The Scrabble Game

Unlike many of young folk today, I’m very proud of my public school education. Not only, did I learn to read and write, but I learned phonics–nothing more than sounds and letter patterns. Thus, it was not a real brainer when I became and English teacher and a formidable Scrabble player. While the game relies heavily on “the luck of the draw,” it also necessitates the player see patterns, such as ea, ing, ed, re, etc. in the attempt to play all seven tiles at once.

Curiously, the current resident of my casita is also an English major, and we’ll play a game or two once or twice a month. (Since both of us are highly competitive, the stakes are $20 a game. After all, why would I waste my time playing some game?) Last night, the score was tied. She had two tiles left; I had six, but it was my turn. I needed to play all of mine to seize her Hamilton. My remaining letters were: DHAETR. I shuffled the tiles. I had READ, not good enough. I still had the four-point H. I shuffled them again: RED HAT. Damn it!

Think, Sue. If you don’t play these last six letters, she’s going to take your $20. You won’t be able to afford to buy eggs. Once again I shuffled: HATRED.

Any questions?

Not Me

My fifty-year career in public education began at a career technical high school teaching English, where my students were more interested in auto mechanics, cosmetology, and nursing rather than reading and writing. This thirteen-year experience taught me a lot about the trades from laying cement block, to offset printing to welding. I spent one afternoon in the welding lab with the delightful, instructor, who made me don gloves and the special helmet and taught me to light the torch. “Sue, I’m going to teach you how to mend anything, except broken hearts and promises.”

Curiously, today, I recalled Mr. Harold’s proclamation when I read a post written by a longtime MAGA supporter, who wrote in part he’d recently been terminated by US Department of Agriculture. “Each time I voted for you, it was because I knew you’d make things right and you’d fix the wrongs. I’m counting on you to make this right too. I’m pleading with you to reinstate my employment and give me my job back. Please, Mr. President.”

While I feel compassion for the author and regret his career loss, hopefully, he’s learned that the flim- flam man cares little about anyone other than himself, nor have any notion of right and wrong. With all due respect to the author, His Highness thrives on breaking hearts and promises. (Check the soaring gas and grocery prices, if you doubt me.)

Sorry, Mr. Author, you’re not going to be reinstated just because you wear a red hat.