Lives of note: a century and beyond
childhood home was Dunedin. Not only that, but one winter she decided to swim at St Clair beach every day. ‘‘Which is insane,’’ exclaims Hollis. ‘‘There was snow on the sand at times. Yet she was determined to do it.’’
Hollis has compiled bar charts on a few other statistics. She found twice as many were born in the winter as any other season. A quarter were also the eldest child. Nearly all had married and raised between two and four children.
Hollis says she wasn’t attempting a scientific study. But perhaps there are subtle factors that do contribute to longevity.
Age did run in quite a few families. And even if poor, many came from farming backgrounds. ‘‘Most would have had a vege patch and a few chickens at least. They would have eaten organic and off the land, not so many preservatives.’’
Evidence that social circumstances must make a difference was that Hollis could find only one Ma¯ ori centenarian to interview, and no Pacifika at all, despite making an effort. ‘‘I was ringing up marae. And they were saying, well, we’ve got someone of 70.’’
Hollis says she stumbled upon Hastings’ Flora Jones – since having died at age 101 – who had a Pa¯ keha¯ father and Tu¯ wharetoa mother. ‘‘That was a fluke, because Jones is such a Welsh name. I had no idea her mum was Ma¯ ori.’’
As far as she knows, there were no gay centenarians among the 120 she interviewed. That was a demographic surprise too, maybe.
She found one married couple who were both over 100 – another of her more unusual life stories.
Jeram and Ganga Ravji of Auckland were born in 1916 in the Indian state of Gujarat. They were betrothed at 6 by their families.
Jeram landed in Wellington in 1928 with his labourer father, before returning to marry Ganga in 1934 and then getting caught up, eventually imprisoned, as one of Mahatma Gandhi’s freedom fighters.
After a few years, the couple got to New Zealand in 1953, settling in Whanganui where they ran a fruit and vegetable shop and raised six kids.
Yet another statistical exception in a book about statistical exceptions was a centenarian pair of twins Cora Wright and Elsie Fagg of Mosgiel. The odds against that are one in 700 million, Hollis was told.
She says they were identical in every way, except Cora had dementia. ‘‘I guess that’s interesting because they grew up together, had the same diets, lived five minutes away from each other. Both married, had two girls, two boys. Their husbands both died quite young.
‘‘There were so many similarities apart from that.’’
Cora died in January last year and Elsie followed her nine months later.
Iof operating lathes and saws, he can still do most things by feel. Certainly for someone his age, there seems little wrong with his legs or brain. And his immune system must be cast iron.
Hermanns has another of his quips ready. ‘‘The doctor phoned me once and said, do you want a flu jab? And I said no, I don’t think so. It takes me all my time to catch a cold. So the flu’s quite beyond me.’’
We inspect his most recent batch of birthday cards on the mantelpiece. Glossy photos from the Queen and Jacinda Ardern. Apparently once you make the centenarian list, they continue sending you a fresh greeting every year.
There is also a large board of Hermanns’ old family photos left up by the door for the curious. He’s looking cute in shorts with his younger sister, Irene.
Hermanns’ story is he was born in Winnipeg on September 25, 1911. His parents had left England for Canada. Seeking a balmier climate, it is said, they moved to Wellington when he was 3.
His father was a taxi driver who helped in his brother’s wholesale grocery business. Hermanns – clearly capable – left school at 12 to become an apprentice engineer, but struggled to find a job during the Depression.
For a few years, he worked on the assembly line at the General Motors’ Petone factory, then Wellington’s rail workshops, before becoming an airforce fitter just in time for World War II.
Based in Vanuatu and the Solomon Islands, repairing aircraft and handling bombs, Hermanns amused himself with ‘‘trench art’’ – crafting items like Plexiglass snake sculptures from melted bits of fighter plane canopy. Some of it is on display at Wigram Air Force Museum.
He continued in aircraft maintenance at Christchurch Airport after the war, rising to be a senior Air New Zealand instructor.
‘‘When I retired was the year we went metric. So I just missed out on that. I’m still in the age of the imperial measurements,’’ he jests.
Watching Hermanns move about his home, skirting multiple trip hazards like a lifted driveway slab and the handsaw lying ready for some chore on his living room carpet, it is his cheerful, unflustered, spirit that impresses.
A big part of why he has lasted so well must be the community support which has allowed him to remain within the familiarity of his own home.
Neighbours over his back fence, retired leukaemia specialist Dr Mike Beard, and late wife Joy, began keeping an eye on him over 20 years ago. Ryan and others were recruited more recently.
She says they drop in each evening to see he gets his dinner, that his heating is safe, and to have a chat.
However, Ryan reckons the secret to his longevity – along with a genetically blessed constitution – must be that Hermanns never seems fussed and always has something engaging his attention. ‘‘His mind is constantly busy.’’
When asked how he was affected by the 2011 earthquake, Hermanns is almost blase, saying his house didn’t feel much impact. Only the chimney was lost.
‘‘We had our power back on in about four hours, while over the road it was about a month. I was filling their thermos flasks for them so they could have hot drinks.’’
A zen quality, perhaps? Hermanns doesn’t appear to think to complain, or show frustration, with his failing eyes and ears, and other symptoms of his advanced years.
Telling a story against himself – how the Beards threw a party for hospital friends and he sat down too fast on a backless garden bench, so went sprawling – for a moment he is at a loss as to exactly what Joy called the event.
Awkwardly, he gets stuck trying to recall the unfamiliar term. But then shakes it off to get to the punch-line.
‘‘So there I was, feet up in the air. And of course there were 100 medical people around me. They got me up. Asked me to wriggle my toes. Checked me out every way. And I found I hadn’t even spilled my drink. I had somehow kept it level.’’
A beat later, the missing words do come to him after all. ‘‘It was a public affirmation. That’s the name she gave it.’’
For 107 years on the planet, it is hard to imagine Hermanns doing better. It seems impolite to ask him how much more mileage there might be on the clock.
But as we leave, Hermanns reveals he has left his body to Otago Medical School to make of it what they will.
‘‘Any parts that can be used, the medical researchers are welcome to them. But I’m picking there won’t be much left,’’ he says merrily. A good life indeed.