Stories of AgingHumanizing Aging through Shared Stories

I just turned one hundred. January third. I guess I didn’t know if I expected it, but as I got closer, I thought, well, that might be fun. And it has been so far.

I don’t feel any different than ninety-nine. A year is a day apart. It’s pretty much the same. I feel fine—so far.”

“When people ask how it feels, I don’t really know what to tell them. You just keep doing what you do, and suddenly you’re here. At this moment, things are fine. Thirty years ago, I might have valued something different. But right now, this is enough.”

“Faith, hope, and love—that’s my thing. I don’t care who you are, what color you are, or where you come from. All of us are God’s people. When you’re really sick and need blood, you don’t have time to worry about color—every bit of it is red. That’s how I’ve always seen people. I’ve tried to live that every day, whether it’s helping a child who needs a home, answering the call when someone’s in trouble, or just being there for neighbors and friends. God tells me what to do, and I try to follow that. It’s not always easy, but I’ve learned that faith isn’t just about going to church—it’s about how you act and how you treat the people around you. That’s what keeps me going.”

"There was a child born at UTMB who had multiple sclerosis. His parents didn’t want him, and there was nowhere for him to go—he couldn’t just be left in the hospital nursery. I thought about it, I prayed about it, and the next day I went into the office and said, “I’ll take the little boy home with me.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. This child would probably never be able to walk. I already had two daughters, my husband was a merchant marine, and I hadn’t even had Sam yet. But I felt it in my heart: God told me that little boy needed to come home with me. Father Harvey Buxton asked if I thought I could handle it. I told him, “God said I need to bring that little kid home.” He warned me it would be a big struggle, but he promised we would try.

That little boy, Terrance, stayed with me for years. Eventually, he was adopted by a couple on the East Coast who didn’t have any children—they could give him the two-parent family experience he needed. I had given him love and care, but he needed more than I could give alone.

Looking back, Terrance’s journey—and all the children I’ve fostered—taught me so much about resilience: the strength of a child facing health challenges, the courage it takes to love unconditionally, and the perseverance needed when life throws you the hardest trials. Over the years, I’ve had seventeen foster children. Each one has shown me that compassion isn’t just a choice—it’s an instinct, and sometimes it calls you to do the hardest thing you’ll ever do."

“I’ve had seventeen foster children over the years. Some went on national adoption, and some of them still call me Mama. Some are doctors, some are teachers, one’s an immigration lawyer. I don’t have all the pictures anymore, but I have the memories—and that means more than anything.

I worked all kinds of jobs when I was younger—anything to get by. I cooked, I cleaned, I helped wherever I could. Those jobs taught me responsibility and how to take care of people, and they gave me a sense of independence I’ve carried my whole life.

I also traveled a lot to meet family and see where we came from. I got to know cousins, aunts, uncles, and the places they lived. Those trips helped me understand my own story, and I loved connecting with people I hadn’t seen before.

All of these experiences—my children, my foster children, the travels to meet family, the early jobs I had—built my life. My legacy isn’t in things or awards; it’s built through people, through the lives I’ve been able to touch.”

“You’re going to have trials and tribulations in life. People will try to turn you upside down and inside out, but I’m not going to let that stop me. I still like learning, I still like helping, and I still like people. I worked all kinds of jobs growing up—waitressing, clerking, cleaning, anything I could do to help my family and take care of myself. I traveled some too, met so many people along the way, and learned from every place I went.

Even when life got hard—raising my own children, taking in foster kids like Terrance who had so many health challenges, working with doctors and hospitals to make sure kids were cared for—I didn’t let it stop me. I prayed, I asked for guidance, and I did what I knew was right. There were days when it was exhausting, when people doubted I could handle it, when I thought maybe it was too much, but I kept going. Every challenge, every trial, every unexpected turn taught me something about patience, courage, and love. I just kept learning, helping, and loving, because that’s who I am, and that’s how I’ve stayed strong all these years.”

“I grew up right here in Galveston. I was born at 5112 Avenue R ½ and born at home. 1933. It was totally different than it is now. There was a lot of room, a lot of empty lots and stuff, which everything is about filled up now.

My childhood wasn’t much. A nickel looked good, I’ll tell you that. Once in a while I found a nickel on the ground—man, buy me a candy bar about THAT big.

We didn’t have much. My mama washed clothes for people. She washed on them old boards—had the rub board and the big pot outside. They’d bring their clothes over and she washed them all by hand. We always had enough to eat, though. My mama could boil water and make it taste good. 

I had two brothers and two sisters. I got a sister that’s eight years younger than me, and that’s all that’s left; the rest have gone underground. My sister lives up in San Antonio. I hardly ever go up there but she comes down once in a while. She’s a lovely girl.

You have to understand, things were totally different then. You didn’t have much, but everybody was in the same boat. You don’t think about it as poor—you just lived, and you were glad for what you had.”

"I worked myself so many years, running around at midnight in the dark, all by myself. No light. And I’m still here to talk about it, so somebody had to be with me. I figure the good Lord took care of me. Sometimes you get lost in the fog. It gets pretty foggy in Galveston. You’d think you’re going that way but you’re going the other way, so you have to be careful. My brother, he was older than me, always worried about the fog. He’d say, ‘How the hell we gonna get home?’ And I’d tell him, ‘Don’t worry, brother, I’ll take you home.’ And I took him home many a time.

Making nets—you cut it out like fresh material, then you cut your pattern. It comes in the mail, comes in these pieces with two hundred twenty-five hundred meshes. You sew it all together. It’s a trick. I got a bunch of needles in there, plastic needles that gotta go through the mesh. You got to know what you’re doing or you ruin it.

Sometimes you hang up on a wreck and you can’t get it up. One time I let all the cable out, tied a buoy to the cable. I left just a couple wraps on the winch, put the buoy, let the rest of it out, and I started moving. Oh my goodness, we got loose. You do that a million times and sometimes you tear it to pieces. That’s how it goes.

I used to leave the house dark and come home dark, seven days a week.

A lot of people helped me. They taught me how to respect others. I watched how other people acted, and I was young but I could understand. I’d see somebody who was a nice guy with a good personality and I’d say, ‘I’d like to be like him.’ So I just kind of took a little on myself.”

“She was a lovely girl. Carol. She was sixteen when we got married and I was eighteen. She died about seventeen years ago. We were married fifty-six years. We had ten children. Twenty years difference between the first and the last. The first three were eleven months apart.

If it wasn’t for people giving us their kids’ clothes when their kids grew up, we’d never have made it. People would say, ‘You want these clothes?’ and we were glad to get them.

I’d leave the house dark and come home dark, seven days a week, whatever it took. These hands—they kept me going all them years.

Every Monday one of them cooks and a bunch of them come. They cook, and I’m always eating and drinking a few highballs. They’re good to me. I’m thankful I still got my head on pretty good. Some people my age—you see them all screwed up. But I thank God every day I can still get up and take care of business.”