What is age?
Just a number? A symbol of frailty and decline? A badge of survival?
In 1900, life expectancy was 49 for American women and 46 for American men. Those numbers now have climbed to 78.8 and 72.1.
Life span is a different story.
Currently it is estimated that there are about 50,000 centenarians in the U.S., or a little more than one per 10,000 in the population.
In the early 20th Century when today’s centenarians were young, only one in 100,000 was 100 years old.
The most radical demographic change of the past half-century has been the decline in death rates among the oldest of the old.
Of the 273 million people in the United States, an estimated 72,000 will reach the century mark this year. By 2050 that number could jump to 834,000, according to U.S. Census Bureau projections.
The New England Centenarian Study, based at Harvard Medical School, has investigated centenarians living in Boston and seven suburbs, examining everything from their cognitive abilities to their DNA.
Its hypothesis is that centenarians, more often women than men, are a select group who have a history of aging relatively slowly and have “either markedly delayed or escaped” the killers normally associated with aging such as Alzheimer’s disease, cancer, stroke and heart disease.
Their biological clocks and lifestyles may provide some clues about extreme longevity for the rest of us.
Following are Tribune photographer Charles Osgood’s profiles of centenarians from the Chicago area who have lived the history most of us only read about.
— Connie Lauerman
Bikwah Yu Tang, born June 29, 1898, in China. She now lives in a retirement home in Chinatown. She spoke through a translator.
Tang was born during the Ching dynasty. She was one of four children. She was married in 1918 and had seven children. After the Communist takeover of mainland China in 1949, she fled to Hong Kong. In 1965 she moved with her family to the United States.
She says she continues to read ancient Chinese literature and Chinese newspapers. And she still makes simple things by hand — a craft she learned from her teacher as a child — including the hat she is shown holding in her hand.
James Adams, born May 11, 1891, in Alabama. He now lives with his wife of 66 years, Rosie, 86, in an apartment on the West Side.
After Adams’ mother died when he was about 8, he and his older sister moved to a city farther south. “A man came along pickin’ the guitar. I can’t understand what he was saying, but when he left, she (his sister) left. I heard from her in Florida, but never did see her no more. …
“I got a job with a man named Ben Shoemaker as a house boy — cutting wood and milking cows. I was making a dollar a week. He had two race horses. I fed them. Rode one every day. …
“I had never been to school in my life. Not one day. I think I met (my wife Rosie when she was) on the way to school. She was going to school and working too. She had a boyfriend at the time and I was living with somebody, but I decided I wanted her, and she wanted me.”
Alma Markow, born Aug. 30, 1897, in Chicago. She lives in Norwood Park Home on the North Side.
“I was the daughter of Fenske Furniture.
“What year? You tell me kid. It doesn’t make any difference at all. I was a lazy lummox. I never worked a day in my life. I always went to private schools. I always had all the money I wanted and all the cars.
“I’ve been all through Europe, China. Now here I sit like a dummy, right?
“I went to U. of I. where I studied music. I have sung on the stage of Orchestra Hall all alone.
“I used to drive a Cadillac, but before that I had a Bay State, if you ever heard of that.” She says she drove until she was 96. And she says she voted as soon as women were given that right in 1920.
“Between you and me I don’t think women should be president. I think that’s a man’s job. …
“Longevity? I don’t over-drink, but I don’t turn a drink down. Plain old bourbon and ginger ale. Because when we were home we were allowed to take a little sip, (my parents) never held it back. It’s good because then you won’t want it when you go out. You know what it’s like and you don’t pay any attention to it.”
Lawrence Hansen, born Dec. 2, 1896. He lives in Norwood Park Home on the North Side.
“I was the oldest of eight boys and four girls. The youngest sister is 79.
“I had three boys and three stepdaughters and was with my second wife over 50 years. I have 44 great-grandchildren and five great-great-grand-children. Being married twice — that’s why I had so many.
“My first job was … they hired me for $5 a week. I was going to work on a switchboard machine. I had never seen a switchboard machine before. Before I knew it I got fired. After I was living here for two months I went to Augusta, Ga., until the war was over.
“I remember the Titanic and the Eastland, the one from Cicero that had the boat on the Chicago River. All of a sudden, boy, there was a big scream. The boat was just about ready to go out. I was over on the street right near there. I was working there for $7 a week. All of a sudden the screaming and everybody ran out, the boat was over and all the people were just screaming. It was a mess there for a while.
“(In those days) we could get a nice piece of candy for a penny. Newspapers for a penny, lots of things you can get for a penny. …
“We had horse and wagons, buggies with fringes on the side. Then the automobiles took over. I bought a brand new Chevy for $490 in 1917.
“You could go and get a loaf of bread for a nickel and leave it on the table the whole day. The same with the rolls or anything — they didn’t get hard. Like you go and get a loaf of bread today the damn thing is hard as a rock.
“It’s the same with Prohibition. They had good beer and they took the wheat away and you didn’t get beer no more. You get near beer and that’s what you get today.”
Edith Replogle, born Aug. 30, 1897, Detroit. She lives in The Presbyterian Homes in Evanston.
Her first memory is chasing after her brother when she was 3 1/2 and he was nearly 2.
“I can remember when Teddy Roosevelt organized the Bull Moose party, the first World War. Two French girls came to the U.S. on Armistice Day and led the parade. One carried the French flag and one the American flag. I was at Grinnell College then. The boys’ dorms were turned into a barracks.
“I remember the first Haley’s comet, too. It was so bright and different than the one we had here a few years ago.
“Voting. I remember that well. They were not going to let me vote. I went with my father and he had to vouch for me. I was 21. I voted Republican, I can tell you that. I was so proud of myself to get to vote ’cause women had never gotten to do it before.
“I had friends who went to war. Some of them died before they got there (from the flu). We lost so many people. There was a scarcity of doctors — all the doctors had gone to the service.”
Replogle, a Latin and English teacher, had two children, the first with cerebral palsy. One of her proudest achievements was founding, with her husband, “Opportunity Village” in Iowa, a group home for handicapped teens and adults. Her son lived there until his death at age 72.
“I’m not going to look back,” she says. “That’s past. I’m just going to look ahead. I have some real good friends who can’t do what they want to do, so they feel sorry for themselves. There’s lots of things I want to do that I can’t. I feel grateful for the family that’s left.”
Her advice: “Get out and do things. Keep busy.”
Luther G. Gidney, born Jan. 9, 1899, in North Carolina. He lives in his home in Crestwood and is assisted by Cuatholic Charities.
Gidney came from a family of eight boys and four girls, growing up on a farm in North Carolina.
“I lost one or two of them, but most are still living,” he says. “Life has been pretty nice to me. One thing I learned — how to take care of my life when I was a young fella.”
When his father bought an automobile, Luther learned to drive. Later he picked cotton to earn tuition for high school, but when the principal found out he could drive a car, he was made chauffeur, and never returned to the fields.
He married his sweetheart Sept. 25, 1929, and they had two children. His daughter, Florence, lives nearby.
Gidney remains active as a member of the Crestwood Zoning Board of Appeals. He continues to play the organ and piano and composed the song he is shown holding.
“I played for the band for 15 years — a community band for this whole area around here. Fifteen or 16 of us in the band and we used to go to various affairs. Played baritone.”
Max Lyon, born Jan. 14, 1897, in Russia. He now lives in a Skokie nursing home.
Lyon is pictured holding a photo of his mother.
“I’ll tell you a little story about my mother. Do you believe in dreams? I dreamt — I have two sisters who have passed away — I dreamed I was with my mother and two sisters on a patio and the sun was shinin’ and we was sittin’ outside. When the sun passed away my mother said, `Children, I’m cold’ (in Hebrew). My mother and two sisters went in. I was to go in and she says, `No my child, you go home.’ I’m still here.
“I didn’t go to school, but went to Hebrew school ’til I was 13. I still get up at 5 in the morning and I put on my tallit and pray we should all be well.
“I came here when I was 14, in 1913. I didn’t speak English when I came. I speak Russian, Polish, Lithuanian and also Jewish. That makes five languages.
“I was in the produce business at South Water Street. That was easy work. I used to get up at 2 in the morning and get home about 5 in the afternoon.
“I don’t want to do nothin’ no more. I was 74 (when retired). I used to play pinochle at the JCC (Jewish Community Center).
“I spend most of the time sittin’ in my favorite chair. I have pictures lined up of my children, my great grandchildren, my mother and all the children right in front of me.
“Once in a while I start thinkin’ how when the kids were real small, I used to lay down on the floor, and they used to jump on my belly and I used to laugh. I couldn’t do it now. Without help I couldn’t get up. I still walk the walker. The walker won’t go without me and I can’t go without the walker.
“How long will it take before I get the check from the Tribune,” he joked. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait.”
Fannie Gilbert, born Jan. 2, 1898, in Chicago. She now lives in a Skokie nursing home.
“I behaved myself. I never stay out too late, I never run around. I don’t drink whiskey. I like ice cream and crackers. I drink coffee three times a day. That’s the way you live long.
“Anybody gets fresh you beat ’em up.
“I eat three times a day. I like kosher corn beef with a sweet pickle for lunch. I like music. I play piano sometimes. If I wanna go someplace I call my boyfriend. We make love. Ooooo, it’s so nice! That’s how you live long.
“You go to bed at 11 with your boyfriend. You have a lot of fun. He gave me a diamond ring. He’s a millionaire. If he dies I’ll be a millionaire. Don’t I look like one?
“None of it is a lie. I don’t tell lies.
“My husband was very good to me. I was 29 years old (when I got married). So far (I have) two children, two sons.” She also has six grandchildren and three great grandchildren.
Her advice for young people: “Don’t smoke or drink. Don’t hit your mother. Go to bed at 11 at night. Go to high school and learn how to make a living. Marry a rich man. You have more fun. What more is there?”
Richard Zeschmann, born Feb. 11, 1898, in Germany. He lives in Norwood Park Home on the North Side.
The oldest of three, Zeschmann was 7 when his mother died, and was then raised in an orphanage.
“My brother and I were in a home with 24 boys. It was not a good one. We were beaten up terrible.” At 14 he left to learn the carpentry trade. However, before he could finish his training, WWI broke out. He was inducted into the German army in 1916.
“On Easter, 1917, we were put in action on the front. We fought there in the trenches.” He was captured by the French and held in prison for 2 1/2 years, long after the war was over.
“We never saw a potato. Only a young person could take it. One time while standing at attention I fell over. After returning to Germany and working for two years someone said he should go to America, but couldn’t get in.”
He later went to Argentina, and finally made his way to Texas.
“We crawled on rails at night. For three years we had nothing to eat. We made soup from neck bones.” In 1926 he came to Chicago.
“I was a woodworker, cabinet maker, and worked at the Tribune for 15 years. They had a big woodshop in the back.”
He has a 70-year-old son who is retired. He has three granddaughters and two great grandchildren.
“I have arthritis — my legs, my knees. It’s hard to walk. I get dizzy every day. When I was 30 years old, when I was married, my prediction was 50 years (to live).
“I get only Social Security. I thought I could make better in the stock market, but that was a mistake,” he says with a laugh.
Mattie Miller, born June 4, 1898, in Tennessee. She lives in Jackson Square Nursing Rehabilitation Center (the name as published has been corrected in this text).
She has been blind for the last 10 years, but remembers 200 Bible verses verbatim.
She came from a family of three children. At age 8 or 9, when her mother died, she went to live with her grandmother in Memphis.
“My grandmother came out of slavery,” she says. “She spoke about them being sold and different masters. Some were very good and some weren’t. Some were cruel.
“When I was 19, I came here. In February, 1918, I enrolled in Chicago Business College at Adams and Wabash.” She didn’t finish, but married Allen Miller. They adopted two children and she now has several grandchildren.
“I remember the first time I voted. I was 21. I was a Republican. I remember when Kennedy got killed — the first Democrat I voted for.”
She thanks God and her grandmother for her longevity. “She brought me up with plenty of clothes on with that long underwear that comes way down to your ankle and shirts that come all the way to your wrist. I was married a good while before I shedded all that. He used to laugh at me about all the clothes and even now I wear a lot of clothes. . . .
“Even though I can’t see I have my spiritual eyes, my mental eyes — seeing with my fingers and hands.”
