Bingo!

Oh, when we hear that word resound through the room: Bingo! Some voices exultant and laughing while others are disappointed and we can hear the banter, “I was so close,” or “I just needed one more square,” and so on. We all end up in the spirit of the thing. And we want to be happy for that winner, and yet, of course, there’s that little voice inside our heads, “I wanted to win.”

While promoting my first novel, Sister Jane, many people asked me if the story was true. Or worse, they’d ask if it was my life story. The answer to both is “No.” Those questions caught me off guard. If the story was true (in a factual way), wouldn’t we have heard about a miracle worker who had a “batting average” of 1000? And if it was my story, would I be out here hawking a book instead of hanging out with sick people? I’m being ultra-catty, I know, but honestly. 

I am an orphan. But then, most people my age are. It’s the natural flow of life, children outlive their parents, and the baton is passed.  

My father died when I was nine and apparently, in that moment, I became a “single orphan.” I didn’t know I had a label, but I certainly knew what it was like to be raised by a single mother. In some ways, it was for the best. My father was twenty-five years older than my mother, and I believe the speed of change for a non-English speaking older gentleman would have become more challenging than bearable. It was hard enough for mother to keep up, but she did keep up until 2004, dying at ninety-one.  

We are in a culture of labels.

We label people and attitudes and houses and neighborhoods and cities. And of course, books. In some cases, I’m aware that labels can be helpful. I certainly appreciate finding the right size clothing and I confess, if I’m at the used clothing store, I gravitate to familiar labels/brands. I’m glad that foods are labeled with nutrition facts and whether they are spicey. I’m grateful for the “skull & crossbones” to warn me of poisons and toxic materials.

When I give my little “elevator” speech about Sister Jane, I feel compelled to mention that she is, a) an older woman and b) grew up in a small town.

One friend immediately asked me, “what’s older?” I’m afraid to answer that. I know, whether I like it or not, that I am considered older. My worst birthday year was not when I turned fifty, but fify-five. At that point (although I think this category has since changed), I would be in the great miasma of fifty-five and up. I would be in that last check box. Now, if that doesn’t make a poor girl feel old, I don’t know what does. I’m curious what you all think? And although the last check box has changed, I’ve managed to grow into that one as well.