On the Buses with Older Warrior Women
A woman exiting a TTC Peter Witt streetcar along Yonge street, Toronto, Canada in 1928; Original photo is from the @toronto_archives.
by Diane Girard
I ride city buses frequently and so do many seniors in my town, especially the older women. Fortunately, we have good public transit, because for some of us it is our only transportation except for the occasional taxi ride. The women I will mention here don’t resemble Xena, the Warrior Princess. They go about their business mostly unnoticed and uncelebrated except perhaps by their kindred. So, why do I refer to these older women I know a little about, the women who tell me personal stories, as warriors? Because they are honorable fighters. They get on with their lives, with grace in most cases and with smiles, almost always. I admire them. I have given them pseudonyms for my protection. We may meet again.
Violetta is ninety and came to Canada from northern England shortly after World War II. She lives in a tiny airless apartment with her ninety-five year old husband who is home-bound. She takes the bus to the mall with her bundle-buggy to fetch their groceries. She appears frail, her bones almost poking through her freckled skin. The food and the cart together weigh more than she does. But, two or three times a week, I see her haul her cart on and off the bus, then up the street to her home. She tells me her only concern is that the bus shelter has been removed so there is no shade in our hot summer and no respite from snow in the arctic winter. “But I have good boots, so, mustn’t grumble,” she says with a grin.
Margita is eighty-three. She has sharp black eyes, dyed blonde hair and a slight limp. She says English is her third language. She came to Canada from the Ukraine with an older sister who has since died. Now she has no family here and lives alone but she wouldn’t go back. “Not while Putin lives.”
She has only a few medical problems. “Something with the heart, a little breathing problem, something, something else, I forget the name in English. But we must smile – yes? We are so lucky to be here and not where that Trump rules. Here, we are safe.”
I hope she is right and so I give her my smile.
Lillian has a wide body and chopped grey hair with faded orange streaks. She hardly ever stops talking to her friend, Anna. She goes with Anna to all her medical appointments by bus. Anna cannot read English but can recognize numbers. She takes a while to memorize new bus routes. She is happy to have Lillian show her the ropes several times, if that’s what it takes. Both women are in their late seventies. Lillian says they receive only government pensions so they don’t spend much on frills. Going to the hospital coffee shop after Anna’s appointment will be today’s treat. Lillian is considering buying a new kind of hair dye, when and if the price goes down. Anna says maybe Lillian should get a hat, instead. They laugh then, because Anna is wearing a black and white straw hat with a huge brim that overpowers her face, and dark sunglasses. She calls it her Joan Crawford look.
“Maybe your hat will impress the new specialist,” Lillian says.
“Sure, why not,” Anna replies. They are still kidding each other when they get off the bus.
The woman I think of as Griselda hoists her walker and her huge body with her overflowing belly into the bus. The driver didn’t put the accessibility ramp down for her so she upbraids him for that. Her snarl is magnificently scary. She manages to get to a seat and thump down on it. Then she retrieves a magnifying lens from her walker and uses it to peer closely at her phone. Her top is lime green, her pants are orange, and there is a vast expanse of pale skin between them. She takes no notice of people staring, and then looking away. Probably she doesn’t see them.
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