apparent chaotic style of playing. Secretly he knew her talent wasn't in the careful analysis of long game strategies, but rather in the relative positioning of the team. She had an intuitive sense of the probability of play as a function of synergy, while he saw individual pieces in positions with their own set of odds. Even worse, she never cared about winning, a trait that baffled her brother.
Syd played almost identically to her mother. When Syd was seven she and Clarence played a match in candlelight for an entire afternoon and evening. The power had gone out during a particularly severe winter storm, and they moved their chairs and the chess set near the wood stove. The match was drawn out and leisurely. Syd held his captured pieces in her hands, her small fingers moving over the ivory absently. She sat gazing at the fire, mesmerized.
“Why do you do that?” he asked softly, pointing at the berserker rook she was holding in her hand.
“Do what?” she answered selfconsciously, jolted out of her trance.
“Hold the pieces like that,” he said. He paused before continuing softly. “Your mother. She used to do that.”
She stared at him for a long time. “I like the smoothness of the pieces, but I like to feel the bumps of the carving too. I can feel where the knife has been.” A hint of a lisp hid in her tongue, a repository of the slowly filling hole where her two front teeth were growing in. She was startled to see his eyes fill with tears. He dropped his head in his hands and wept quietly while Syd watched him.
Over time Syd began to equal her uncle in play. She began to understand sacrifice when she was eight, and played with relentless ferocity that bordered on recklessness. When she was ten she played with sacrifice, but often to soften her uncle's mood or appease his desire to teach her something of value. She was his superior in play from that point on, but it took him a few years to figure it out. The chess board was the classroom, and Clarence never tired of the metaphor. To his masculine mind he could teach her the ways of the world through well-planned strategies and maneuvers. But she could see the inherent flaw in his lessons; in the end life is unpredictable.
At fourteen Syd played chess to suit her mood. She could beat her uncle or not. She rarely played the game for puzzle anymore. They played less frequently by then and she only wanted to play when she wanted to talk to him about something. She understood that Clarence knew that his lessons were no longer her guiding compass, but they danced the dance of teacher and pupil all the same. Besides, they could fight their battles on the chessboard and still understand the rules of the game. However, they managed to avoid their primary sources of conflict while always fueling the growing sparks between them that flew just beneath the surface.
Syd wanted to be a winemaker. Like her mother. Like her uncle. Clarence all but forbade it. But Syd had winemaking in her blood. Clarence confused her desire to make wine for rebellion and he dismissed the possibility of her ever becoming a winemaker. He told her that winemaking was a man's world. He did not mean to say that women don’t make excellent winemakers. In fact, he believed just the opposite. But the industry was infested with megalomaniacs; self-important, posturing men with little intelligence and no imagination. Clarence expounded on the experiences of so many women colleagues who had to work so much harder than their male counterparts despite having more talent and finesse. But the fraternity of mediocre male winemakers was never better bolstered than when they silently mustered against the ultimate threat; a superior female palate and nose. His opposition was vehement in a way Syd could hardly understand. His reasoning always seemed to miss the mark for such a violent opposition. Her own experience with the winemakers she met revealed little of what Clarence believed. She certainly could see
Syd played almost identically to her mother. When Syd was seven she and Clarence played a match in candlelight for an entire afternoon and evening. The power had gone out during a particularly severe winter storm, and they moved their chairs and the chess set near the wood stove. The match was drawn out and leisurely. Syd held his captured pieces in her hands, her small fingers moving over the ivory absently. She sat gazing at the fire, mesmerized.
“Why do you do that?” he asked softly, pointing at the berserker rook she was holding in her hand.
“Do what?” she answered selfconsciously, jolted out of her trance.
“Hold the pieces like that,” he said. He paused before continuing softly. “Your mother. She used to do that.”
She stared at him for a long time. “I like the smoothness of the pieces, but I like to feel the bumps of the carving too. I can feel where the knife has been.” A hint of a lisp hid in her tongue, a repository of the slowly filling hole where her two front teeth were growing in. She was startled to see his eyes fill with tears. He dropped his head in his hands and wept quietly while Syd watched him.
Over time Syd began to equal her uncle in play. She began to understand sacrifice when she was eight, and played with relentless ferocity that bordered on recklessness. When she was ten she played with sacrifice, but often to soften her uncle's mood or appease his desire to teach her something of value. She was his superior in play from that point on, but it took him a few years to figure it out. The chess board was the classroom, and Clarence never tired of the metaphor. To his masculine mind he could teach her the ways of the world through well-planned strategies and maneuvers. But she could see the inherent flaw in his lessons; in the end life is unpredictable.
At fourteen Syd played chess to suit her mood. She could beat her uncle or not. She rarely played the game for puzzle anymore. They played less frequently by then and she only wanted to play when she wanted to talk to him about something. She understood that Clarence knew that his lessons were no longer her guiding compass, but they danced the dance of teacher and pupil all the same. Besides, they could fight their battles on the chessboard and still understand the rules of the game. However, they managed to avoid their primary sources of conflict while always fueling the growing sparks between them that flew just beneath the surface.
Syd wanted to be a winemaker. Like her mother. Like her uncle. Clarence all but forbade it. But Syd had winemaking in her blood. Clarence confused her desire to make wine for rebellion and he dismissed the possibility of her ever becoming a winemaker. He told her that winemaking was a man's world. He did not mean to say that women don’t make excellent winemakers. In fact, he believed just the opposite. But the industry was infested with megalomaniacs; self-important, posturing men with little intelligence and no imagination. Clarence expounded on the experiences of so many women colleagues who had to work so much harder than their male counterparts despite having more talent and finesse. But the fraternity of mediocre male winemakers was never better bolstered than when they silently mustered against the ultimate threat; a superior female palate and nose. His opposition was vehement in a way Syd could hardly understand. His reasoning always seemed to miss the mark for such a violent opposition. Her own experience with the winemakers she met revealed little of what Clarence believed. She certainly could see
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