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It’s Not An E-Wee

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Perfect Game.”

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Our House In Isabela, Puerto Rico

It was mid-June 1963 when the air force transferred me from California to Puerto Rico. Our infant daughter, Evie, was hardly a week old. Air Force regulation stated that dependent children must be at least six weeks before leaving the continental United States. So I set out alone while they stayed with Barb’s parents.

The waiting period was actually beneficial. Being a grunt combat aircraft maintainer meant I didn’t qualify for on-base housing. So I began scouring the adjacent towns and villages for a suitable place to live. Shortly before the waiting period was over I rented a two bedroom, concrete house near the town of Isabela, about six miles outside the Ramey Air Force Base gate five. Our landlord’s name was Andrew.

Among the things shipped from California was our Scrabble game. And in our initial interview for renting Andrew’s house Scrabble became part of our conversation (I’ve since wondered if that single factor was why he agreed so quickly to having us as tenants).

Within a couple of weeks Andrew informed me that he taught sixth grade in Isabela, and that Scrabble was a wonderful way to increase one’s vocabulary. One thing led to another, and soon he was at our house a couple of times each week in order to improve his English. He was far more skilled than we expected, and he often went home a winner.

One night none of were having any luck. Ten o’clock arrived, and then eleven. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day on the ramp and I wanted him to go home. But he was determined to go home a winner. So we dragged on and on.

I have a word,” he announced, issuing a huge smile.

What is it?” I asked, unable to read the word upside down.

E-wee.”

That’s not a word,” I countered.

Oh yes it is. It’s a female sheep.”

Spell it.”

Ewe.”

That’s not e-wee. That pronounced YOU.”

You’re joking,” he said, his smile fading.

I scooted my chair back and retrieved a dictionary, fanned through the pages, and then turned it so he could read.

OH NO!” he exclaimed.

What do you mean, oh no? You just won the game.”

That’s not the point,” he said, then paused, as though debating if he should share his calamity with us.

We waited.

I’ve been teaching for seven years and all this time I’ve taught my students a female sheep was an e-wee.”

We laughed. Of course he wasn’t nearly as amused as Barb and I were.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/the-perfect-game/”>The Perfect Game</a>

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