Just got an email from an old colleague and friend informing me that he “went to wake this morning of your old Scrabble buddy Betty McKinney.”
I was sorry to hear that, because she was my buddy, for the three years I worked on a magazine in the Boston area in the late 1980s — in a building full of schemers and backstabbers.
And we did play Scrabble, almost every day, at lunchtime.
One of my favorite memories: Seeing Betty reach for a downturned Scrabble tile as though she knew what letter it was. After the game was over, I noticed there were a couple of tiles with slight pink stains on the back, picked up from the coloring of the box, I suppose.
Since I was in the habit of buying used Scrabble boards at thrift stores whenever I came upon them, I had several at home, so I switched out the stained tiles in my box at the office and had the supreme pleasure of enjoying the look on Betty’s face when she couldn’t spot them the next time we played. Neither one of us ever said a word about it, but I got her and she knew it.