My Bunko buddies were the ones who were there for me when I suddenly got “the call.”
By Janine Latus
The first year after I moved to the south edge of Columbia, Missouri, I only knew my neighbors well enough for a one-finger-off-the-steering-wheel wave as our minivans passed. Maybe we’d nod in the grocery store, or make some kind of acknowledgment across the room in a restaurant. I remember once ducking behind the Twinkie rack at the local convenience store to avoid chatting with someone whose name I couldn’t quite remember. I knew I’d met her, and that she drove a beige Honda, but that was about it.
That all changed when Denise Kurp, the Bunko Queen, moved into the neighborhood. Within weeks, this mother of two had organized a disparate group of women, joined by nothing more than a Zip code, into a horn-honking, cup-of-sugar-borrowing, story-swapping support system…