They Don’t Make ‘Em Like That Anymore

My grandma Marjorie knew at some point she would have to surrender her driver’s license, the state had rules for people of a certain age. And frankly, with her driving record, I was surprised that they let her drive as long as they did.

She had a lead foot that not only kept her speeding through the streets of Phoenix (because she refused to drive on freeways), but she also accidentally hit the gas pedal, instead of the brake, on more than one occasion. She’s hit trees, cars, nearly people, and who knows what else. Let’s just say she left her mark all over town.

My grandmother never wanted to be an inconvenience to people, even in her death. So she would stick Post-It notes onto the back of her things so everyone knew who got what when she was gone. The car was for me, and by the look of things, she was going to outlive her use of it.

My grandparents always had those big beautiful, boxy cars with heavy doors that clicked so solidly into place when you shut them. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

She teased the gift of the car for months, and I didn’t know what she was waiting for. She was 88 years old and no one but her son Jeff, who couldn’t drive himself, trusted her to drive anymore. But she liked her independence, and her car. It was the most she’d ever spent on a car, twice what they spent to buy their first and only home. She was so proud to have written the check to the dealer for $20,000, talking them down from $22,000.

The epiphany she was waiting for, the one where she could no longer deny her inability to drive safely anymore, came one January afternoon. She called me the next day, and said, “Okay, you can have the car now. Come on over and pick up the keys.”

As abrupt as it seemed, I didn’t care. I was getting a new car! I hurried over to her house, just a few miles away, and I asked her, “why now?”

She looked at me, almost laughing, with playful eyes, and said, “Welllll, these crazy doctors changed my medication yesterday and I fell asleep at the wheel, and hit a bus stop on Thomas Avenue. Can you believe it?”

My jaw dropped.

“Geez, grandma, what did you do?”

“Well, I pulled over to see if anyone noticed, but it didn’t seem like they did, so I left. I’m a fugitive. But I pay my taxes. They can fix a bus stop.”

“Were you hurt? Was anyone else hurt? Were there people sitting at the bus stop?” I secretly jumped on my phone to Google it. Nothing in the news.

“No, thank heavens! If there were, those doctors would have turned your little old grandmother into a murderer!”

“Well, how is the car?”

“Oh, it’s fine, it’s a tank? Nothing but a scratch on the bumper. That’s why your grandfather insisted we have Lincolns and Cadillacs. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

That explained the dent in the bumper. The impact must not have been that bad.

On the way home, I took Thomas Road so I could survey the damage to the bus stop. It was annihilated. I mean, a total twisted pile of metal and plastic surrounded by yellow caution tape from the authorities.

My brain couldn’t process the juxtaposition between the minor dent on the bumper of this car and the mangled mess in front of me. No one would have survived Marjorie and the Town Car had they been sitting there innocently waiting for the bus that day. Had there been anyone on that bench, my grandmother’s last remaining years would have likely been spent in prison. There was an angel looking over her (and the people who normally take the number three bus) that day.

As I pulled the Lincoln back onto the road, I flipped the sun visor down to block the setting sun and found her patron saint of travelers, St. Christopher, clipped to the side. Maybe there really was an angel involved.

I know surrendering her license to drive, and giving away her car, her independence, wasn’t easy. In fact, aging and living as long as she did wasn’t easy. She told me once that the hardest part of growing older was “watching all your friends die.”

Ultimately she lived to 91 years old, surviving her husband of sixty-some years, most of her friends, and two of her own children, and she did so with grace and dignity, never an inconvenience or burden to anyone who knew her.

They really don’t make ‘em like that anymore.