GETTING to the home of centenarian Ivy Peters Arnold (Miss Ivy) was a painstaking effort due to treacherous pieces of roadway neglected by those in central government and local government for almost 20 years.

But once you reach your destination — Grant’s Vale, Hopewell, in central St Mary — a warmth built by her 106 years on planet Earth suddenly takes over, wiping the bad memories of the road surface away and creating an atmosphere of comfort in the immediate surrounding of a woman who is said by some to be now the north-eastern parish’s oldest citizen – a statistical claim that could not be immediately verified.

“Tek time wid mi baby; mi nuh young again,” was the first comment uttered by the level-headed senior as she was assisted to a seat for the interview by the Jamaica Observer last Wednesday at the place she has called home for as long as she can remember.

Once she sat down and regained her composure, which included setting aside any fear of falling to the ground, Miss Ivy spoke openly to the Sunday Observer about life generally, and a journey of fulfilment.

“Welcome to Hopewell,” she said before answering the first question posed to her, in an environment of smiling, familiar faces of community folk who have, for long, been within her vicinity.

Looking at how Jamaica has evolved she bemoaned a general lack of unity in the society, something which she said was the hallmark of her upbringing in rural Jamaica. And at intervals she would point to how the community bonded yesteryear to ensure that its folk consumed from the same pot.

“This district was a friendly district when I was growing up. We never had any enemies, nobody hated us, and we all just live together,” she said, maybe moaning from within how disunity and high crime had swept across the Jamaican landscape.

Long ago, a murder in the general area was unheard of. And although crime is not as high as elsewhere there are still incidents of praedial larceny and other illegal acts, amid lower agricultural growth caused by migration, poor farm roads, and lack of production incentives.

“You see this place here,” pointing to her house and property, “it was brought from a RAF [Royal Air Force] soldier, as this whole area was originally set aside for soldiers who served in the war,” she said in reference to World War II.

She is the last remaining of three other siblings produced by mother Amy and father Cecil, and took the time to reflect, and refresh her memory, about life growing up in the farming community, with her father and a brother, and knowing all that there was to know about farming.

Her father, a policeman, gave her the kind of moulding, she would often state, that positioned her to take on anything that a man could do, and more.

By time she got married, a year she still cannot remember, she had her imaginary fit and proper certification to continue the work in agriculture, and supplying products to the market like cocoa (sometimes up to 20 boxes every two weeks), coffee, yam, pineapple, coconuts, citrus, soursop, among other items.

Her husband, who lived into his 90s, died in 2011.

Born February 15, 1917 Miss Ivy marked her special day just over a fortnight ago, without much fanfare.

“You never eat piece a cake or hol a drink a rum fi you birthday?” she was asked during the interview, which was met with a healthy laugh.

“Mi sah? Mi nuh drink rum; mi love drink cream soda. Mi never smoke, but mi used to drink beer and stout.”

Family friend Enos Thompson, among other things a retired civil servant and diplomat, promptly dug into a bag that contained sweet wine and poured her a drink. “It bitter like bumm,” she remarked with an elaborate frown. Five more sips and the fluid had left the sanitary cup in its near-original state before Thompson’s communion-style intervention. “The bottom a it bad nuh whip,” she said to spirited laughter from those around her.

Her natural teeth still intact, and still well kept, Miss Ivy underscored that she eats “everything”, around twice a day, from a menu that often includes rice, yam, banana, soup, milk, and chicken. “And mi grow up pon pork but me nuh eat dat again,” she added, glancing sheepishly across to her caregiver, Rastafarian farmer Clarence Leiba who was raised by Miss Ivy’s sister and who has been her physical mainstay for several years.

“My father used to raise pigs. My uncle, who was also a policeman, used to raise pigs too,” she recounted.

Chopped-up sugar cane brought to her by Thompson was soon on its way to be digested, following the wine-based aperitif, as Miss Ivy got more into her element.

“A di master [God] a guh mek mi live any longer than mi live,” she said of a desire to extend her years. “If him tek mi before that, that’s the way to go.”

She had spent 12 years in England, working in West Yorkshire, before returning to Jamaica in the late 1960s. “Mi used to work at a factory in Bradford,” she stated before going on to outline some of the things the job entailed.

Quickly refocusing on the Jamaica experience, Miss Ivy emphasised her belief in Christ which she feels is largely responsible for her long life. Raised as an Anglican at a church in nearby Woodside, she switched to Gospel Hall at adjoining Marlborough but has not gone to the temple in over 13 years as she is not considered physically strong enough to make the journey and follow proceedings for a sustained period of time.

‘Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord,” would be uttered regularly by her throughout the duration of the interview, switching at one time to pray for all those around in the manner of an accomplished pastor. Again, she would say that offering prayers would also promote the feeling of oneness and unity that has thrown Jamaica off course.

These days she does not go outside her house — maybe giving into a psychological feeling that she would fall — instead saying that she does her walking “inna di house because it big enough fi dat”.

A recent dream in which her father appeared close to her at a spring nearby, filled a container with water and poured the liquid on his grave close to the house, could not be adequately interpreted by the old-timer but whatever it meant, she is confident that when the roll is called up yonder she will be prepared.