She treats stop streets as suggestions and indicators as courtesy announcements, yet no scratch, no dent while my 42-year-old cousin crashed.
Picture for illustration: iStock
Your mum is nearly 84, a friend piped up recently. When do you think she should stop driving?
It is true. My mother is nearly 84 and still driving. Not pootling to the corner cafe, driving. I mean full mall, supermarket, and pharmacy trips.
According to her, she’ll stop driving “when I can’t see over the steering wheel”. What she does not realise is that anyone driving behind her cannot see that there is a person driving her Ford bakkie. Even with the bun on top of her head, she is not visible behind the headrest.
Mum insists she’s perfectly capable. “My reflexes are excellent,” she says, reversing slowly while we all run around trying to make sure the dogs do not end up behind her vehicle. She treats stop streets as polite suggestions and believes indicators are a post-turn courtesy announcement.
And yet – here’s the problem – she hasn’t actually had an accident. Not a scratch. Not a dent. Meanwhile, my 42-year-old cousin reversed into his own garage door last year.
Technically, she’s fine. Emotionally, we’re exhausted.
Then there’s the small matter of her firearm licence, which my friend does not know about. Yes, at nearly 84, my mum is legally licensed.
Now, before anyone panics – she is not roaming the suburbs like an elderly action hero. The firearm lives in a safe. She knows the rules. She did the competency tests. She takes it all very seriously.
So, what can she still do at her age with a firearm licence?
Legally? Own it responsibly. Maintain it properly. Renew paperwork like the organised legend she is.
Realistically? She uses it mostly as conversational punctuation. At a family gathering, she’ll say: “One must always be prepared.”
Prepared for what, Mum? A rogue pigeon? A slow cashier?
Truthfully, I think the firearm licence is less about danger and more about dignity. It represents independence. Capability. The fact that she is still competent in a world that keeps trying to gently sideline her.
The driving is the same. Taking away her car keys isn’t about safety. It’s about identity. About admitting a chapter is closing.
So when should she stop driving? Probably when her doctor says so. Or when she agrees. Or when she finally admits the “bossy woman” in the GPS might have a point.
Until then, we buckle up, breathe deeply and remember she survived raising us.
The roads can probably handle her a little longer.
