During the last presidential election, my father-in-law lived and voted in south Florida. Based on what he told us about his experience with the now-infamous butterfly ballot -- "I made a mistake at first, but then I fixed it" -- we suspect that his vote was one of the many that never made it into the final tally.

This time he'll be voting in suburban Baltimore, where he moved a few years ago to be near his daughter -- who, along with my husband, had pleaded with him to come back north after his wife of more than 50 years died.

The relocation was a good decision for more reasons than the voting apparatus.

First and foremost, it extracted him from the post-retirement isolation that often accompanies the loss of a spouse. Now, at age 92, he's enjoying family dinners again, seeing his grandchildren and great-grandchildren often, basking in the glory of being "Papa" to another generation.

He's also receiving much better medical care, thanks to his daughter's involvement. And he didn't have to suffer the poundings of hurricanes Charley, Ivan, Jeanne and Frances.

His vote, on the other hand, is once again a point of contention. In fact, he lost it to my daughter in a card game.

After arriving here last week for a visit, Papa announced his choice for president. His granddaughter, age 14, was appalled. He told her why he liked his guy, and she told him why he should change his mind.

My husband and I kept to the sidelines of this ongoing debate, because a 92-year-old veteran of World War II is entitled to vote however he likes; because we know the futility of arguing with him; and because our daughter's relentless campaigning rendered our voices superfluous in any case.

Then one day, the light bulb went on.

"C'mon, Papa," she said, shuffling a deck of cards. "I'll play you for your vote."

This, of course, was not a fair bet as she had no vote to offer in return. But he, a grandfather first and foremost, went along anyway. Maybe he expected to win, but more likely he wanted to encourage her burgeoning political awareness.

The two of them commenced one of their customary face-offs across the dining room table. They've been doing this ever since he taught her to play casino for pennies when she was 7 years old.

"You have to use strategy," he would tell her, tapping his finger to his temple. Then he'd chuckle, and pretend to crane his neck for an illicit peek at her hand, and duck behind his cards so that only his eyebrows showed.

"Papa, are you cheating?" she'd reply, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to look stern.

"Oh no," he'd say, a veteran of countless poker wars at the clubhouse of his Florida condo. "They throw you out of the game for cheating. Strategy's allowed. It's better anyway. It shows you're smart."

He showed her how to think through a hand, hold onto good cards for use later in the game, weigh the possible outcomes of playing this card or that one.

She paid close attention and absorbed the lessons. Over the years he went from occasionally losing to her on purpose just to keep her spirits buoyed, to losing more often, for real.

Which is what happened when his vote was on the table.

"She slaughtered me," he told us. "It wasn't even close. And I was really trying to win."

Let this be a warning to all grandparents out there -- turn your grandchildren into gamblers at your own peril.

At the end of his visit, Papa returned home via our established practice of the hand-off. My husband drives him to Breezewood while my sister-in-law is driving in from the other direction. They rendezvous at the Gateway Restaurant, have a cup of coffee and a visit, Papa changes cars, and both drivers turn around and go back home.

The night before he left, I asked if he was really going to change his vote.

"I have to," he said with a chuckle. "I lost."

What he ultimately does in the voting booth, we'll never know. That's as it should be. But whatever it is, it had better count this time. Lord knows he's earned the right.