The Boxer in the Jade Green Dress

If there was one word that would best describe the essence of Margaret Sullivan, I believe it would be grit. Throw in madcap, resilient, stubborn and fearless and you might just capture her spirit perfectly. She was a delightful olio, stirred, shaken and generously poured into the life of those fortunate enough to have had known her. I count myself as one of the lucky ones.

I first met Margaret on my wedding day in New York City. She was the best friend of my mother-in-law Mary, whom she referred to as “Rocky” due to Mary’s maiden name of Rock. In their younger years, the two shared an apartment together in Washington, D.C.. Margaret adored Mary, her outgoing personality in direct contrast to Mary’s unassuming one and although they sometimes appeared to be like oil and water, enjoyed a friendship that spanned through their twilight years.

She wore bright red lipstick, in startling contrast to her large eye glasses and shock of white hair. When she stared at you, the glasses magnified her deep blue eyes. And when she grinned at you, Margaret exuded pure joy. In fact at every glance of Margaret Sullivan, wherever she might be, at whatever moment you happened to catch sight of her, she appeared to be having the time of her life.

It was not until Mary’s death, that I truly came to know Margaret. That was when our weekly phone calls began. She was now in her 80’s, suffering from emphysema though still living independently in DC, the city she always loved. She never once complained except for the time her oxygen tank was on the blink and the company refused to give her a new one. She had some choice words for that company. And in those cherished phone conversations, which sometimes exceeded two hours or more, little by little I got to know and love, Margaret, as I learned of her life, which was slowly nearing its end.

Given up by her teenage mother as an infant, Margaret resided in a Washington, D.C. orphanage. At age six, she was adopted by an Irish nurse, and it seemed at last, her life was on course to be a normal one. But then came the stock market crash of 1929. Her mother, who up until now had been a loving fixture in her life, lost every cent she had. Never quite recovering, she spiraled into despair and a pattern of abuse began towards young Margaret.

She ran away three times before the age of twelve attempting to leave far behind, a mother who was becoming increasingly unstable. Her attempts at freedom, always ended the same. She was found, returned home and ordered back to school. During eighth grade Margaret had reached a point of increasingly disruptive behavior. Her home room teacher, on more than one occasion, perhaps seeking a deeper reason for the acting out, tried to speak to Margaret. Yet with each attempt, received the same belligerent reply, “I bet I could knock you down in one punch…” One afternoon, she clearly had reached her limit as Margaret again taunted, with the now familiar, “I could knock you into the middle of next week..” Picking up two sets of boxing gloves, which were hanging in the back of the classroom, her teacher responded, “Ok, Margaret, let’s put your money where you mouth is.”

And at the end of the school day, the entire eighth grade class, with a mixture of shock and delight, followed their teacher and fellow student out to the school yard, the air thick with anticipation. Moments later, with, one swift jab, Margaret met the ground, the match ending before the end of the very first round. It was a defining moment, she told me, with the only bruise incurred being to her ego. And from that day on, her outlook and behavior changed for the better. Her teacher, became a mentor and life long friend.

She put herself through secretarial school and worked as an Executive Assistant for the government. Highly intelligent and hard working, Margaret excelled in her career. After a brief courtship, she married. For their honeymoon, her new husband took her to his native Puerto Rico where he had hoped to convince Margaret to settle. I recall her lamenting about the number of large bugs and lizards that scurried everywhere, due to the warm and humid climate. But alas, the marriage was not meant to be. When I asked Margaret the reason, her deadpan reply, “Well honey, when your husband won’t sleep with you on your wedding night, you know there’s a problem.” Life goes on, she told me, never playing the victim. It was, what it was. “And there was a silver lining to it all,” she added. When I asked what that was, she replied, “I couldn’t have possibly lived with all those creepy crawlers!”

She told me of a dress she had bought in a small Washington D.C. boutique, many years before.. She described it as jade green in color with a delicate, neckline, and just the right amount of swing to the a-line skirt. “I felt like a million dollars in that dress…” A close friend, admiring it on one occasion, asked Margaret if she might borrow it for an upcoming ocean cruise. Margaret, ever generous, didn’t think twice in her response. But upon her friend’s return, bad news at sea. A cigarette burn in the delicate silk. Irreparable. Margaret was brokenhearted. She revisited the boutique in an attempt to find a duplicate but was told it was one-of-a kind and could not be re-ordered. She never quite got over the loss of that jade green dress. Her story always stayed with me as it portrayed a side of her I had never seen. The Margaret I knew was practical, no nonsense, never “frilly,” yet the dress seemed to bring out a softer more whimsical side of Margaret, rarely glimpsed by those who knew her well.

One of her favorite memories, was a European tour she took with Mary, while in her twenties. Never mind that she contracted hepatitis while abroad. She described feeling suddenly ill, while sitting in a pub in rural Ireland and then laughed, recalling an Irish lad, whose earnest advice was to take a shot of Irish Whiskey, certain to right her in no time. Instead she ended up in a local hospital, fever raging. But the hepatitis was now, just a distant memory. Rather she spoke of bright and brilliant cities, the music and song, and the wonderful people she met during this trip of a lifetime, so many years ago.

Toward the end of her life she spoke of of a dear, old friend Lydia, now stricken with Alzheimer’s, the passing of her beloved Rocky, old movies we both loved and the simple nuances of life. She confided how she had once attempted to find her birth mother and when she finally succeeded through the help of a detective agency, her heartache in discovering she had died, only months before. A reunion never to be had.

She departed this world at age 91, Mary’s son Rick, a lifelong friend, by her side. She left this life gently, quite oppositely of how she had lived.

“Throw my ashes in the garbage. It makes no difference to me. When I am gone, I’m gone.” Margaret’s flat sentiment when asked of her wishes once she had departed this world. No pomp or circumstance. No celebration of life or loss. A simple goodbye. Just remember the good times,” she would say.

I have a vision of Margaret right now, wearing her signature, bright red lipstick, and that joyful grin. She is in a place far too beautiful for words to describe and she is dancing. In a jade green dress.