You Look Good for Your Age

An Anthology

Rona Altrows

• Publisher: University of Alberta Press
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781772125719
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: North American Literary Collections
• Index: Literature

"I returned to the same respiratory therapist for my annual checkup. I told her that her words to me, 'You look good for your age,' had inspired a book. 'Wow!' she said. 'You wrote a whole book about that?' 'Twenty-nine kick-ass writers wrote it,' I said. She gave me a thumbs up." From the Preface This is a book about women and ageism. There are twenty-nine contributing writers, ranging in age from their forties to their nineties. Through essays, short stories, and poetry, they share their distinct opinions, impressions, and speculations on aging and ageism and their own growth as people. In these thoughtful, fierce, and funny works, the writers show their belief in women and the aging process. Contributors: Rona Altrows, Debbie Bateman, Moni Brar, Maureen Bush, Sharon Butala, Jane Cawthorne, Joan Crate, Dora Dueck, Cecelia Frey, Ariel Gordon, Elizabeth Greene, Vivian Hansen, Joyce Harries, Elizabeth Haynes, Paula E. Kirman, Joy Kogawa, Laurie MacFayden, JoAnn McCaig, Wendy McGrath, E.D. Morin, Lisa Murphy Lamb, Lorri Neilsen Glenn, Olyn Ozbick, Roberta Rees, Julie Sedivy, Madelaine Shaw-Wong, Anne Sorbie, Aritha van Herk, Laura Wershler

ELDERS

Listen

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ANNE SORBIE

I

Your bloody daughter has done it again. First it was your wife’s license. And maybe that was warranted. Your wife did tell you about that time she was three-quarters of the way through a stop sign before she realized. And about that other time when she said she almost ran down a man on a bike. So taking away your wife’s license was probably warranted. But. This time your offspring wants yours. And it’s undeserved.

Your bloody daughter got involved in your life while you were at the stroke rehabilitation centre for those two or threemonths. And she showed up there every single day. There they had the nerve to use an occupational therapist to teach you how to swallow. As if that was something you’d never donebefore. And she was in on it: encouraging you to look in a mirror while you ate. Bloody hell. It was there, too, that they forced you to go to session after session with a physiotherapist and a speech therapist. You didn’t care if you had a wee limp on the right side, or about the droop and the slur. You would’ve dealt with all that. You could’ve even had preferred parking.

But. There was nothing preferential mentioned when you heard your bloody daughter and the bitch cardiologist talking about your driver’s license. Excuse me. The female doctor. The one who acted as if she had every right to tell you what to do. The same one who told your son to calm down that one morning. Or she’d have him removed. Possibly even banned. All he did was to put her in her place. To stick up for you. Who the hell did she, did they think they were anyway?

Today your bloody daughter is driving you to that place where you have to prove you are worthy of a driver’s license. She took your wife there, too. To make it all official and governmental. But this time she’s messing with the wrong man. You signed the forms all right. And they can review them until they’re blue in the face. You’ll show them. You are still equipped.

You’re in your bloody daughter’s car. Her Auto Union Deutsche car. She’s so stupid she probably doesn’t even know that while the car name has a German root, Audi is the Latin for “listen.” But that’s ironic, because as you’ve told your son over and over again, she never listens. Just as an example, she didn’t hear you when you said she was to bring you the keys to your vehicle. So you showed her.

You took a taxi to the house. Not her house. Your own house, when you had a day pass. You got the emergency key from the magnetic box inside the front bumper and you tookthe van out to Tim Hortons. It wasn’t far. And you were lucky. It was the neighbourhood constable who’s been around for donkey’s years that reprimanded you when you accidentally ripped off your right-side mirror on the chain-link fence near the drive-through. Lucky because he let you buy your ham and cheese before he and his partner drove you and your van back to the house where he made you surrender the key. Where he called you another taxi that took you back to the stroke rehabilitation place. Lucky, too, because he parked thevan at the side of the garage right where your bloody daughter had put it three months before.

The other day, you thought you’d try something else. You got one of the volunteer girlies to look up Car2Go for you online. You thought you were really going to be able to register. That you’d really and truly be good to go. And that your bloody daughter and the bitch doctor would never know. You even remembered your credit card number. But when the thingy asked for your driver’s license details it was game over. Until then you imagined hopping into one of those wee Daimlers whenever you wanted, daughters and doctors be damned. Instead, some outfit called Driving Miss Daisy is phoning you to plan your outings. To Tai Chi, the bank and the barber, even the bottle depot.

This afternoon, before you start, you know that you’re going to fail the test to prove you can drive. It involves a computer and typing. You’ve never had to type anything. That’s something your wife was happy to do and that you were happy to let her do. Even all that online banking stuff. It wasn’t like she could sit at the makeshift desk in the dining room and steal your money without you knowing.

After the test you tell your bloody daughter how stupid the exam was. And. You want to know why the idiot man didn’t let you do the road test. You tell your bloody daughter there must be some kind of effing mistake. And mark. You never use that word unless it’s really warranted. You’ve repaired and driven all manner of vehicles and vessels in your life. From the 1941 Bentley sedan that you bought and fixed up, to the ships’ sonars you worked on in Aberdeen, to your first Canadian car, a red and white International Harvester Travelall, to the tanks and armoured vehicles you nursed to life on CFB Calgary.

You tell your bloody daughter that mistakes abound. You talk about the female cardiologist. You yell about the test results that prevented you from moving back into your own home. You’re screaming and yelling at her when she drives up to the front of your new assisted living place. You get out, and while gripping the handle of the passenger door, you bend over slightly, make sure she can see your face. You tell her you are hiring a taxi as soon as she’s gone. That you’re going to Nissan to test-drive a Cube and that she can’t stop you.

When she says, and very gently, I’m so sorry Dad. And follows that even more quietly with, You can’t do that without a license. You let your bloody daughter have it.

You say the thing you’ve never told her, her whole life. The thing that always embarrassed your wife. The thing that always kept your wedding anniversary a low-key event, no matter the number of years. There are only six and a half months between your wedding day and your eldest daughter’s birthday. You! You bellow in front of all the old people getting off the lodge bus and walking past you to the front door. YOU, you repeat, even though every...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Preface
• Acknowledgements
• Insight
• Elders
• Body
• Love
• Timelines
• Enough!
• Notes
• Contributors