"Ethel's birthday's coming. I have no clue what to get her. I'm not even sure how old she is, she won't tell me," I tell my lunchmates.

  She's like a bird, a lovely crane. Tall and elegant with bright blue eyes like the ice in winter. Long white hair in a braid which she refuses to cut, just to annoy the nurses. Everything about her annoys the nurses, she won't "go with the flow". She won't wear a hosptial gown, only a proper ladies nightgown with a bed jacket, she cannot drink tea from a mug, only a china teacup. Sitting in a chair cannot be accomplished without the proper shawl to ward off a chill and a wool lap blanket to cover the unsightly cast on her leg, and to keep unauthourized eyes (men) from looking at those legs.

 It's 1976, I'm 14 years old and volunteering in the hospital. Ethel is my "punishment" for crashing the lunch cart and spilling everything. It's my job to keep her busy, keep her company, to fetch her things.

  For some strange reason, we clicked. She liked my braided hair, my starched uniform below the knee, my sensible shoes and good posture. She examined my face and nails and commented, "No paint? How interesting."

 The questions went on for an hour, who were my parents, where did I go to school, and so on. Once I passed inspection, she handed me a key and a paper with her address and  a list of essential things she cannot live without and where they were located in her tidy litle house.

 I'm her ally in the battle of impropriety and the decay of Western Civilization.

 "These nurses just don't understand, Poppi, it's unseemly for a proper lady to cut her hair like a man, I didn't do that in the 20's when it was all the rage. I was far too old at that point. Besides, my husband would have been appalled and my father would have disowned me! My mother would have taken to her bed from the vapors and the scandal!Are you listening to me, Poppi, I can't see you back there. Make a proper braid, no stragglers, I cannot tolerate an unkempt head"

 "Yes, it would have been terrible to cut your hair like those flappers." I try to work out the years in my head and get even more confused.

  As her hospital stay went on, the lists of improprieties and the ways to correct them grew. During these conversations I picked up more clues, Grover Cleveland, hobble skirts, the suffrage movement. She lost her children to the Spanish flu, her husband to war. She  was an only child. She had no more family. She couldn't ask the minister to go to her house to fetch ladies things, it just wasn't right. She didn't trust the neighbours, they were "those hippies." She only had me, and my bicycle to help her maintain the little dignity she had.

 I'd go home and reference the encyclopedias and shake my head.

  "It's impossible! She can't be that old, there's no way!" She could be anywhere from 80 to 150! Not even the lady in the yogurt commercial was 150!

  We had a set schedule, four days a week for four hours each. She would tell me about the past, how different things were, how the world had changed so quickly in so many ways. She gave advice on marriage, keeping house and manners. I wheeled her to the meeting room and played Chopin and Brahms on the piano, which she liked, and introduced her to the piano versions of Led Zeppelin.

  Two weeks later, she opened her birthday present and laughed!

 "A teacup with poppies! It's perfect! So, beautiful, thank you for making this a lovely birthday! she hugged me with her frail arms, "Now, I have a present for you. It's a secret. I am exactly a century plus two"

  My mouth dropped. That's impossible! She can't be  300 years old, maybe that's why it's such a big secret, I'll never tell anyone, I thought. If anyone found out they'd put her in a lab and experiment on her, and she wouldn't think that was very proper at all! 

  "Poppi,close your mouth, you look adenoidal, it's not very becoming of you"

  The summer waned, her leg healed slowly, the casts grew smaller and lighter. She was staring to walk with a cane. School would start soon, my volunteer hours would change, Ethel would go home soon with a nurse and me to help out.

  The doctor stopped me as I carried my basketful of proper hankies and fruit and crossword puzzles down the hall.

  "Poppi, come sit with me," he looked sad, "Ethel went in her sleep last night"

 I just stared at him not comprehending. Then it hit me. She died. I cried, sobbed,called him a liar. Then I understood, she was really old, her mind was young and vibrant, but her body was tired. It had been a long, hard century plus 2.

*Ethel's real name was not used to maintain privacy and a proprietry.