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.