Right after announcing my contest encouraging readers to write and tell me about someone they knew who had lived to be a ripe ol' age, I attended a Jazzercise class and saw a friend I hadn't seen for ages. Before the music started and we were warming up, I asked her to tell me about her father who I knew had lived into his 90's.
"He passed away at age 96" was her response.
I coaxed her, looking for more, "what do you think was the secret to his longevity?"
Without a second thought she spouted out "LOVE"!
"I believe my father stuck around so long because of his love for everything".
"He loved children, he loved nature, he loved animals, he loved me!"
Now both of us were teary eyed and as the music started and we began to march on the spot I asked "and what else, did he drink tea, did he drink coffee, any special diet?"
and she said enthusiastically, "well, come to think of it, he had a shot of espresso every day after age 90!"
Love and a strong shot of caffeine! I liked that answer! So, even though Linda didn't officially write to me and enter my contest, I am going to bring her some chocolate as a prize anyway.
As well, four readers submitted their stories and I have decided to give them all Rogers Chocolates, made right here in Victoria, Canada. The most detailed of the lot (Janna)gets the most deluxe prize, but all of you are winners and all responses will be published here on my blogspot beginning first with Janna's:
Almost a century ago, in 1917 to be exact, three small islands in the Caribbean by the names of St. John, St. Croix and St. Thomas, which had been under Danish sovereignty for the previous 300 years, were sold to the United States. These days huge cruise ships call in at Charlotte Amalie, the capital city of St.Thomas, but at the beginning of the last century when this story begins, visiting ships would have been merchantment and Danish Naval vessels, with the opportunity for the crew of those vessels to meet and mix with the residents of the city and their families. The head of one of those families and part of the Jewish community was a pharmacist by the name of Petit.
He had a daughter, Clara, whose last named suited her most admirably, for she was indeed petite in stature. At a dance given for visiting Naval officers she met, and was wooed by, my husband's great uncle, eventually coming to Denmark to become his bride.
Two generations later, I, another young island bride, this time from England, came to live in Copenhagen at a time when Great Aunt Clara, by then eighty-three, was the matriarch of the immediate Danish family. A dainty, dignified figure in what seemed like her unchanging outfit of a long black dress, set off by a high white lace collar that complemented the elegantly coiffed white hair atop her head. A tiny black velvet ribbon circling the neckline completed the picture of a lady whose appearance seemed frozen in time.
She was a Danish citizen, but when the infamous round-up of persons of Jewish origin took place in l943 during the German occupation of Denmark in World War II, she was subjected, with hundreds of other Jewish Danes, to the utter indignity of transportation in a cattle wagon to Teresienstadt, a concentration camp in German occupied Czechoslovakia. A camp remembered to-day not only for the totally inhuman conditions that prevailed there, but also for the fact that before International Red Cross inspectors were permitted to make their one and only visit to report on what they saw and experienced, the camp authorities were instructed to create a facade of normalcy by planting flowers, painting buildings and permitting some cultural activities for the benefit of the visitors. A facade behind which, when the Red Cross inspection was over, the brutality of every aspect of camp life was continuous, including the forced witnessing by the whole population of public executions of fellow prisoners. Two and one half years later, in May of 1945, Germany surrendered to the Allied Forces, and the return of concentration camp survivors to their homelands began.
I met Great Aunt Clara in the summer of 1946 and very soon learned from other family members that her horrific wartime experiences were never to be alluded to or spoken of. She lived, with her two unmarried daughters, in a spacious fifth floor apartment reached by a spiral staircase of the style of 1800's buildings before the advent of elevators.
The fact that she lived to be almost 101 years old just may be attributed, in part, to the exercise imposed by those stairs, in addition to her very firm will.
Readers of this story who would like to learn more of the camp/ghetto at Teresienstadt to gain some concept of what this little lady survived, will find all the information they need on "Google".
And submitted by Bill:
An uncle of mine lived to be a ripe old 92, probably because of no single factor but several.
Not an educated man, Uncle John was a good carpenter. He built houses - one a year. He'd begin building in the spring, by fall the house was finished. In November he would go deer-hunting for a week or two and for the rest of the winter it seemed he more or less hibernated.
Later in life I learned that he would often walk the neighbourhood; sometimes on his meanderings he would, finding an old bicycle left out for the trash vehicle to pick up, take it home and work on it over the winter... come spring he would sell it.
Uncle John read the newspaper every day; he enjoyed a particular columnist and would write him a letter from time to time; occasionally his letter would be published.
But more important than his simple lifestyle, it was a deep and abiding love relationship between him and Aunt Norma that gave his life longevity...but also, in a way, ended it. He was approaching his 90's the last time I went to visit them. As we sat chatting I could not help but be impressed by them holding hands while telling me how they had worked together on the lovely needlepoint picture they showed me. She died the following year and he, sick with loneliness, died a year later.
From Dana:
Both of my Great Aunts lived to 91. They were the oldest ever in our family where the average age of passing seems to be 66. I put it down to having LOVE and SUPPORT when they needed it and a sense of humour. Auntie always said it was her Mum's stodgy puddings. Or, it could be that I gave them some crystals that had healing properties one year at Christmas. Aunty swore that they worked!
From Susan:
I had a grandfather who lived to 95!
I think he lived so long because he had a great sense of humour and loved to golf.
He played golf until the very last year of his life!
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