Rose Wilson lacks just one week of being a centenarian. She will observe her 100th
birthday Saturday. And, without doubt, she will be the most active, most charming
100-year-old you'll ever meet. She lives alone, does her own housework, her own shopping,
is active in the First Presbyterian Church and is an interesting conversationalist. In her
spare moments, she writes poetry. As to her health, she "hasn't any complaints".
I dropped in to chat with her at her home, a modest residence jammed in between two
apartment buildings. She's in ecstasy, awaiting her birthday and a reception for her on
Sunday, Dec. 16, arranged by the women of the congregation. On her birthday, her family,
two sons, W.T. of Los Angeles and L.B. of San Jose, and a daughter, Ariel, of Laguna
Hills, their children and four great- grandchildren will gather at the Wilson home for
dinner, to be served around a huge birthday cake.
Age has not dimmed Mrs. Wilson's memory. She is, she explained, "one of the Wixom
clan", among the early mormon settlers of the valley.
One Hundred
The calendar shows it has come,
The day I hoped for.
With grateful heart, I now can say
I've reached the century.
Mine is a precious privilege
Of life in U.S.A.
This is a nation under God,
And He will lead the way.
Ours is an age of progress.
Much knowledge has been gained,
But for some vexing problems
No answer yet attained.
The future is in God's hands,
He rules over each event.
Shall we not trust His wisdom?
He is omnipotent.
--- Rose Wilson
"My mother was Mary Arin Wixom, who married Lucian D. Crandall. He was born in New
York State in the 1830s and came to Utah, where I was born at Tintic in 1873."
"Later, our family moved to Springville, Utah, and then father and his brothers
set up construction camps in southern Utah, Montana, Canada and Colorado. Mother often
went along on the railroad construction trips. In the camps the only reading material
available was "The Police Gazette". For a few months, I was placed in a
Presbyterian mission school. I liked it better than the Mormon school, I guess."
"After father's death, we returned to Springville. In 1885, mother established a
home in San Bernardino. I attended "F' Street School where I remember one of my
classmates was the late H.E. Weinville, later the school's principal."
"In 1890 I took a San Bernardino County examination as a secondary teacher. I
passed and instead of graduating from high school in 1892, I took a job as a teacher in
the Mojave School District at Big Rock north of Oro Grande. Now the site of the one-room
school is Helendale.
"Victorville, I remember as having one grocery store, which also housed the post
office, the Turner Hotel, a livery stable and a pumping station. The pumping plant was a
factor in the building of a Santa Fe depot there."
As a school teacher on the desert, Mrs. Wilson drove a one-horse cart from Victorville
to her school every day.
At the close of the school year, she returned to San Bernardino to marry W.T. Wilson, a
Santa Fe shop employee whom she had met in Victorville. He was employed in the San
Bernardino shops more than 35 years. One of their sons, W.N. Wilson became a teacher at F
Street School.
She is an honorary member of the City's unit of the California Retired Teachers'
Association and has long been active in the Presbyterian Church which she joined in 1892
during the assignment of Rev. Herron. She has held various offices in women's
organizations in the congregation.
You get accustomed to living alone, Mrs. Wilson told me. "When I feel lonesomeness
coming on, I turn to writing verse. I've been at it since I was a very young girl and
besides, nobody ever bothers me - and I never interfere with anybody".
Once, however, one man- a policeman-did bother her. Returning home late one night, she
found she had locked the key to her house inside when she left earlier in the day. She
finally found a window unlocked and, using an old baby buggy which she uses to pull out
the trash to the curb, she was laboriously trying to get inside when a loud voice shouted,
"Say, what are you doing, trying to get inside?"
A neighbor had failed to recognize her and called the police. On a table in her front
room is a collection of trophies she has won at the San Bernardino County Fair, four for
being judged the oldest fair guest and a larger one, the first place award in the poetry
writing contest.
Her prize winning verse:
The County Fair's a gay Frontier;
excitement will be there;
And many folks will take a fling,
without a thought or care.
Some folks will bring fleet horses.
One horse will win the race.
The rider must be venturesome
if he would win first place.
Some take a fling at dancing,
there are prizes for that skill.
The Kitchen Bands will take a fling
with music loud and shrill.
A would-be poet takes her pen
and flings a rhyme or two.
The one who best can call the hogs
receives the credit due.
There always are two oldest folks
who have outlived their peers.
to each of them a plaque is given
in honor of their years.
Mrs. Wilson complained that she is experiencing some trouble in typewriting in recent
years. I reassured her that, ordinarily, inability to type quickly and correctly is a
troublesome ailment one experiences long before he reaches 100 years.
She agreed and, reaching deep into a pile of typed papers on her desk, she came up with
this verse:
TYPEWRITER TYRANNY
Inanimate objects are often perverse;
Sometimes they are friendly. sometimes the reverse.
Typewriters for instance take fiendish delight
In changing the meaning of things that I write.
With one-finger patience, I type out a name,
But when I read it, it isn't the same
The I's and the O's will so often change places
Sometimes there are words where there ought to be spaces.
So, if there are errors,
I'm sure there will be,
Just blame the typewriter.
It couldn't be me.
I'll keep the poem on my desk and when I stumble along, as I usually do, I'll read it
again and again.
It's a pleasant task to interview Rose Wilson. You're convinced that age is, after all,
what you make of it.
