Games.
No, really. Blame my roots, the ones untouched by L’Oreal Excellence 6R.
My paternal grandfather spoke seven languages fluently. He did his crossword puzzles in pen. Dinner chatter always involved a bevy of puns. Most of the time, I stared at him agog, awed by how much stuff he had in his brain. I understood a fraction of what he said and a mote of what he meant.
But then. Oh, but then. Game Time would come.
I reigned as Barricade Beeotch in Parcheesi, morphed into Satan’s Spawn during Uno, and hoarded Happiness while collecting a pittance of Fame and Fortune in Careers. Each triumph was gleefully celebrated, for it was an unconscionable sin to let someone to win.
There was no glee quite akin to my grandfather’s glee when it came to games of wit and orthography. My Achilles’ heel. No, not wit. Orthography, the damnable art of spelling. No other game embodied my white whale as much as:
Probe.
Sci-fi fans: Commence tittering over metallic devises and certain orifices.
Fantasy fans: Immediately redirect thoughts to building shields of stone around your mind.
Erotica fans: Unlock the toy chest and be so kind as to use the warming lube.
When you’re done, consider, if you will, a seemingly simply game made by Parker Brothers in the 1960s. Each player chooses a word between two and twelve letters. Each letter occupies a segment in a bright orange rack. A deck of instruction cards determines play. The goals: guess your opponent’s word and own the last word unmasked. Forfeiture came in the misspelling of one’s chosen word.
I was four when the racks attracted my attention. I was seven before I could sit at the game table with the one reasonably long word I knew how to spell. Elephant. I was out in two turns. I had to sit in my chair until the game was over, watching as big obscure words were slowly revealed.
There was only one way to be able to hold my own with the big boys. I had to become a mistress of words and strategy, so I read. Historical fiction, gothics, mysteries, fantasy, romances. If it was a novel, it was my cure for the bane of youth: boredom. My parents were understandably thrilled by the notion of a silent entertainment for their otherwise obstreperous child. Like any criminal mastermind, I studied, I plotted. I absorbed words and their multiple meanings. When the time came, I was prepared to take my seat at the game table.
Enter my nemesis stage left: the dictionary.
I loathed it with a fiery passion. Exactly what use is a big book of words when you have to know how to spell the word in order to know how to spell the word? ~eye twitch~ Yet, I desired to win the game. So, like any diligent student of the American schools, I memorized vocabulary lists. I passed my “grade-appropriate” spelling tests.
Note: “Passed” not “Aced”
If the purpose of the written word is communication, then meaning holds priority over form. American English spelling wasn’t standardized until the mid 19th century. This is the case I presented to my fellow gamers. I let the vast collections of literature from times preceding the standardization deliver the climax, the irrefutable proof.
It did not lead to a rule change in Probe.
Nay, I was banished once again from the game table. Oh, I was applauded for knowing the meanings, but I could never win the game if I could not spell.
I would love to give you all a happy ending to my tale. Truly, I do wish I could claim to be a globally honored orthographer.
It’d be one hell of a lie.
My handicap has not diminished my love of word games. A plethora of tantalizing challenges have sprawled over the great game table throughout the years. Players have come and gone. With (their advancing) age and (my nagging) strategy, I have gained concessions from the regular players to at least permit the use of the infernal dictionary during play.
After all, one must know how to spell the word before one can look it up, right?
Should you, my lovelies, wish to spend a day with this literary courtesan, please be prepared for a dozen rounds of Word Yahtzee or Quiddler.
Leave the Probe on the spaceship, wizard mound, or dungeon.
