This is not a criticism of the State of Georgia, or of the American South in general. It’s a beautiful, friendly, happy place (if you can survive the heat and humidity). No, this is a little tale about living — and growing old — in the countryside. And trying to get . . . well . . . anywhere when you no longer own a car.

I’m not alone; I live with family. I’m mentally okay (regardless of what anyone else thinks), but I do have a few physical disabilities. My folks look after me while still encouraging me to be as independent as possible — altogether a good thing. But I gave up driving a few years ago because I felt it was no longer safe for me to try to control a ton and a half of steel and glass when I could no longer even walk without my rollator. So I’m pretty dependent on others to get me where I need to go. Which these days is mostly to doctors, dentist, and an occasional grocery run.

Now, my family have been great about chauffeuring me about. But they work long hours, and I just don’t feel right about constantly asking them to take time off from their jobs to drag me around to my increasingly frequent doctors’ visits. So I recently began looking for alternative arrangements.

We don’t live in a city. We don’t even live in a town. Oh, it has a name; it just doesn’t have anything else. We live in a lovely neighborhood of lovely homes in the middle of lovely nowhere. It’s peaceful, quiet, safe . . . and way off the beaten track. The nearest town of any size is a 20-minute drive. But remember: I no longer drive. And I can’t find my way around these country roads in any event. I mean, where are the buildings and the street signs? I’m a transplant from the big city. And one oak tree looks pretty much like every other oak tree, right?

So you’re probably wondering why this dumb broad . . . er, woman . . . doesn’t just call a cab, or Uber, or Lyft.

Once more:

Because, while they do exist just 20 minutes away, they don’t come out here. At least, they don’t pick up out here. If I call them from my doctor’s or dentist’s office in that 20-minute-away town, they’ll come for me there and bring me home. How I get there in the first place is my damned problem.

That’s right . . . it’s strictly a one-way service for us country folk. Which makes a lot of sense . . . if you’re mentally challenged. So, am I just stuck? Well, almost. But my son wasn’t satisfied with that answer — he never gives up — and he found something called Coastal Regional Coaches, part of a broader service for the “elderly.” (God! How I hate that word!) Anyway, they have these cute little buses, or coaches, and you can reserve a ride 24 hours (or more) in advance, and they’ll pick you up at home, take you where you want to go, and come back for you at the appointed time — all for $5 each way within the same county, $10 inter-county. Now, that’s a bargain! Especially considering that a one-way trip with Uber or Lyft would have cost between $35 and $40, which is actually irrelevant in any case since they won’t come out here to get me . . .

And the coach service does work. Or it did, the one time I tried it. I had the loveliest driver, no other passengers that day, and for $10 round-trip she got me to the dentist and back, right on time. Just a couple of little problems.

First, the service is strictly curb-to-curb; they do not come onto your property, for legal liability reasons. Not to the front door; not even onto the driveway. So we now have at my house — compliments of my very talented son again — a ramp from the front porch to the sidewalk. I can easily manage the short walk from there to the curb (yes, our neighborhood does have streets, sidewalks, and curbs, thank you), but I have to wonder about people more restricted than I am.

Next: How do you know when you’ll be finished at your appointment? Have you ever known a doctor to be exactly on time? (My dentist always is, which is nothing short of miraculous.) But I just allow more time than I think I’ll need, and sit around surfing on Facebook while I wait for the bus to get back.

No, my main issue has to do with the vehicle itself. Aside from the apparent lack of shock absorbers — which, on these country roads with their multiple railroad crossings, can be challenging to one’s bones and bladder — there are three steps up from the street onto the bus. Three big-ass steps. Not little ones. Really high ones. And my knees . . . well, they were replaced years ago, and hauling myself up, even with the dual hand rails, was no picnic. But with a boost from my driver, I finally made it. Happily, getting back down was easier. Not graceful, but easier. Grace is something you stop worrying about at a certain age anyway. That, and eyelashes.

The bottom line is, it did work. And it’s going to have to work again, twice this week. Fingers crossed.

Oh, one other thing. Since I can’t get out to the bank by myself either, I had to work out a way to get a supply of $5 bills, since — rather oddly, I think — the coach only accepts cash, and in the exact amount. So I transfer money (thank goodness for Zelle) to my son’s account, he withdraws the money, and then has to get the $20 bills changed into fives. I keep telling him it’s still easier than taking time off to get me to my appointments. I think he agrees.

*. *. *

So far, there has been a solution for every problem. But it’s not always easy, and especially for one who is accustomed to picking up the phone and having every imaginable service and commodity available in mere minutes. And handicapped access everywhere. There is much I miss about the city: the activity, the easy access to everything . . . though not so much the crime and grime.

And never — not once — did I ever see a family of deer on the back lawn of my high-rise apartment building.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/5/24