That'll Be the Day
- Liz Flaherty
- Jul 19
- 3 min read
This week, as I was heading south down State Road 25 toward Logansport, going 58 miles an hour and listening to E. Jean Carroll's Not My Type on audiobook, I reflected on how much I like to drive. I don't even want to think about how much I'll miss it when my kids draw straws to see who gets the job of taking my keys away from me. Because, you know, it'll happen.
As I drove along on the uncrowded highway, three cars came from the other direction. No one seemed to be speeding or doing anything otherwise nefarious, except for when the back one did. We were in a passing zone, so he was within his rights to pass, but he decided he would go around both of the drivers in front of him when I was within spitting distance in the other lane. (Spitting distance might be hyperbolic, but I was close!)
I gasped ... at least I think I did. And I said words like What are you doing? and Holy sh . . . you idiot!
And then I slowed down.
There was time. He got back into his own lane, I didn't have a heart attack, and as far as I know, we both had a good rest of the day. But he was still an idiot, and my reflexes were about half what they should have been. What are you doing? was acceptable, but Holy sh . . . etc. was too much. Even if he was the root cause of the situation, my tardy response would have been the reason if there'd been an accident.
Like I said last week, I finished a book. It's in the hands of the editor now, and I'm working on something else. Well, fiddling with it. I'm not sure it will go anywhere. But I'm so glad finishing a book didn't mean giving up the keyboard. There'll come a time when I only use the computer for playing solitaire or checking email, but it's hard to think about.
I decided a few months ago that it was time to stop coloring my hair. It was okay. Heaven knows, I'm old enough to be gray or white, and I love other women's hair when it's their natural color. But I didn't love mine, so as of Thursday, I am blonde again, and I'm really happy about it. The 27 friends and family I asked what I should do are also relieved, because now they can go on with their own lives without being concerned about either my roots or when I'm going to ask them the same question One More Time.
I wax a lot of positivity about being old because for the most part, I like it. Nonetheless, I worry about the day when I have to give up my keys, the one where I have no more stories to tell and I've forgotten the value of listening to the stories of others, when I really don't care if I'm blonde anymore. I worry about when my Lasiked and de-cataracted vision will be from the "hollow, ancient eyes" John Prine sings about in "Hello in There."
That probably won't, as Buddy Holly and countless others have sung, be "the day that I die," but it will be different. Like every stage in life--the more of them you get to experience, the better--it will call for reinvention of who I've been. I can't say I look forward to it, but I hope those days will still be fun, and I hope I know when it's time to give up the keys.
Have a good week. Tell your story and listen to someone else's. Be nice to somebody.
P.S. While I'm never especially comfortable with commercials on this blog / Substack, here I am. The compilations from the Window are 99 cents a download these days. The print versions are priced as low as I can make them. Links are below. They're available autographed from me. I hope you enjoy them.
Thanks as always for your insight. I turned 65 last month, and within the past year, I find I've been talking about "oldness" more often. At first, the talking concerned me, but then I realized that it's OK to embrace where one is in life. "Old" is the new cool -- at least in my mind!
Getting old is not for sissies. I might do some screaming and yelling when my kids take my keys from me. Not because I like driving so much, but because I value my independence. I would hate having to depend on someone every time I want to go somewhere or do something.
Have a great day, Liz!