ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1997, Roanoke Times
DATE: Tuesday, March 4, 1997 TAG: 9703040041
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: BETH MACY
SOURCE: BETH MACY
The short death notice told the story of a woman who had no one left to care for her - and no one left to pay for an obituary.
MYERS, Eddyth A., 95, of Roanoke, died Tuesday, Feb 11, 1997. Graveside service 10 a.m. Thursday, Evergreen Burial Park. Arrangements by Oakey's Roanoke Chapel.
But Eddyth Myers' passing also told the final chapter of a story that began in a genteel, more traditional era, when a woman's name began with Mrs., followed by her husband's first name.
When a group of philanthropic ladies - who had both time and money to give - began Roanoke's first and only home for elderly women who had no one else to take care of them.
In today's financial world, where an average nursing home costs $2,500 a month, nothing parallels, or even comes close, to the Mary Louise Home. Its mission was charity, its execution grand.
The Mary Louise Home, founded by the King's Daughters in 1921, was named for Mary Louise Fishburn, the mother of Roanoke's original mover and shaker, J.B. Fishburn.
Along with a nominal entrance fee, women would turn over their life's assets to the Mary Louise Home. In return, the home promised to care for them until their death, paying for their medicines, food, even their nursing-home and hospital bills.
Eddyth Myers was the home's last resident. Her death last month, preceded by the deaths of most of the organization's board members, is the final footnote in the home's history.
``She was feisty, in a nice way,'' said Stella Hood, the lone remaining board member.
``I guess it was a nice way to finish up,'' Hood said of Myers' funeral. ``The Mary Louise Home was sort of a vanishing thing.
``You know, things change."
|n n| In its heyday, the home had a beauty shop, a library, a music room with a piano, formal sit-down dinners and a hefty waiting list for admissions. Annual luncheons, teas and craft bazaars helped pay expenses for the 25-bedroom home on Amherst Avenue Southwest - and provide a social and philanthropic outlet for Roanoke society women.
In 1965, a resident named Mrs. W.M. Craighead told a reporter: ``They feed us so well, we'd live a thousand years if we could.''
Vivian Setleff supervised the home from 1973 to 1990. When I called her last week at her home in Fredericksburg, where she lives with her daughter, she was so thrilled to talk about the home, she choked up.
``I think it was the nicest experience I've ever had in my life,'' the 83-year-old said. ``You'd get aggravated at the ladies sometimes, but you couldn't hold anything against them, they were old.
``I'm getting old myself now, and I know how they felt.''
Filled with antiques and linens, the home had a big front porch, along with three cooks and a maid to tend to daily chores. House rules limited visitors to specific hours, and residents had to sign out to go shopping on nearby Grandin Road. Everyone was referred to as ``Miss,'' followed by their last name.
``When I went there, they were calling people everything,'' Setleff said in a scolding voice. ``And I had to tell them it just didn't sound right, it needed to be proper.''
Most of the ladies were widows, in their 70s and 80s, although a few had never married. ``They used to talk about wanting to live to be 90,'' Setleff recalled. ``And most of them died not long after they turned 90, like they'd just given up.''
Setleff remembers lecturing one resident who liked to sneak into the kitchen - a health-department violation - to see what was cooking. She remembers another resident who hid her sickness for months, knowing she'd have to be transferred to a nursing home soon. (Another rule: Residents had to be in good enough shape to take care of basic physical functions.)
``I knew she was sick, but she kept hiding it till finally one night, I heard a noise and went down the hall. And it was her, groaning, laying across her bed. I said, `Miss Correll, what's wrong?'
``And she said, `I believe my pain is getting so bad, I can't stand it.'''
She died in the hospital a short time later - ``but she would call us every day from the hospital, just to talk,'' Setleff said.
Despite supporters' efforts and its once-long waiting list, the home began to lose its vitality in the 1960s and '70s. As board members became elderly themselves, ``they didn't care whether we took in anybody else or not,'' Setleff recalled. ``When I left, they just closed it.''
The last two residents, Myers and a woman who died last year, were transferred to nursing homes, at the Mary Louise Home's expense. The home, valued around $300,000, was sold to Valley Care, which operates a nursing home there now.
Elizabeth Rossie, the home's longtime accountant, is in the process of closing the final accounts, including a handful of trust funds and other money that had been willed to the home by board members and other prominent Roanokers. The remaining money will likely go to another Roanoke charity.
Rossie and Hood, the board member, were two of the five people who attended Eddyth Myers' funeral. As one of their last official duties for the home, they bought Myers a pink dress to be buried in and chose her casket. Although Myers had one relative she corresponded with, a second cousin in Florida, only caregivers attended her funeral.
Beth Henson, activity director for Snyder Nursing Home in Salem, said Myers was depressed when she first transferred to the facility in 1989. But she could be coaxed into attending socials and music programs.
``She didn't like Bingo - she said it hurt her eyes,'' Henson recalled. Eventually she agreed to toss balloons with fellow residents ``because she thought it was a P.R. thing. She told me, `I thought I'd get you brownie points, but I found out it was helping me, not you.'''
Nursing-home records show that Myers was born in Charleston, W.Va., married a tailor, once worked in an office herself, and lived as a widow in a Roanoke boarding house before going to the Mary Louise Home. She had no children.
``The biggest love of her life was cats,'' Henson recalled.
``She was a sad person - yeah. She always felt like she'd lived too long.''
Like all the residents of the Mary Louise Home, ``she just didn't have anybody else in the world.''
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