Lately, the Non-Governmental Organization of the Elders, (which includes such aged and iconic leaders as Nelson Mandela, Jimmy carter, and Ela Bhatt) has been grabbing headlines. Here in the District, we've got our own group of elders. Not as cohesive as an international organization, they tend to be just as swift to help, just as willing to lend a squirrelly young person the privilege of a few answers. I caught up with two of our most elder elders, one in Capitol Hill and one in Ward 5, as they turned 100 and 108 respectively.

Even though Mayor Adrian Fenty and Ward 5 council member Harry Thomas Jr. were likely to show up, Mrs. Eddye Williams didn't ask for anything fancy as far as her birthday party was concerned. Just a bowl of turkey salad, some juice, a few bags of chips. When her granddaughter asked the elderly woman if she would come down for the party, Mrs Williams said yes. But at 108 these things are unpredictable.

Around five in the evening, as dusk pressed on the windows, Mrs Williams entertained family members and reporters in her bedroom. The food she asked for sat on a table by her bed. Surrounding both her and the table were flowers, balloons,and a ton of cards. Mrs. Williams, at the nexus of all this color and attention, looked to be in calm repose even when, a little into the celebration, someone informed her that the Mayor was on his way up.

The young politician seemed loose, even jovial as he strode the carpeted steps to the second floor. It was as if this was the best part of his job--making a surprise showing at a birthday party in the middle of the hood. Meet some nice people, say a few words, then back to work.

Things wouldn't quite go that way.

Two days earlier, Mrs. Elizabeth Augusta Rustin of Capitol Hill, at her 100th birthday party, had no such powerful guests seeking her out, though, wearing white pearls, a red blouse, a sharp white suit-jacket, and a golden tiara, she looked ready for them. No, those in attendance were neighbors or family. Seated next to her sister, Mrs. Catherine Wood (93), in the Emerson House senior center, Mrs Rustin received about 80 guests.

Honey baked ham, potato salad, cabbage, string beans, fried chicken and sweet potato pie jammed the Center's serving counters. There was also a sheet and a half of birthday cake. "Have a blessed 100th birthday Mrs. Gussie," the whole one read.

Mrs. Gussie is what people call her. Like it said on the birthday cake, and like it says in parenthesis on her prayer book, the one her kid sister has an identical copy of. The siblings, who have lived together for 40 years, read from their books every morning after breakfast. Mrs. Gussie's favorite is the Lords prayer, "the our father" prayer, as she calls it. Maybe it's prayer that has kept her going so long.

Or maybe routine is her secret. Breakfast with Mrs Gussie and Mrs Catherine is traditionally oatmeal or cream of wheat, accompanied by tea or coffee. After eating and praying, the sisters watch stories. Mostly on Channel 7. The silver T.V. sits atop an old floor model television, a wooden one with ornate edges, as if progress came too fast and unexpected to get the older machine out of the way. When I asked what she does besides watch her stories, Mrs Gussie closed her eyes.

The silence that followed made me uncomfortable. I wondered if she was lost, the way aged people get lost sometimes, or else, didn't hear me quite right. I wanted to fill the growing quiet with rapid chatter and fluid digression. But I was taught by my own brown mother to demure to the pauses of brown matriarchs. Don't interrupt. "When your elders are talking" my mother would say with a stinging rap across my lips, "listen."

"Sit from chair to chair it look like to me," Mrs Gussie suddenly answered.

The joke settled over me like a slow-to-feel mist. But the other people in the room--- people more familiar with Mrs. Gussie's wit and comedic-timing--immediately threw their heads back and laughed. Mrs Gussie gave a prankish grin. I gotcha, it said. I leaned back and laughed a laugh that was half amusement and half surrender...as if I'd just finished watching the movie "The Usual Suspects." And was just realizing how masterfully I'd been duped.

Hands folded, her clear, slow blinking eyes waiting for me to get her jokes, Mrs. Rustin became even more mischievous as the interview proceeded. Asked about her diet she responded with, "I like cabbage but cabbage gives me gas. I don't like gas." Then, a moment later, in response to another question about her tastes, “I like slow jazz. The old stuff. Gimme that old time religion," she sang, her voice growing louder the more I chuckled, "Gimme that old time religion...if it's good enough for mother and father...it's good enough for me... come on, do the electric slide!...I would... if i could," she laughed.

It took me awhile to realize that, in the presence of a sense of humor that had been ripening for an entire century, I was not so much a reporter as straight man.

Eddye Williams has a sense of humor too. "She said she voted for me because she thought she was voting for my father," Councilman Thomas announced to the room. Thomas, standing next to Mayor Fenty, had a warm smile that, during less jovial moments, would fade into an armored pensiveness, as if, when not fully occupied by the goings on around him, the councilmember's mind latched onto the cache of problems waiting for him at his office desk.

 "You look great," Mayor Fenty told Mrs. Williams. "You look fantastic. So this is your 75th birthday?" he teased.

 "That's what you say!" Mrs Williams shot back.

Fenty wore a red tie with his sharply cut suit, an old politician's trick that conveys power. He didn't need it. Fenty could come off as administrative, even presidential, in a t-shirt and cargo shorts. Cool as a freshly rinsed cucumber, he's an expert at wielding gravitas. That day was no exception.

 Mrs Williams, the oldest person in Washington, is colored a healthy, wet-timber, and though thin, seems free of the hungry, fragile look one connects with those who long ago stopped getting old in order to grow ancient. In a blue dress, she --like Mrs. Rustin on her big day-- wore a tiara. The crown seemed especially fitting in this case, seeing that Thomas brought with him a neatly inked resolution, one declaring January 4th, Eddye Williams day.

 Even though it was Eddye Williams day, the mayor seemed at the center of attention. You could tell by the ease with which he was able to initiate a birthday ritual: "I think we can all sing happy birthday... reporters included. I know ya'll want to live to be 108! Right? So here we go..."

After the song, the cake came out, and Fenty's charisma glowed even brighter. "How come you didn't put a 108 candles on that cake?" he asked, patting Mrs Williams gently. A beat later he pointed to a picture of himself for a bit of self-effacing humor, "You've got one ugly guy on the wall." Above Mrs William's head hung photographs printed from a computer. One picture was of the mayor, others were of the woman's many children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great great grandchildren.

This got Mrs. Williams thinking about something. All at once the voice of the little woman took on the volume and cadence of a preacher's. "God gave me all my children," she caroled, "the schools don't teach them, so I'm gonna teach them."

The room was suddenly hers...
After about ten minutes, the Mayor attempted to wrap up his visit. "Don't go anywhere yet," a voice from the crowd said. "If you don't want to talk about God," Mrs. Williams went on, "don't come around here!" Nodding quietly, his palm resting on one of the silver and white pillows propping the senior up in her bed, Mayor Fenty gave his full attention to the Mrs Williams...Somewhere in his past, somebody must have told him “When your elders are talking--listen.”