For Whom the Bell Tolls

Late last month, unnoticed by most of the world because it was reported at the same time as actor Paul Newman’s death, a 110-year-old woman named Alexina Calvert passed away.

Calvert was the oldest living person in Scotland — a title which, obviously, has now been passed along to someone else.

But, while a 110-year lifespan is quite an achievement, she did not live longer than everyone whose dates of birth and death can be documented. A French woman who died in 1997 holds that distinction, having lived more than 122 years.

The news of Calvert’s death caught my attention because she was born around the time my maternal grandmother was — Calvert was born in 1898, my grandmother was born in 1897.

I saw a picture of Calvert that was almost eerie in its resemblance to my grandmother.

And I saw other parallels between Calvert and my grandmother. Calvert’s husband died in 1973; my grandfather died in 1969. Neither Calvert nor my grandmother remarried.

My grandmother lived a long life — although, when compared to Calvert’s life, it doesn’t seem as long as it was. My grandmother was 91 when she died of Alzheimer’s disease.

Like anyone who lives to be more than 100 years old, Calvert frequently was asked the secret of her longevity.

"I never thought I would live as long but I have been lucky," she said last year. "I’ve had quite good health and I don’t drink."

Not drinking isn’t the secret for everyone, of course. I’ve heard other people who claimed that the secret of their longevity was a glass of wine or a bottle of beer with every evening meal.

And I’ve even heard occasional tales of centenarians who claimed that smoking actually helped them live longer. I’m sure they (and George Burns) were the exceptions to the rule.

But I suppose it’s really the luck of the draw.

My mother, for example, neither smoked nor drank (at least to excess — she did enjoy an occasional glass of wine) and she walked a couple of miles daily for exercise, but she lost her life when she was 63. She was caught in a flash flood and drowned.

That's a reminder, I guess, that even if someone seems to do all the right things, fate can still intervene and deprive that person of a lengthy life.

One need look no further than John F. Kennedy Jr. for evidence of that.

I don't know if he had any addictions, like smoking or drinking too much. He was born the year after I was, and, until I was nearly 40, it seemed "John-John" was "The One" America was waiting for.

Wealthy, handsome, well educated and articulate, he was the crown prince and the rest of us were merely waiting for him to reach the age that would be appropriate to reclaim the throne.

But in July 1999, after the private plane he was piloting crashed and killed him at the age of 38, along with his wife and his sister-in-law, his Uncle Ted observed that "like his father, he had every gift but length of years."

I grew up in a town that was about 300 miles from my grandmothers' homes, and I only saw them at holidays (like Thanksgiving and Christmas) and during the summers. My father's mother died in a rest home when I was 16. My maternal grandmother also died in a rest home, but I was nearly 30 when she died.

As a child, I was always a bit jealous of my friends whose grandparents lived nearby. It always seemed to me that they had a closeness with their grandparents that I didn't have.

Aunt Bess filled that void in my life.

When I was a teenager, I was in the habit of visiting a lady known in the community as "Aunt Bess" after school for about an hour on Wednesday afternoons.

I got to know her around the time I got my driver’s license. My house was a few miles beyond the outskirts of the town, and Aunt Bess lived along my route home from school. So it was easy to stop by and see her.

Her son was a local celebrity — he had gone to California and had become the host of a nationally televised morning game show that was on the air for a few years.

He brought his family to my town for visits from time to time. One summer, when I was about 15, my family became acquainted with Aunt Bess and her family during one of those visits.

Initially, I became friends with Aunt Bess’ grandson, Joe. After Aunt Bess' family had returned to the coast, my parents gave me permission to fly to California to visit Joe for a week.

What a week that was! Joe borrowed his father’s car for our use, and we went cruising along the Pacific coast several times (including more than a few stops along California's beaches, mainly to do some girl watching). We visited Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm, and one day we went to the TV studio to watch his father tape a week’s worth of game shows.

It was after I returned from that trip that I really got to know Aunt Bess and we started our regular Wednesday routine.

We talked about everything when I came over to her house on those afternoons. We began by sitting down with something to drink — usually a glass of iced tea or Coca-Cola. If Aunt Bess had something to nibble on — like cookies or cake or perhaps an apple — we would share a late afternoon snack.

I would tell her about things we were studying in school, and she would tell me about her friends at church. We talked about current events — and, during football season, we talked about the Razorbacks.

I don’t recall why we picked Wednesday to be the day I paid my weekly visit. Wednesday evenings usually were busy for Aunt Bess. Devoutly religious, she attended her Baptist church services every Wednesday night. She also taught Sunday school for many, many years.

I guess it goes without saying that her devotion to her faith was almost legendary in the church congregation. In fact, it is my understanding that, after she died, the church named a meeting room in her memory.

The time limitation provided a structure for our get-togethers, though. School adjourned at 3:30, and we knew we had to finish our visit by about 5 o’clock to give Aunt Bess enough time to dress for church.

So I often planned ahead of time the things I wanted to talk about. Because of that, Aunt Bess used to tease me, telling me I was "methodical."

Like my real grandmothers, Aunt Bess is no longer with us. As a matter of fact, she died 20 years ago today.

We sort of lost touch in the last years of her life. I don't know if she developed a terminal illness, like my grandmothers, and had to move to a rest home or into her son's home, or if she just died unexpectedly.

It's one of those things I don't know, one of those things I will never know.

I can only hope.

I never told her (in so many words) what an influence she was on my life. I can only hope she knew anyway.

I hope I learned all the life lessons Aunt Bess wanted to teach me.

And I hope she rests in peace.