Don’t be fooled by the bottle—top tokens. Over at Brook Manor, they play bingo like they mean it.

“0—68” (long pause).

“N—32” (long pause).

There is a litany of calls rolling over the PA system like a Saturday night auction on the stormy afternoon I happen to possess a game card. It’s a sturdy cardboard one with extra-large print, and I am seated alongside 25 residents in the facility’s community room where women players, I notice, outnumber the men seven to one.

One of the few and the proud making up the lesser part of the ratio is popular Mr. Castilaw, hunkered down low at a table in the far corner. He never misses the weekly — sometimes thrice weekly — bingo games. Claims they have astounding medicinal properties, he does.

“I didn’t know what four nickels could do,” the retired laborer tells me, referring to the potential (and assured) winnings offered to players. “Someone can be in their room, not stirring, and the word gets around that we’re about to play bingo.”

Mr. Castilaw leans in closer, and I lean in, too, struggling to hear him.

“Let’s just say I’ve seen it raise the dead,” he finishes in a whisper, and we share a laugh.

(Hey, a little nursing home humor never hurt anybody.)

“I—29. B—15. N—45.”

“She said ‘bingo,’” someone quips up front. Ah, N—45 has done it. The first bingo of the day.

“Didn’t say it loud enough,” another player pipes back, and it’s true. The majority of their “bingos” are weak. Some voices are strained. Others seem peculiarly monotone. One reminds me of Toad in the Little Rascals movie.

But they know the routine, these wizened ones, without the announcer even getting her “clear your cards and get your nickels” completely out. They keep the pace going, slowed only by some excitement at the table in the right rear. Apparently two players have bingoed at once.

“O—61. N—40. B—25.”

There’s a Vietnam vet (his cap tells the tale) trying to trade cards with a lady at his table. He also makes wise cracks, which are ignored by an announcer who does not appear to be easily amused.

“N—33.”

“I bingo!” a little round-faced lady at the center table shouts. Her next-chair neighbor, wearing a necklace and Nikes, doesn’t flinch. I wonder what she thinks of the teen volunteer’s fingernails, the psychedelic ones on the hand helping her move a token to the correct space.

“G—51.”

About that time, bingo No. 7 rings out, and a caregiver, identified by navy scrubs, wanders through. He works the crowd like an incumbent at the Neshoba County Fair, patting and smiling all the while. “You’re out of your chair,” he admonishes long-haired Barbara, who is nearing a door. “Now, sit back down.” Barbara sits, then goes on to bingo three times before the hour is up.

“O73.”

I decide to introduce myself to the competition, solemn Mary Louise. Wouldn’t you know she’d be a Smith? Mary Louise has anchored her free space with a piece of red plastic that once belonged on top of a gallon of milk, and her board is filling fast.

“G—55. B—7. G—58.”

“G as in ‘girl’?” someone asks.

The answer is yes, and with that the final bingo is declared. Last But Not Least shakily clears her card. We losers do, too, when a new announcer issues the command, and it’s soon obvious that the coming high-stakes round — something called “blackout” — is the real attraction for this crowd. In blackout the goal is to cover your whole game card with tokens, not just a five-space line, and we are warned that the announcer will say the letter/number combos only once.

“So listen up,” she directs from her spot by the piano. Things get quiet, even back in Mr. Castilaw’s corner.

“N—37. O—70.”

“G46. G57. B13. I22.”

Time passes, and we’re getting close. I’m getting close. Four spaces left. But suddenly, it’s not “bingo” we hear, but “blackout”. The lady to my left with the fuchsia bow in her hair takes the prize – a crisp dollar bill.

Moments later wheelchairs and walkers create a traffic jam in the hallway heading home. Not everyone is so quick to leave, though. Mr. Castilaw pulls me aside and recounts that last round as if it were Egg Bowl action. Listening to the play-by-play, I discover he wasn’t particularly impressed by the winner’s one—dollar prize.

“Last week,” he says with a frustrated shake of his head, “it was two.”