Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Sentimental Sunday: Life on South Luella AvenueHuesca Schiavon

Sentimental Sunday: Life on South Luella Avenue

I was just turning four years old in 1959, when our family moved to a two-flat brown brick home owned by my maternal grandparents at 7123 South Luella Avenue in Chicago.

 

We moved into this home on Chicago’s South Side in 1959.
This photo shows it as it looked a few years ago.

My Nana and Baba, Alice (McGinnis) and Ralph Schiavon, lived in the upper flat and we lived in the lower one. Our dwellings were connected by two sets of stairways, one in the foyer of the house and the other at rear side door. There was a small crescent-shaped telephone table in the enclosed entrance.  A black rotary phone sat on top, while a thick volume of the Chicago Telephone Directory rested in a cubbyhole made just for it.  To my young eyes, it was just the right place for a small girl to sit on the bench with a book and read in peace, with no little sisters to bother her.

My first memory of our house is of a bright yellow and green swing set and slide and a matching sandbox in the backyard.  When we moved in, I thought the set was my birthday present, but I think it was just coincidence. Nana and Baba had bought it to make my sisters and me feel welcome.

Not long after we arrived, they also bought us a child-size Swiss-made surrey with a fringe on top. It was a miniature version of the surrey in the 1955 movie, Oklahoma! and had two black leather bench seats and a red and white striped canopy.  We took turns pedaling and steering it, most of the time “driving” down the sidewalk on Luella Avenue. Sometimes our parents took all of us on longer excursions to the lake, pushing the surrey when our legs got tired.

My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, pushing my
little sister and me down the driveway on my tricycle,
Chicago, 1959.

We quickly made friends with the other children on the block.  Arne and Renelva Schairer and their (then) five children lived on one side of our house, and Joe and Mary Lee Hanlon and their son Jimmy lived on the other side. We spent our days outside, moving from one house to another like a little swarm of bees, riding our tricycles up and down the long driveways, playing dolls, catching bugs, and building castles in the sandbox with our playmates.

Our family loved parades. Whenever we got home from the city parades on Decoration Day (now known as Memorial Day), Flag Day, and Independence Day, my sisters and I could not wait to decorate our tricycles and the surrey. Armed with child-size American flags and Uncle Sam hats and blowing party horns and banging makeshift drums, we joined our neighbors and marched up and down the sidewalk, singing “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” and “God Bless America,” as our parents sat nearby to watch.

Our block was lined with stately homes. Near the corner was a large house with a stone facade that to us looked like a castle.  Someone told us it had a ballroom upstairs, so we figured it belonged to royalty of some kind.  I used to walk past the house on my way to school every day, and I never passed the house without gazing in awe at the second floor and picturing the majestic waltzes that must be taking place there.

 
A widow named Emily Scheurer lived alone two doors down from us in a fairy-tale Tudor-style house. The other kids were afraid of her and thought she was a witch, and we used to run past her house as fast as we could. When I was about five years old, the witch invited me into her house for a piece of apple pie she had just made.  Though I didn’t want to go inside, I wanted to be polite.  I entered the house gingerly, sure I was marching to my doom, like the fairy tales I liked so much.  My friends thought that was the last they would see of me. 

 

As I am here to tell the tale, it should be no surprise that I ate the pie, liked it, and survived. The real twist to the tale would come several years later after my Nana died and my Baba married the witch…er, Mrs. Scheurer.  She must have been a nice lady, after all.
 
 

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Linda Huesca Tully6 Comments on Shopping Saturday: Adventures in SpanishHuesca Schiavon

Shopping Saturday: Adventures in Spanish


Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca  (1928 – 1987)

 

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca, at the country  home of my
Uncle Enrique and Aunt Mercedes “Meche” Huesca,
Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, August 1987.
My mother went to the corner store one day while in Mexico City to buy some hair gel.  After hunting unsuccessfully for it, she asked the clerk behind the counter for help.
 
“Discúlpame, Señorita,” – Excuse me, Miss, she began in broken Spanish.  “Pero no encontrar goma para mi caballo.”
 
The clerk gave my mother a strange look.  “No, Señora,” she replied in Spanish.  “I think you’ve come to the wrong place.  We don’t sell that here.  Try a feed store.”
 
My mother, pointing to her hair, insisted.
 
“Oh, cabello,” smiled the clerk, and found the hair gel.  It turned out that my mother had asked for gel for her horse.
 
My mother believed it was important to be humble and learn from one’s mistakes.  She made her fair share of these in her efforts to communicate in Spanish, but it never seemed to phase her.  She often said she wished she’d paid more attention during her high school Spanish classes.  But back then she hadn’t known that one day she would travel to and eventually live in the homeland of the love of her life, my father.
 
By the time our family moved from Chicago to Mexico City in the 1960s, my mother had learned enough Spanish to carry on a conversation.  She would not practice it with us for fear of our repeating her errors.  Because she and my father felt strongly that we should learn to speak the language well, they sent us to public school and chose to live near family rather than in one of the expat neighborhoods of Mexico City, where we would have spoken mostly English.  As a result, the only place we spoke English was at home.
 
While my sisters and I had the advantage of learning Spanish at school, my mother had to learn the language through her everyday errands and visits.  Her teachers were our relatives, neighbors, and merchants.  She learned much of her vocabulary by trial and error, improvised sign language, and a sense of humor.
 
One year she wanted to buy my father some handkerchieves for his birthday.  It took her several tries before the store clerk realized what she really wanted, my mother having asked for diapers – pañales – instead of pañuelos – for her husband.
 
One of her daily stops was at the butcher shop, which opened out to the street.  My grandmother had recommended the place for its fresh meats, and the constant line of housewives streaming out the door seemed to echo this opinion.
 
My mother would go there in the late morning.  Sometimes she could point to the cut of meat she wanted if it was on display, and other times she knew the word for the cut of meat she wanted. For the cuts she wanted but could not see or translate, she had to work her way around the word, using sign language and imitating animal sounds until she could communicate what she wanted.
 
If she wanted ground beef to make hamburgers, she would make a mooing sound (until she learned the word for cow, vaca) and roll her fists together in a grinding motion. She made the same gesture if she wanted pork sausage but would grunt like a pig.   If she wanted chicken legs, she would say “pollo,” or chicken, and point to her leg. The butcher would wait patiently for her little dance and fill her order with a smile.
 
Of course, this routine provided great entertainment for the other shoppers awaiting their turn, as well as for the passers-by who would stop to watch. My mother usually laughed as hard as they did.  On her way out of the shop, the others often patted her on the shoulder good-naturedly, bidding her Adios until the next day.  
 
This went on for about a month, until the day before Easter Sunday, when she needed to buy a ham for our traditional family dinner.  As she approached the counter with a cheery Buenos Días to the butcher, he said to her in perfect, unaccented English, “Good morning, ma’am.  What’ll it be today?”
 
My dear mother could not believe her ears and gaped at the man.  “You speak English!” She exclaimed incredulously.
 
“I lived in Detroit for 30 years,” he said.
 
“You mean all this time, you knew what I wanted, and you just let me…” she started, flabbergasted.  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
 
“I know. I’m sorry. I felt really guilty about letting you go on like that.  But you were good for business!”  the butcher said, “And my customers love you!”
 
Indeed, his customers – and many who met my mother throughout the years – were charmed by her determined and unabashed efforts to communicate in Spanish.  She had long ago fallen in love with Mexican history and culture.  She found that people were forgiving of her when she made mistakes, because they knew she was sincere and was making an effort to talk to them. Through her example, I learned that to understand people of different cultures, you have to relax and be yourself, try your best to speak their language, be willing to take risks, accept that you will make mistakes, and not take yourself too seriously.
 

And one more thing:  relish the adventure.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

 

Linda Huesca Tully2 Comments on Family Recipe Friday: My Mother’s Bread PuddingJoan (Schiavon) Huesca Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis

Family Recipe Friday: My Mother’s Bread Pudding

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca (1928 – 1987)

Bread Pudding
Wikipedia Commons Image, commons.wikepedia.org


Bread pudding in our house was a treat for us – and a thrifty dessert.  My mother, a child of the Great Depression, knew how to stretch ingredients for our family of six.

I believe this recipe came from a 1950s series of cookbooks she owned called the Mary Margaret McBride Encyclopedia of Cooking.  She used to recall the bread pudding her maternal grandmother, Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis, made for her in the early 1930s, and whenever she made her own version for us, she would slice it into pieces while it was still warm and sprinkle a bit of sugar on top before serving it.

Though at first glance the amounts of milk and bread crumbs may look anything but thrifty, the trick is in how you improvise.  

Sometimes when money was tight for our young and growing family, the milk my mother used to make bread pudding came from a box.   Not only does powdered milk cost much less than fresh milk, but it also keeps longer and needs no refrigeration.  She made the bread cubes from dried stale bread.

Maybe it is a good thing that I do not see bread pudding on restaurant menus much these days.  That way, I know that if I really want a taste of my childhood, I can re-create it in my own kitchen, complete with memories of my mother’s love that are as sweet and warm as this delightful pudding.

My Mother’s Bread Pudding

 

2 eggs, beaten
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
4 cups milk, scalded
1/4 cup butter, softened
2 cups bread cubes

Combine eggs, sugar, salt, vanilla, and nutmeg.  Add scalded milk and butter; mix well.  Add bread cubes and pour into buttered baking dish.  Set baking dish in a pan of hot water.  Bake at 350 degrees for 45 – 50 minutes, or until a knife inserted in center comes out clean. Serve warm or cold with cream, plain or whipped, hard sauce, or lemon sauce.  Top with ice cream if desired.  Cake or gingerbread may be substituted for bread crumbs.

Serves 6.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully




Linda Huesca Tully4 Comments on Thankful Thursday – Grateful and Paying it ForwardUncategorized

Thankful Thursday – Grateful and Paying it Forward

Last week my fellow family historian, Kathy at Abbie and Eveline, surprised me by awarding me the “Liebster Blog Award.”  Kathy writes heartfelt stories about her two grandmothers, Abbie Webber and Eveline Coates, the stories they shared with her, and their wise influence on her life.  I am most grateful for her kind recognition and am honored that she would nominate me.

“Liebster” is the German word for “dearest.”  The award comes with a few rules, with which I am happy to oblige:

1.   Thank the one who nominated you by linking back.

2.   Nominate five blogs with less than 200 followers.

3.   Let the nominees know by leaving a comment at their sites.

4.  Add the award image to your own site.

Ah…five blogs?  It would be easy to nominate even more than that!  There are a lot of wonderful blogs out there, but here are some of my favorites, in alphabetical order.

1.  A Family Tapestry – Jacqi Stevens’ writing is engaging and thoughtful, and she covers her subjects with a thoroughness that makes you feel as if you had known them as well as she does.

2. A Sense of Family – Shelly Bishop has already received this award, but it will be no surprise after you read her article, A Kinder, Gentler Approach to Genealogy Goals.  She points out that these goals are not about the pressure one sometimes feels to write or do something, but in fact they are ways of prioritizing where we want – or need – to spend our time.

3.  Jana’s Genealogy and Family History Blog  – Jana Last has posted two articles lately that really caught my attention.  One of these was on how to watermark photographs, so they will remain yours even if someone copies them from your website or blog.  The other was on adding a “landing page” for a particular branch or event from your geneablog.  This has gotten me thinking about adding a landing page of my own…stay tuned.

4.  Pages from the Ancestry Binders – Susan Mosey recently wrote a “Wisdom Wednesday” post about her father’s “Analysis of Worries,” advice from her late father on a scrap of paper she has kept for many years.  It should be required reading for everyone.

5.  Sitting Under the Family Tree – Cchidlow posted a fascinating article on the background behind some of the traditions of Christmas around the world.  Christmas may be behind us, but read Black Eyed Peas and Pickles now and you’ll be “in the know” for next year.

6.  Taos Sunflower – Although this is not a blog about genealogy, it is a favorite of mine.  Martie (full disclosure: a distant cousin of my husband’s) is an artist, writer, and photographer who writes about the things that matter most to her – her family, travel, nature, and the little beauties she finds in life.

It seems that this is “award” season for blogs.  Some of these bloggers have already received this award (or others), while others have not.  In any case, this will be my small way of letting them know just how much I appreciate them and the ways their writing has touched me.  If you’re looking for some good reads, you can be sure that a simple click on one of the blogs above will take you to the right place.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully


Share your memories and comments below.


Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Sentimental Sunday: Master of the GameHuesca

Sentimental Sunday: Master of the Game


Gilbert Cayetano Huesca (1915 – 2009)

My father, Gilbert Huesca, and me, riding the elevator
up to his apartment after his birthday dinner,
November 2008, Santa Clara, California.

Dear Daddy,

To know you well was to understand your great love for the game of chess and how it figured into your outlook on life.

You learned to play chess at the feet of your own father, an entrepreneur in eastern Mexico who successfully ran several businesses to support your mother, and you and all your brothers and sisters.  One of those businesses was a casino – not the kind with slot machines we see today – but with game tables where you could play cards or chess.  There was a U-shaped table in the center of the game room, where up to a dozen people would sit in front of as many chessboards.

Your father – my Abuelito or grandfather, Jose Gil Cayetano Huesca, would slowly work his way around the table, stopping at each board, and playing each of the games simultaneously.  Maybe it was because he was the father of eleven that he could keep all those games straight, or maybe he had a photographic memory. In any case, all the Huesca children were expected to learn chess at an early age, and as the years passed, you and your brothers and sisters honed your skills and took turns helping your father at the game table.

 
You fell in love with the game. You got so good that you’d play blindfolded, two or three games at a time, and as you grew up you played in quite a few chess tournaments throughout Veracruz state, becoming known for your deliberate coolness and expertise.
 
When the girls and I were young, you tried to interest us in the game.  I can’t speak for them, but I found it too complicated.   It seemed too mathematical – not one of my strong suits – not to mention tedious and slow. I didn’t want to think that much. For some reason, you didn’t seem to mind, and over the years you found other willing chess partners – your brothers, your grandchildren, your neighbor. You took great pleasure in sharing your knowledge of the game with others, extolling the virtues of the game and encouraging them to always play their best.   
 
You also believed in playing all the way through to the end, no matter how long it took. Do you remember what happened several years ago, when you came with the family to Palm Sunday Mass, only to find that no one else had gotten to church yet?  We were an hour late!  It was Daylight Savings Time, and we had forgotten to turn our clocks forward.  
 
We drove to Santana Row, a nearby outdoor shopping center, to take a stroll and while away the hour until the next Mass.  The kids ran ahead of their “Baba” to a life-size chessboard in the center island.  We all knew what was coming.  You smiled broadly as Michael and Kevin tossed a coin and Kevin got the first game. The rest of us plopped down in the nearby seats to watch.  Before long, a small crowd gathered to watch as the two of you slowly circled the chessboard, deep in thought.  It was not to be a quick game, and we were not be be very good Catholics that day, as we ended up missing the next Mass.  
 
One day, after you moved in with us in early March 2009, I watched you look longingly at a chess board you had given Kevin.  It was a hand-chiseled black and white alabaster set you had carried back on the plane from one of your trips to Mexico, but now it sat in our family room, dusty and unused.  I asked if you would try to teach me again, and your face lit up.  Together we polished each piece as you patiently explained what it was called, what its purpose was in the game, its relationship to the other pieces on the board, and how to move it.
 
As we began to play, you spoke passionately of the lessons you had learned from a lifetime of playing.
 
It is a game of manners and strategy, you said, one that charges its players to look not just at a single piece or move but at the board as a whole.  Keep your goal in mind.  Have a plan to get there but be flexible.  Understand the value of each piece and its function.  Protect your pieces and help them work together.  Pay attention to the moves – and the mood – of your opponent.  Consider all the possibilities and their outcomes.  Choose your moves carefully, but act decisively and deliberately, and have a good reason for whatever you do.  Think first – you can’t take back your actions. Be responsible for your actions and accept the consequences gracefully and gratefully.  Learn from your mistakes.   Respect the rules and play fairly.  Never pressure or take advantage of your opponent, but try to help him or her if the opportunity arises.  If you win, be humble.  And whether you win or lose, thank your partner for a game well-played.
 
That first game we played was one I will always remember.  You won, of course, but you let me win the second game, probably so I’d want to play again.  It wasn’t necessary, because I enjoyed it so much.  We got to play a few more games before you went home to be with God that June.  Still, on that first day, not only did I finally see the beauty of the game you had spoken of all these years, but I also discovered that your philosophy of life was intertwined with the game itself.
 
Chess, like life, is a beautiful game that incorporates planning, integrity, and honor.  You understood that and wanted us to understand it, too.  You showed us how to look at the big picture, think deliberately, be responsible for our actions, learn from our mistakes, and look out for one another – always in a spirit of thoughtfulness, fairness, humility, and gratitude.   
 
You lived as you played, and you were a master at the game.  
 
My dear Daddy, for this and so much more – thank you.
 
                                                                    All my love,
 
                                                                    Linda
 

 

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

 

 

Linda Huesca Tully7 Comments on Family Recipe Friday: Abuelita’s Mexican RiceHuesca Perrotin Schiavon

Family Recipe Friday: Abuelita’s Mexican Rice


María Angela Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca  
(1893 – 1998)

My grandmother or “Abuelita,” shown here at her
apartment in about 1983, when she was 90 years old.
She lived independently until her death a month
before her 105th birthday.

 

I am back to posting after a hiatus of several weeks. It is true that remembering our history and writing about family is what this blog is all about, but after all, being with family – those who are here and a part of our lives now – is what life is all about and gives it meaning.

Another thing that slowed my blogging somewhat was a Christmas gift my husband and I worked on for our family this year.  We have long wanted to compile a family heritage cookbook that would contain the recipes we have collected over the years from our families.  It was an ambitious project that took several months, but it was worth it.   More about that in a future post.

One of the recipes from that book follows here.  My paternal grandmother, or Abuelita, María Angela Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, was a splendid cook whose dishes were known and loved by not only her own family and friends but also the many guests who stayed at the family hotels, El Buen Gusto (The Good Taste Hotel) in Tierra Blanca, Veracruz; and El Gran Hotel (Grand Hotel) in Perote, Veracruz.

One of my favorite dishes was my grandmother’s traditional Mexican rice.  She had many other specialties, but to me, this was one of her signature dishes.  She could never tell me exactly how she made it.  “Ah, hijita (my little one), just a little of this and a pinch of that,” she would say whenever I asked her for the recipe.

Recipes!  Did they really exist before this modern era of cookbooks, cooking classes, and the Food Network? As far as I know, everything in Abuelita’s repertoire came from tradition, memory, and experience.  She learned to cook the dishes that had been passed down through the generations.  Her personal touch and the love with which she cooked for her family was what made her meals so memorable.

Although Abuelita allowed me to observe her make this rice one afternoon, she was rather amused by the idea. Like a modern woman would, I tried to measure the amounts of the ingredients she used and note her techniques. Over the years, I have learned that though the recipe here appears simple, this rice is not easy to master. What you will not find in this recipe is the love that went into it. You will not see the fresh ingredients she had bought from the market that morning or the feel for when something needs “a little more of this or that,” is “just enough” or “just right.”  That, dear reader, will be up to you.

It would be disingenuous and even presumptuous to say that this was the “definitive” recipe, as the ingredients may have varied from time to time.  However, this is about as close as it came, from my perspective.  When I savor the morsels of chopped carrots and potatoes and freshly shelled peas that give this rice its wonderful texture, I cannot help but see my dear diminutive grandmother blissfully stirring a weathered cast iron skillet atop the gas stove in her tiny kitchen on Carpio Street in Mexico City.

Comfort food, indeed.

Abuelita’s Mexican Rice

A traditional accompaniment to many Mexican dishes.
 

3 cups medium grain rice
1 (1/2) qt. hot water
1/4 cup olive oil
salt to taste
1/2 cup fresh peas
1/4 cup cubed carrots
1/4 medium onion, chopped fine
1 small potato, cubed
1 garlic clove, chopped
1 tomato

Heat oil in pot and add rice when hot.  When rice is yellow and beginning to turn translucent, drain oil, leaving a little to keep rice moist.  Add remaining ingredients and cover.  Cook on low to medium heat until water is absorbed.


Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

 

Linda Huesca Tully2 Comments on Sentimental Sunday: Meeting the Family(Huesca) Diaz Andres Huesca y Sus Costenos Huesca Schiavon

Sentimental Sunday: Meeting the Family

Gilbert Cayetano Huesca (1915 – 2009)
Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca (1928 – 1987)

 

My parents, Gilbert and Joan Huesca, on their first trip together – on business!  Saint Louis, Missouri, October 30, 1954.

 

My parents delayed their honeymoon in Mexico for a couple of months.  I don’t know why, but my guess would be that among other things, my father wanted my mother to see Mexico at Christmastime, when the country is at its most magical.
 
Instead, their first trip was to Saint Louis, Missouri, to the Screen Process Printing Association’s Convention, from October 30 – November 2, 1954. My mother was now a co-owner with my father of Lakeshore Printing, the business he had started, and she wanted to learn as much as she could to help make the business successful.
 
While a convention of silk screen printers may not sound like a romantic occasion for a newlywed couple, the photograph above would suggest that they did not mind much, as long as they could be together. 
 
In late November, my parents flew south to Mexico City, where my father proudly introduced his beautiful bride to his mother, Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, his grandmother, Maria (Amaro) Perrotin, and his brothers and sisters and their families.
.
My parents, Gilbert and Joan Huesca, with my
grandmother, Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, at the
Los Panchos Nightclub (owned by the famous Trio
Los Panchos), Mexico City, December 1954

Talk about love at first sight. The whole large Huesca family turned out to meet them at the airport, laughing and crying.  My mother, who had come from a small family of two children, suddenly had five new sisters and five new brothers.  She was ecstatic. She and my grandmother – my Abuelita – who had been corresponding for several months by now (each in her own language), embraced each other as if they had known each other all their lives. “Hija mía! – my daughter!” my grandmother cried, throwing her arms around my mother.  Pointing to her stomach, she asked in English, “Baby?”  “Sí!” my mother exclaimed, as my grandmother hugged her and my father triumphantly again.

They all went to my grandmother’s apartment on Carpio Street, where she prepared a special dinner in her tiny kitchen to welcome my parents.  Long after everyone had gone home, my parents and my grandmother sat up late into the night, talking up a storm.  When many years later my mother would tell us the story of that first night and the days that followed, she would marvel at how she and Abuelita could spend hours alone talking, my mother speaking English and my grandmother speaking Spanish, and yet they seemed to understand each other perfectly.

 

Catrin (Huesca) and Ricardo Díaz, about 1950

Catrín and Ricardo Díaz, my father’s younger sister and brother-in-law, hosted a party to welcome my mother to the family.  My uncle Ricardo Díaz, was a musician and singer in Mexico who was a member of the world-renowned Jarocho group, Andres Huesca y Sus Costeňos.  His nickname was El Pollo, or The Chicken, because of his rotundness.  But his heart and his sense of humor were even greater. 

As the night came to a close, my mother asked my father how to thank her new brother-in-law for his kindness.

“Muchas gracias,” my father instructed her, “tú eres muy amable.”

By the time she found Uncle Ricardo, however, the original translation had evolved to, “Muchas gracias, Hermano (Brother). Tú eres un muy gran mueble.”

 

 

My ever-smiling uncle, Ricardo Díaz, and my father, Gilbert Huesca, at my grandmother’s home on Carpio Street, Mexico City, 1972.

The group around them fell silent for a moment.  My father, grinned in amusement. “You just told him that he’s a great big piece of furniture,” he whispered to my mother.

My mother was mortified by the thought that she had insulted her host. But Uncle Ricardo loved it.  He began laughing heartily and hugged my mother.  He and my Aunt Catrín were charmed by her earnestness and unabashed effort to communicate in her broken Spanish.  Although my father and his younger sister had always been close, that evening would mark the beginning of a lifelong close fraternal love between the two couples and eventually, their daughter

My parents’ stay in the Federal District came to a close after Christmas.  My father had originally proposed a honeymoon in Acapulco, but they never made it there until many years later. It didn’t seem to matter, though. Rather, they went to the 300-year-old colonial town of Tequisquiapan, Querétaro (a two hour drive north of Mexico City), for some much-anticipated time alone.

The name of the town, pronounced “Teh-keys-key-ah-pahn,” seemed to melt in their mouths whenever they would mention it in the years that followed. They said it with reverence and ease and lightness, as if it held a wonderful memory that forever would be known only by them. 

My mother, Joan Huesca, on the balcony of my parents’ hotel, Tequisquiapan, Querétaro, Mexico, December 1954.
My father was thrilled with his family’s warm reception of my mother as one of them, and he delighted in showing her his favorite places and teaching her the language and customs of his native country. For my mother’s part, she could hardly believe the surge of love she felt: for my father, for his family – now her family, too; and for Mexico – the magnificent and welcoming birthplace of her beloved husband who she called her “Ranchero,” or rancher.  

She fell in love with the Spanish language, too.  Though she never mastered it the way she had hoped, she always made herself understood by using the language of true communication: sincerity, humility, and love. I think those who knew her loved her more for that than if she had been a master linguist.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Linda Huesca Tully4 Comments on Treasure Chest Thursday: Baby AnnouncementHuesca Schiavon

Treasure Chest Thursday: Baby Announcement

Gilbert Cayetano Huesca (1915 – 2009)
Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca (1928 – 1987)

About a month after my parents were married, my mother, Joan Huesca, went to the doctor and learned to her great delight that she was expecting their first child.   

(In fact, my mother preferred the term “expecting” a baby to being “pregnant,” a term she felt was too clinical and did not suggest the bliss and anticipation that happy new parents feel when they are awaiting the birth of their child.)

She decided to announce the blessed event to my father, Gilbert Huesca, in a special way.  That evening, she greeted him with big kiss and hug and escorted him to the table, where she had prepared a candlelight dinner of steak, mashed potatoes, and green peas. On the steak she had arranged parsley flakes in the shape of letters that read, “I Love You.” 

Next to my father’s plate was an envelope that read, “Application for Credit.”   My father looked at her quizzically and slowly opened the envelope.  As he read the enclosed “application,” tears of joy came to his eyes.  He realized this was a very special expression of my mother’s love for him – and her grand announcement to him that they were about  to start a family.

 

My mother, Joan Huesca, taped this form into a scrapbook she dedicated to my father. Below it, she pasted a pair of lovebirds, cut out from an old Christmas greeting card.



APPLICATION FOR CREDIT
 
                                           Date:  My Lifetime
 
                                 Name of Co. or Individual:        Joan Huesca
                                 Street:    Wherever you are      City:      Heaven
                                 State:      of Happiness               Phone:  Your heart
                                 Line of Business or Profession:   Loving you
                                           
                                  If  Incorporated, Name of   (1) President:     You
                                                                                     (2) Treasurer:   Baby
                                                                                     (3) Secretary:    
                                   If Partnership, Name of Partners:   Gilbert Huesca
                                   Location of Home Office:                  Your arms
                                   Bank Reference:               My love for you
                                   Business:           Taking care of my darling husband
                                   Business:               ”          ”      “   our baby
                                   REMARKS:   I love you
 
                                    Name of person taking application:
                                    REMARKS:
                                    Received at Office:         Sherman Hotel 
                                    Investigated:                   Since August 19, 1955
                                    Disposition:                    Happy State

THIS BLANK MUST BE FILLED OUT COMPLETELY



The form has special meaning to me, as I was that first child – the “honeymoon baby” they were expecting.  

Although my parents’ deep love for one another was never a secret to anyone who knew them, least of all their children, every time I look at treasures like this, I still marvel at just how blessed I was to be one of their children.  I will always thank God for having been born to two people who were so in love and so devoted to one another.  



Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully



Linda Huesca Tully1 Comment on Wedding Wednesday: A Message from Mother and DadHuesca Schiavon

Wedding Wednesday: A Message from Mother and Dad

Gilbert Cayetano Huesca (1915 – 2009)
Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca (1928 – 1987)

 
Of all the congratulations that my parents, Gilbert and Joan Huesca received on the occasion of their marriage, none was quite so welcome as this one, from my maternal grandparents, Ralph and Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon.  
Undoubtedly, they were taken aback by the surprise telegram from my mother, but in the end they loved their daughter and trusted her. Recognizing that my parents were deeply in love and wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, they put any pride they had aside and sent the newlyweds this greeting card and a lovely floral arrangement to their new apartment.
Although we cannot know what else they were feeling at the time, the words in the card seem to speak volumes about their reaction to the surprise telegram from my mother.  They suggest that while my grandparents may have not have understood why my mother did not share their desire that she have a lavish wedding, they still loved her and wanted her and  my father to be happy. 
 
I think they would have been pleased to know that my parents’ marriage would indeed be very happy, enduring 33 years filled with love and devotion until my mother’s death in 1987.

 

A Wedding Message from Mother and Dad
This comes from Mother
and from Dad,
So you will surely know
That with it comes a lot more love
Than any words could show –
And it brings our fondest wishes
That in days ahead of you
Your hopes and plans
will all work out
The way you want them to;
For you mean
all the world to us,
And we both want to say,
“We’re wishing every happiness
For Both of You today.”

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully
 
Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Treasure Chest Thursday: We Were Married TodayHuesca Schiavon

Treasure Chest Thursday: We Were Married Today

Gilbert Cayetano Huesca  (1915 – 2009)
Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca (1928 – 1987)

My mother pasted this card into her scrapbook.  For the first time, she was addressed as “Mrs. Huesca” there.  “I was so proud!” she wrote.
Once my parents were declared husband and wife by Justice of the Peace Miles E. Cunat on August 19, 1954, they went home to pack their clothes for the next few nights.  
 
They first stopped at the Schiavon home on Saint Lawrence Avenue, then to the apartment my father had rented just a month earlier. Calling his print shop, Lakeshore Printing, he told the  employee who answered the phone that he would not be in until the following Monday.  Then he called his mother, Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, in Mexico City, his brother Carlos, who was living in Chicago by then, and last but not least, his close friends Luis and Theresa Algarin and Frank and Fern Waples, with the good news.
 
My parents most likely headed down to the Loop after that, where they checked into the Hotel Sherman, located at the time on Randolph at Clark and LaSalle Streets. The receipt below shows that they checked in at 8:44 on that evening and stayed for two nights, paying $11.45 per night for their room.  Shortly after arriving in the room, a bellman brought the newlyweds a basket of fruit from the management.

 

Room receipt from the Hotel Sherman in Chicago. The hotel, which was located on Randolph at Clark and LaSalle Streets in the Loop, closed in 1973.
 
 
My mother sat down at the desk and penned a telegram to send her parents, Ralph and Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon, who were vacationing in Miami, Florida.  The draft, which she composed on a piece of hotel stationery, shows her pride in becoming Mrs. Gilbert Huesca:

Dearest Mother and Dad:
 
We were married today- 
We hope and pray that we have
your love and your blessings.
We are staying at the Sherman
Hotel.
 
With love always, 
Gilbert and Joan 
  Huesca
 
 
Some time after midnight, the phone rang.  
 
My father answered it.  Fern Waples was calling.  In a cheery voice, she asked, “Hi, Gil!  What are you two doing right now?’
 
My father shook his head, slightly taken aback.  He grinned at my mother.  “We’re playing chess, Fern,” he answered.
 
“Oh.  Great.  Well, have a good time, Gil.”  Mrs. Waples said, satisfied, and hung up.

 

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully