from antenna television that was the norm. It was going to be a long drive home.

A few years later, while I was visiting Cindy at her college, we found ourselves in the institution’s library. As we navigated our way toward the doors—via the narrow bookshelf passageways—I found a rather large, and very worn looking, dictionary flayed open upon a pedestal for anyone to use. It’s what we did back then before you could just let an AI inform you.

“What’re you doing?” Cindy was a little perplexed.

“Once sec. I just want to check something.” Seeing the immensity of the book, the idea had just popped into my mind right then and there. It was a spontaneous notion, but I was now almost feverishly curious. “Ah-ha! Here it is!”

“What? Here what is?” Cindy stepped closer to see what my index finger was indicating.

“Bo. A blah blah blah blah blabbity-blah blah-blah…” or whatever it had written. It was a long time ago, I don’t exactly recall, and Google can’t recall printed text from a volume of collected intellectual information that was printed before it was born. Basically, the printed definition proved that I was right. I smiled triumphantly.

Cindy just rolled her eyes at me and as she walked away she pronounced, “Seriously.” in a tone of voice that I, over the years have come to know—but even then, clearly understood—as her signature tone that lets me know that what I had done was a perfect combination of stupid and childish, with just a dash of idiocracy, and topped with a moron-cherry.

We’re still together.

I love her.