Celebrating the ‘Eighth Wonder of the World’

It seems that I have arrived too early. Octa DeLamater, while not one to get angry, is a tad ruffled. Yes, she takes my hand and squeezes it, smiles beautifully, chats amiably, but she seems a little stiff, on edge.

This is not how it is supposed to be.

True, Octa’s earrings and matching choker are in place, her white hair is coiffed in springy curls and her pink lipstick is freshly applied. But she has on an ordinary brown and white housecoat, which will not do.

“Where is my dress?” Octa, smiling, asks of her step-daughter, who has just arrived.

In the meantime, people are shuffling in and out of Octa’s room here at the Hollenbeck Home in Los Angeles, extending their greetings, wishing her the best. But the dress, where is the dress? And now a photographer is here!

Finally, the dress arrives; there is a flourish as it is displayed and admired by all. Hot pink with a lace-covered bodice, the dress has, oh, sentimental value. It is stored elsewhere, to keep it nice. Octa only wears it once a year, on her birthday. Her late husband, Del DeLamater, gave it for her when she turned 91.

Today, Octa is 108.

Her nail polish, I see, has been matched exactly to the color of her dress. “Well, my birthday doesn’t come except once a year,” she explains, matter-of-fact.

Now everything is just right. Octa beams as she is wheeled into the solarium, one of eight guests of honor for the March birthday party. She is the oldest, and most lively, by far.

I am told that I should have been here when Octa turned the big 1-0-0. A local TV crew caught the moment on tape. Octa laid down on her back, lifted her hips in the air and whipped her legs over the top of her head. Photographs are produced to verify this fact.

There is anticipation as to what Octa might do today. She likes to keep the youngsters on their toes.

“I’m not old,” Octa says. “I’ve just been around a long time.”

Which is indeed good news.

“You’ve just met the eighth wonder of the world,” says David Boyles, his video camera in hand. David is married to Octa’s step-daughter, Jeannine.

“The eighth wonder, I’m telling ya,” he says, still marveling as he walks off to aim some more camera shots.

David, a dentist, and Jeannine, who flew in from Houston for the party, are the closest thing to family that Octa has. Octa married Jeannine’s daddy when he was 50 and Octa was a decade beyond that.

“Well, I’d rather have a lemon drop,” Octa says in reference to her preference for younger men. Then she gives off a pretty good laugh.

Octa and Del were married 44 years, until his death 2 1/2 years ago. It was then that Octa got a little down, depressed, not feeling right. She is unaccustomed to that. She’s never really been sick in her life; she says she’s never even known a headache up close.

“I quit my coffee drinking over 100 years ago,” she says. “That was on my daddy’s knee. I tried it and I didn’t like it.”

Still, after Del’s death, Octa took to a wheelchair, complaining that she was too tired to walk. Then she asked to be moved from the room that she and Del had shared, so that she could leave the memories behind.

Except the memories just followed her down the hall and around the corner. Memories can be very stubborn like that, always tagging along and making their presence known.

“I had a son, but we lost him when he was 21 1/2 months old,” Octa volunteers. “I didn’t give him the attention he needed. We were always following my first husband around, from well to well. I just didn’t give my son the attention that I should have.”

Tears pool in the corners of Octa’s pale eyes when she mentions all that.

Her son, who apparently died of appendicitis, was the only child that Octa ever had. Her first husband, Robert Parks, was a Texas oilman. They were married 31 years, until his death. Octa nursed him until the end.

Now Octa is back in 1992. The official festivities are about to begin. Some 50 people, most of them in wheelchairs, are gathered around a table where Octa is seated at the head.

Romy Kitnick, activity director, booms into a microphone, “Can everybody hear me?”

“Whaaat?” comes the chorus of replies.

Then Romy asks Octa how old she is. “One hundred eight years old!” she says in a strong, steady voice. There is applause, which the piano player takes as her cue. “Happy Birthday to You” is sung with spirit, especially considering this group.

Octa lifts herself out of her wheelchair and intones, “Oh, I’m so glad to see so many people here, and I love every one of ya!”

“She is the eighth wonder of the world,” David Boyles says.

But there is more. Octa kicks up her heels to the strains of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” (she’s back to practicing her walking), recites a poem (one of 20 in her repertoire) and then, finally, takes a break just to bask in the good feeling floating around the room.

There are cards and presents, kisses and hugs--not to mention the written kudos from the official types: Mayor Tom Bradley, Sen. John Seymour and that current guy in the White House, George Bush.

(He is the 20th man to live there since Octa was born in Marshall, Ark., in 1884.)

“I just came in to get a kiss and a piece of cake,” says Edwin Maile, who met Octa six years ago when he, too, was a resident of the home. Edwin is 69. “The kiss was the most important, of course,” he says.

Octa, meantime, is the last one to leave the party. She reminds me once again that birthdays come only once a year. She says she’ll back here next year, if God wills. She’s had a wonderful time. Her many friends have too.

Elisa DuVal, who lives in the neighborhood, tells Octa that she’ll be back later, to see her when all the hubbub has died down.

“She gives me a lot of pleasure,” Elisa says. “She really peps me up. When I get lonely, I come by to see Octa. She’s how I want to be when I get old.”

Elisa will be 82 come May.