OZZIE ROBERTS
Ninety-year-old ham is the life of the party

May 21, 2006

The piano's sound is smooth, and Morrell Martin opens the front door of his airy little place on a side street in Pacific Beach, singing.

Rehearsals with Jan (Janet) Rochon and pianist Lorea Herald in their newly formed Oldies But Goodies band are all but ended for the day.

And now it's time to entertain their guest.

With feet pumping like a dolphin's flippers, Morrell, who tells you, “I never knew how to dance, but I know rhythm,” slides across the carpeted floor. He makes an exaggerated low bow in front of the easy chair near the door. And with arms and hands outstretched, he breaks into a mellifluous: “J-A-N-E-T. What a girl. She's the kind of a pal that makes the world go round. She's the cutest girl in our town ... ”

“I wrote that song for Jan on the day before my birthday (April 19) this year,” Morrell declares. “We're a couple. She saved me after my wife and my daughter died – she's the love of my life.”

Morrell's average height and neatly trimmed, long, white hair don't give it away. Neither does the 113-pound weight and 29-inch waist that he and his friends brag he's maintained since high school.

But, almost unbelievably, Morrell is 90 years old. He was born April 19, 1916. And he tells you, with all the flair of a seasoned troubadour: “I am a true ham. Always have been. There's something about that audience attention. You get me on that stage with people watching me, and I will perform. I'm most comfortable on stage.”

Yet this ham from a small town in the hills south of St. Louis didn't become an entertainer until he was 86 and retired for more than two decades from business management.

That was in 2002. Morrell had just lost his daughter – the elder of two children – to a stroke, three years after his wife of 64 years died of cancer. And, he says, “I was in terribly bad shape. It was tough losing my wife. But then to lose a child – you're never conditioned to lose an offspring. That's not how the cycle is supposed to go.”

Then he met Jan, 73. They were both taking voice lessons, and they became fast friends. She soon helped him make peace with his losses, and she got him back in touch with an inner fire that had seemed to move him from birth.

“She got me thinking that I'd been all around the country managing (businesses),” Morrell reflects, “but I'd never traveled outside the U.S. I'd never been on a cruise. Heck, I'd never danced before Jan got me to go with her to the Dixieland Jazz Festival last year.”

Early in the association with Jan, Morrell remembered how he'd become inspired by a traveling jazz guitar man and by his mother, who bought him a guitar and a trumpet to play when he was between ages 12 and 14.

He decided that then was as good a time as any to get into entertainment.

Two years later, in 2004, he, Jan and Lorea, 60, formed Oldies But Goodies, which they call “a musical singing group of three” that performs standards from the '20s, '30s and '40s.

For a modest, flexible fee, the group entertains mainly at retirement and convalescent homes. Oldies But Goodies has performed 85 shows since it was formed.

Jan and Lorea agree that Morrell, who also is an avid ham radio enthusiast who goes by “Doc” on the air, is the life of the party.

“It's hard to keep up with him,” says Jan, laughing. “He's so full of energy. He's still driving – in the fast lane, my goodness.”

Morrell proudly pulls out his driver's license, which the Department of Motor Vehicles has renewed for the next four years.

Morrell believes his zest and resilience come honestly by way of blood.

He points to his sister, Nina, who is 18 months younger. She's a hairdresser back in Fredericktown, Mo., and she flew to San Diego by herself for her brother's surprise 90th birthday party.

She flew home afterward, again by herself. And she went straight to work the next day.

Fast forward to Oldies But Goodies' 85th performance. It's at Frederick Manor in Chula Vista. Nearly 100 residents are seated for the entertainment at the ice cream social in the establishment's fellowship hall.

Morrell is sartorially splendid in a crisp black suit, black shirt, white and black print tie and custom-made black and white leather shoes.

He's also wearing a carnie's white straw hat with a bright red band, and he's an immediate hit, working the audience, getting folks to participate in the group's singalong.

Morrell is the picture of suave.

“This guy could easily be my hero,” says Paul Gregg, the manor's program director. “When I'm 90, I want to be sitting at the piano and be as congenial as is – I mean he's so congenial.

“He's a great inspiration.”