South Florida Sun-Sentinel (Sunday)
100-year-old twins swear by faith, each other
ST. PETERSBURG — The twins settle in their seats at the church hall with cake doughnuts, coffee and three creamers apiece. Norma wanders off to chat, as usual, and Edy looks for her, as usual.
“Where’s my sister?” Edy says. Norma returns and tweaks Edy’s downy hair, fluffing it back to the heavens.
They are dressed the same — navy blue sweaters, Peter Pan collars, cravats, quilted jackets. OK, fine. They did it because we were coming from the newspaper. They don’t always dress alike, but it’s one of those identical twin things.
They are Norma Matthews and Edith “Edy” Antoncecchi — not “Edie” because of the word “die.” They turned 100 on Dec. 23. Fifty people flew to St. Petersburg for their party. Norma’s granddaughter submitted their picture to the “Today” show Smuckers birthday jar.
They missed the segment, but then, they’re usually too busy for TV. They live together, independently, in a mobile home. Helpers drive them around. Every Thursday, they come here to Northside Baptist for live music. It’s not their regular church, but all are welcome at the Golden Heirs senior club. In this room, the twins are stars.
They don’t entirely understand the fuss, the awe their presence evokes. In a world of impermanence, it is stunning to see people who grew up with gas lamps and milkmen, who have watched an entire world change. To see them together, still.
The twins were born outside Boston to Italian immigrants.
They shared a room with a big brass bed. Norma was an artist and Edy played piano. Norma loved fancy fashions and Edy chose understatement.
They had their spats, of course. “You put a penny in your pocket, it doesn’t jingle,” their grandmother told them. “You put two pennies in your pocket, they jingle.”
A close friend looked like Rita Hayworth, Norma says, so no one paid the twins attention. Their family disputes this and says they were beautiful, too. They weren’t allowed to date, anyway. Boys had to ask their father for permission to walk them around the block.
The twins got married the same year, Norma to Charles and Edy to Chick. They were planning a joint wedding, but Norma was marrying a Protestant and the priest was going to relegate them to the rectory, and only bad girls got married in the rectory. Edy married on Valentine’s Day with Norma as maid of honor.
Norma married that May, but Edy had an appendix attack, so Rita Hayworth stepped in.
They never lived more than two cities apart and visited often by bus or train. Norma, a hairdresser, wore clothes like a movie star and gave her daughter perms. Edy, a nurse, was a gentle, natural caretaker. The sisters possessed an almost eerie awareness of each other. Edy could feel when Norma was sick. Norma would think, “I need to call Edy,” and the phone would ring.
They had their first child the same year. Norma had three children and lost one very young in 1948. Edy had two children and
lost one several years ago.
They played the organ, put on puppet shows and hosted sprawling holiday affairs. They loved to perform Sisters from White Christmas. They changed with the times and grew deeply religious.
After 51 years of marriage, their husbands died months apart, Charles of Alzheimer’s and Chick in a car accident. In this low time, the lowest of low, the twins picked each other up and headed south.
They moved to Florida, into the same mobile home park. Eventually, they moved into the same mobile home.
“We couldn’t be without each other.”
— Norma Matthews
The twins attribute their longevity to Jesus, the work of winning souls, and each other. Edy needs Norma. Norma can’t go first. Norma doesn’t have much control over that, she says, but agrees with the sentiment.
“We couldn’t be without each other,” Norma says.
“We came together,” Edy says, “we go together.”