Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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I’ve turned 100. I guess I thought no one would notice.
But my nephew Devin called me the other day to ask if he could come over one night to record me. I’m always game when it comes to doing something with one of my favourite nephews. Sure, I said. What’s up?
Well, you‘re going to turn 100 this year. So we figure we better get you on tape before the lights go out. (Devin’s in the advertising business so he has a way with words.) We’d like to ask you about all the changes you’ve seen over the last century he said, and stuff like, you know, what advice you can give us.
All right, I thought. I could talk about the changes I’d seen. From the first little black and white TV that my parents owned to our wall-mounted screens, giving us war in full colour. And the cellphones that let us talk to our kids’ faces from across the planet.
But advice?
I’m still finding out how to respond to my wife when she says, “Do you think I should get a page boy haircut?”
I’m taking a retirement gap year to honour a new beginning
Though I knew what Devin meant and his call kind of put into focus that I wasn’t turning 69 any more. Turning 100 years old has some weird grace notes about it that don’t seem to turn up for other birthdays. Like the email I got a few days ago from a charity called Kids Without Shelter. The letter said that a friend of mine had just given them $100. A dollar for each year of my life, it said. Really? The note graciously went on to list some of my volunteer gigs and to compliment me on being one of “Toronto’s best dressed vintage gentlemen.”
I could see the vintage part, but best dressed was a real stretch. I’ve been wearing jeans and a work shirt six days out of seven since Christmas.
But, anyway. Devin came over and set up his tapes and for the next six nights I tried to answer the questions he and his friends asked about “what it was like.” I don’t know if they learned anything or if I’ll ever hear the podcast they’re supposed to be making, but I had a lot of fun recalling it all. From hitchhiking around Europe in a kilt to listening to Oscar Peterson in a Montreal tavern when we both were 21.
As for the “secrets of a happy life” questions, I didn’t have much to give them. Mostly because I don’t think it’s a given that old guys have the corner on wisdom. I know some old guys who are still pretty stupid. Unless you have a Cree grandfather who used to hunt caribou at 40 below, I‘d say stick with Google. Or Dr. Phil. Though I did read a good piece of advice in a recent letter to the editor. It said, take good care of your legs. If you stay mobile, all the rest is like a walk in the park. (I use a cane so that one kind of struck home with me.)
The reaction to the number 100 is unnerving. People go bonkers over the very thought of someone living a century. (Did you know over 11,300 Canadians are already there?) I’ve given up telling people my age. It’s too embarrassing for both of us. I was at the hospital for a check up the other day and asked the receptionist to order me a cab. When she asked me how old I was these days, and I said “One hundred,” she got a huge grin on her face. Then she ran out to a parked cab, waiting for someone else, told them my age and insisted the cab be given to me. Totally embarrassing.
So for now I’m going to answer that question by saying I’m 83.
What it’s like to share my past on TikTok at 70
The latest surprise in this ageing comedy came last weekend, when about a hundred friends and family threw a picnic to celebrate the new centenarian. It was Toronto’s Withrow Park, one of my old hangouts, and they had gone all in. There was music and dancing, a flash mob (to Ray Carles’s Georgia. Don’t ask) with speeches and a video of my life and even a tug-of-war. The finale was an official congratulations from the city, presented by my favourite city councillor.
I never imagined getting to 100 could be so much fun.
Bob Neighbour lives in Toronto.
