Crystal
02-27-2005, 11:28 AM
At 106, this birthday girl still has her say
Albany native has seen 3 centuries, been "Aunt Marge" to generations
GUILDERLAND -- Margaret Riordan sits next to the early birthday balloons and the pink roses. Her white hair shoots up like a flame.
"As a white candle in a holy place, so is the beauty of an aged face," wrote Joseph Campbell.
This is Riordan's third century. She predates Theodore Roosevelt's presidency. She was 6 when Mark Twain celebrated his 70th birthday at Delmonico's in New York. She didn't vote at 18; women couldn't. She doesn't remember FDR. But she does recall famous customers at her Duanesburg restaurant, The Hub. "They were the ones that paid."
Husbands? "Oh, dear. I had as many as they allowed," she says.
Three years ago, at 103, the woman known as Aunt Marge crooned karaoke. She picked "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" and sang it twice, because it was the only song she could remember, her grandniece, Karin Keegan, recalls.
On Wednesday, aides at the Our Lady of Mercy Life Center have dressed the former horseplayer in slacks and a blouse, and have spread red lipstick on her lips. "Smile," they call out, taking snapshots.
Aunt Marge tucks her chin and pats a pink afghan. "I'm cold," she says softly.
As Casey Stengel said, most people Riordan's age are dead. But the Capital Region boasts its share of centenarians. There were 161 living here in 2000, according to the census; two of them, both men, were 110 or older. Most, however -- 135, to be exact -- were women. And less than 10 percent made it past 104. Which makes Riordan's birthday -- she turns 106 today -- fairly remarkable. Her family plans a party at noon Saturday at the Life Center, where she has lived since 2002.
The focal point to dozens of offspring, Margaret Keegan Riordan was born in Albany in 1899, the granddaughter of an Irishman who was killed in 1888 by a runaway horse. Days for her and three brothers spun around the New York Central Railroad. Her father, John Keegan, was the railroad's fire chief superintendent, covering Harmon to Syracuse. In the fall of 1923, Margaret, a rail yard clerk, married Frederick Dowling at the Blessed Sacrament Church. They had a son, John.
Frederick died in 1941, and their son joined the Navy during World War II. Margaret took a wartime night shift job at General Electric, doing defense work. She moved in with her brother John's family. It was there she taught her nephew, Rich Keegan, to curse.
"I was just going into grade school," recalls Keegan, now 67. "I'd be getting ready for bed, and my mother, she's doing 101 things, so OK, Aunt Marge will get you ready for bed. She'd say, 'Put your pajamas on.' And she used to talk about this 'son of a bitch Hitler.' "
Later, she taught Keegan to play canasta. "And you'd better have your wits about you," he adds, "even when she was in her 90s."
"They used to play for pennies," says Janine Terrell, the wife of Marge's grandson, Jack Dowling. "She was famous for saying, 'Push the pot over to me; I can't reach it.' She was a card shark."
In 1955, Aunt Marge married Harry Riordan, who owned The Hub in Duanesburg. They married in Las Vegas on Dec. 30, then had a church wedding at Our Lady of Fatima Church in Delanson.
The Hub, now the site of an antiques store, was a popular spot at routes 7 and 20, marked by cane-seated chairs. "Anyone who was there would remember it," Terrell says. Marge was one of the cooks.
"Everyone calls her Aunt Marge, whether you're related to her or not," Rich Keegan says. "She would go into Sears, and after three minutes, the clerk would be calling her Aunt Marge. That's how she came across."
After each Election Day, Harry and Marge Riordan would close the restaurant to winter in Hialeah, Fla., and frequent the racetrack, relatives said. Harry died in 1967. Aunt Marge later moved to the Westview Towers in Albany, which had a pretty good card game. She lived on her own until she was 98 and wintered in Florida well into her 90s.
"That was her true spirit," Terrell says. "As long as someone wanted to get her there, she was willing to go."
Aunt Marge, who is like a grandmother to most of the Keegan brood, has two grandchildren, one great-grandson, 10 nieces and nephews, 28 grandnieces and grandnephews, and more. Many of them, like Marge's father and grandfather, were named John. "There's a ton of 'em," Rich Keegan says. "There's John's John and George's John and my father's cousin, who is Ed's John's John."
These days, Riordan is the Life Center's oldest resident. She mostly sleeps. She can stand and walks to the bathroom. She likes watermelon.
Once in a blue moon, Riordan declares she wants to go home. She'll get up and walk, says Cynthia Braxton, a certified nurses assistant. She'll take a few steps. "It just makes her day."
And the upcoming party? Will she make it? Riordan is noncommittal. After all, will she even be here tomorrow?
"I don't know," Riordan says. "Why?"
Albany native has seen 3 centuries, been "Aunt Marge" to generations
GUILDERLAND -- Margaret Riordan sits next to the early birthday balloons and the pink roses. Her white hair shoots up like a flame.
"As a white candle in a holy place, so is the beauty of an aged face," wrote Joseph Campbell.
This is Riordan's third century. She predates Theodore Roosevelt's presidency. She was 6 when Mark Twain celebrated his 70th birthday at Delmonico's in New York. She didn't vote at 18; women couldn't. She doesn't remember FDR. But she does recall famous customers at her Duanesburg restaurant, The Hub. "They were the ones that paid."
Husbands? "Oh, dear. I had as many as they allowed," she says.
Three years ago, at 103, the woman known as Aunt Marge crooned karaoke. She picked "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" and sang it twice, because it was the only song she could remember, her grandniece, Karin Keegan, recalls.
On Wednesday, aides at the Our Lady of Mercy Life Center have dressed the former horseplayer in slacks and a blouse, and have spread red lipstick on her lips. "Smile," they call out, taking snapshots.
Aunt Marge tucks her chin and pats a pink afghan. "I'm cold," she says softly.
As Casey Stengel said, most people Riordan's age are dead. But the Capital Region boasts its share of centenarians. There were 161 living here in 2000, according to the census; two of them, both men, were 110 or older. Most, however -- 135, to be exact -- were women. And less than 10 percent made it past 104. Which makes Riordan's birthday -- she turns 106 today -- fairly remarkable. Her family plans a party at noon Saturday at the Life Center, where she has lived since 2002.
The focal point to dozens of offspring, Margaret Keegan Riordan was born in Albany in 1899, the granddaughter of an Irishman who was killed in 1888 by a runaway horse. Days for her and three brothers spun around the New York Central Railroad. Her father, John Keegan, was the railroad's fire chief superintendent, covering Harmon to Syracuse. In the fall of 1923, Margaret, a rail yard clerk, married Frederick Dowling at the Blessed Sacrament Church. They had a son, John.
Frederick died in 1941, and their son joined the Navy during World War II. Margaret took a wartime night shift job at General Electric, doing defense work. She moved in with her brother John's family. It was there she taught her nephew, Rich Keegan, to curse.
"I was just going into grade school," recalls Keegan, now 67. "I'd be getting ready for bed, and my mother, she's doing 101 things, so OK, Aunt Marge will get you ready for bed. She'd say, 'Put your pajamas on.' And she used to talk about this 'son of a bitch Hitler.' "
Later, she taught Keegan to play canasta. "And you'd better have your wits about you," he adds, "even when she was in her 90s."
"They used to play for pennies," says Janine Terrell, the wife of Marge's grandson, Jack Dowling. "She was famous for saying, 'Push the pot over to me; I can't reach it.' She was a card shark."
In 1955, Aunt Marge married Harry Riordan, who owned The Hub in Duanesburg. They married in Las Vegas on Dec. 30, then had a church wedding at Our Lady of Fatima Church in Delanson.
The Hub, now the site of an antiques store, was a popular spot at routes 7 and 20, marked by cane-seated chairs. "Anyone who was there would remember it," Terrell says. Marge was one of the cooks.
"Everyone calls her Aunt Marge, whether you're related to her or not," Rich Keegan says. "She would go into Sears, and after three minutes, the clerk would be calling her Aunt Marge. That's how she came across."
After each Election Day, Harry and Marge Riordan would close the restaurant to winter in Hialeah, Fla., and frequent the racetrack, relatives said. Harry died in 1967. Aunt Marge later moved to the Westview Towers in Albany, which had a pretty good card game. She lived on her own until she was 98 and wintered in Florida well into her 90s.
"That was her true spirit," Terrell says. "As long as someone wanted to get her there, she was willing to go."
Aunt Marge, who is like a grandmother to most of the Keegan brood, has two grandchildren, one great-grandson, 10 nieces and nephews, 28 grandnieces and grandnephews, and more. Many of them, like Marge's father and grandfather, were named John. "There's a ton of 'em," Rich Keegan says. "There's John's John and George's John and my father's cousin, who is Ed's John's John."
These days, Riordan is the Life Center's oldest resident. She mostly sleeps. She can stand and walks to the bathroom. She likes watermelon.
Once in a blue moon, Riordan declares she wants to go home. She'll get up and walk, says Cynthia Braxton, a certified nurses assistant. She'll take a few steps. "It just makes her day."
And the upcoming party? Will she make it? Riordan is noncommittal. After all, will she even be here tomorrow?
"I don't know," Riordan says. "Why?"