Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Wisdom Wednesday: The Spanking that Never WasAlice (McGinnis) Schiavon Joan (Schiavon) Huesca Ralph Schiavon

Wisdom Wednesday: The Spanking that Never Was

 

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca
1928 – 1987

In her own words  (Part Eight)

In the episode that follows from her (unfinished) book, Joan Joyce Schiavon Huesca: an Autobiography, my mother recounts a poignant memory of the wise way her father, Ralph Schiavon, understood that sometimes the fearful anticipation of a consequence for one’s actions is more effective than the consequence itself.  This was one of her favorite stories, and she told it often, adding that this event was, for her, a hallmark of the mutual understanding and love between her and her father.

 

My grandfather, Ralph Schiavon,
Chicago, Illinois.

“I had escaped spankings…but there was one time, that I almost received a firm hand on my bottom.  I don’t recall what I had done, but I remember my Mother was very angry and threatened that when my Father would come home, I would be spanked.  


“All afternoon, I worried, my Father had such BIG HANDS!  ‘This will be some spanking,’ thought I.  Finally, the hours passed, the front door opened and there was my Daddy…SO BIG!  He had a smile on his face, which quickly disappeared as my Mother told him of my misbehavior.  A stern, serious expression crept across his face, and I stood there, grasping my Mother’s dress hem, trying to disappear behind her.

“My Father grunted, ‘Come with me.’  I followed as slowly as possible, cringing inside with fear.  We entered the bathroom, my Father closed the door, turned to me, and asked if I was sorry for whatever I had done.  In a small voice, I replied that, ‘Oh yes, I was very sorry and I promise never to do it again.’  

“In the meantime, my Mother, waiting outside in the hall, was having second thoughts about my punishment.   A smile appeared on my Father’s face, and he plotted with me to clap his big hands together, and I would scream as loud as I could.

“My Mother called out for my Father to stop spanking me.  We opened the door, with big smiles, I in my Father’s arms, and that was the tale of my only ‘spanking-that-never-was.’ Let me add that from that time on, I think there was a special bond between my Father and me.  My Father had been beaten as a boy, as my Grandfather was very stern, and through my life, my Father tried to shield me from harm.”



                                                                                 – Joan Huesca

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Linda Huesca Tully2 Comments on Talented Tuesday: A Knack for MischiefEmanuela (Sannella) Schiavone Joan (Schiavon) Huesca Rosemary (Reize) Mager

Talented Tuesday: A Knack for Mischief

 

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca
1928 – 1987
My mother, Joan Schiavon, 10 years old, at
Dixon School, Chicago, Illinois, 1938.

 In her own words  (Part Seven)

My mother, Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca, was quite the storyteller all her life, a skill most likely passed down by her Irish ancestors, the Quinns, McCoys, Gaffneys, and McGinnises. Two months before her death in 1987 at the age of 59, she determined to put down on paper as many stories of her own life as she could, for the benefit of her four daughters and her future descendants.  
 
Although she was unable to finish her book, what she managed to write was considerable and candid, even through her constant pain.  In this excerpt from her  book, Joan Joyce Schiavon Huesca:  an Autobiography, she remembers childhood adventures with her best friend, Rosemary Reize.
 
 
“We were living in the home that my Grandfather, Thomas Eugene McGinnis, had built in Chicago, Illinois.  The address was 8336 Drexel Avenue.  I remember the house as what was then called a ‘bungalow,’ with a large garden and yard in back of the house.  We had a large basement, which flooded almost every year.  One time, a client of my Father gave us a pet duck, which we named after a radio comedian of the time, ‘Joe Penner.”  On one of the flooding occasions, there was the duck, paddling along in the water almost to the top of the stairs!  We had an attic, too!  There were two rooms in the attic.  One was a bedroom for my  Brother Tom.  The other room as a ‘catch-all,’ with many wonderful things stored away.  I would spend hours there, playing many wonderful things stored away.  I would spend hours there, playing ‘dress-up,’ or putting on little plays and charging my friends a pin to attend these fabulous productions.
 
“My bedroom was opposite that of my parents.  I was just remembering the other day, how unique was my closet!  There was a little window in the closet!  I spent a lot of hours there playing with my dolls.  There were twin beds in my bedroom, one which later was shared by my Grandmother Schiavone when she came to stay with us.
 
“I was about six or seven years old when I met my ‘best friend.’  I had taken my dolls for a walk, and wandered over a block from our house, and found myself in the back of a large apartment building, and saw a little girl through a basement window.  Friendly me, called out, ‘Hello!’ and my ‘soon-to-be-friend’ proceeded to drench me with water.  Thus began many precarious adventures with Rosemary Reize, my ‘best friend’!  Rosemary was a very pretty little girl, with light blonde curls, and lovely blue eyes.  I was quite the opposite.  By this time, my mother had begun to bob my hair, and I was a brunette with big brown (meat-ball) eyes.  Rosemary was the leader, and I the dutiful follower, as you will see, as I tell you of our many misadventures.
 
“We collected milk bottles from the back porches of the neighborhood, with the idea of collecting a deposit for them.  We walked blocks and blocks to the nearest dairy, only to find that there wasn’t any deposit.
 
“Rosemary’s Grandmother had been given a scrungy little dog who apparently had been mistreated.  We took the poor animal down to the basement, to give him a bath, and put him in the old-fashioned washing machine!  The poor thing emerged, alive, but minus all his fur.
 
“Rosemary lived on the third floor of the big apartment building, and decided to see how fast the dog could get down the back stairs, so she put roller skates (one for his front paws, and one for his rear paws) on the poor little dog.  Then she gave a big PUSH!  Needless to say, the dog soon died afterward.

My mother, Joan Schiavon, first row, far right.
I do not know who the other children are –
could one of them be Rosemary Reize?

 “School Days in St. Joachim’s suddenly became much more exciting for Rosemary went to school there, too!  We were preparing to make our First Holy Communion, and during our religion studies, we learned all about the Poor Souls in Purgatory.  Angels that we were, we dedicated much of our time praying for those poor souls.  Then, we decided that maybe prayers really weren’t enough…so we would go to church early in the morning before school began, again at lunch time, and finally after school.  Each time, we would light ALL the candles in the church, kneel down and say a prayer as we lit each candle.  Father Hanley (the pastor of the church) would come in and find the church ablaze with candlelight, altar included.  We were finally apprehended, and our parents received a bill, ‘For the Poor Souls in Purgatory.’

 
“One day after school, we stopped off at a funeral home.  Neither of us had ever been inside such an establishment, and we noticed a crowd of people entering, so we followed.  No one seemed to  notice two little girls, so we continued to wander through one door and found ourselves in a room with a couple of dead bodies stretched out  We ran out and emerged through another door which led us into another room.  There were heavy curtains from floor to ceiling in front of us, and on one wall, a panel of buttons, which of course we decided to push to see what would happen.  We pushed all of them at one time!  Lights dimmed, the curtains began to open and shut, and music started to play, ‘When the Roll is Called Up Yonder’!  We peered from behind the curtains to see a casket directly in front of us, and a multitude of mourners, in a state of shock.  We must have set a record, running out of there, for we fortunately never were caught.”


                                                                              – Joan Huesca

 
***************************************

 

Postscript:  I will add my own memory of my mother and her friend Rosemary’s escapades here.  One Saturday afternoon, when I was about four or five years old, my father packed my sisters and me into the family car, and we took my mother to Rosemary’s apartment, so Rosemary (who had married and now was Rosemary Mager) could color my mother’s hair. At the time, the TV show I Love Lucy was popular, and Lucille Ball’s red hair appealed to my mother, who was a natural brunette but dreamed of being a gorgeous redhead, like the comedic star.
 
We returned a couple of hours later, everyone excited to see the results.  As we waited in the living room, I remember standing near the door to the kitchen, waiting breathlessly for my gorgeous mommy to appear.  After what seemed like an eternity, she and Rosemary emerged, beaming.  But for some reason, she was unaware that her hair was a flaming bright orange, nowhere near red.  She did not look like a movie star at all.  In fact, to me she was unrecognizable.
 
Frightened, I began crying, “Where is my mommy?  What have you done with my mommy?”  My father looked back and forth from her to me, grinning, his eyes wide as he tried in vain to console me that this was my mother.  But I could not be persuaded.
 
My mother, who had expected all of us to love her new hairdo, just stood there for a moment in shock at our reaction.  She walked over to a mirror and looked at herself, turned around and wordlessly walked back into the kitchen with Rosemary following closely behind her.  My father, chuckling by now, scooped us up and spirited us out of the apartment again.  He took us to a movie this time, probably to distract everyone from the hair-dyeing fiasco. 
When we came back for my mother the second time, my father practically had to drag me into Rosemary’s kitchen to see my mother, who was sitting with Rosemary at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.  Her hair had returned more or less its natural color.  I was so relieved to see my mommy again that I hugged her tightly.  She sniffled softly, her cheeks moist, as she squeezed me back. 



Our family moved in the mid-1960s from Chicago to Mexico City and a few years after that to California.  My mother and Rosemary kept their friendship alive, exchanging letters and Christmas cards.  Rosemary phoned my mother when she learned of her illness.  They talked for over an hour, catching up on their lives and reliving memories (one of these being something about them as teens, many moons ago, freeing some horses from the county fair and then running for their lives to avoid getting caught).  When she hung up the phone, my mother said she felt like a young girl again.  After all those years, Rosemary could still make her laugh.  



                                                                      – Linda Huesca Tully

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

 

Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Motivation Monday: How Could I Compete with a Genius?Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon Angelina (Ciliberto) Schiavon Elizabeth Lyle Gaffney Gilbert Huesca Joan (Schiavon) Huesca Ralph Thomas Schiavon

Motivation Monday: How Could I Compete with a Genius?

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca 
1928 – 1987
My godfather and Uncle, Ralph Thomas
“Tom” Schiavon, United States Army
Signal Corps, Camp Crowder, Missouri

 

Ralph Thomas Schiavon
1924 – 1993
 

In her own words  (Part Six)

We have been following my mother’s account of her life, written a couple of months before she died of cancer on September 11, 1987.  In Part Six of Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca:  an Autobiography, she remembers her beloved older brother, Ralph Thomas Schiavon.  
 
My mother idolized Tom, who was four years older, and who in her view, could do no wrong.  She and Tom grew closer in adulthood, and my mother never stopped looking up to her “big” brother.  He, in turn, loved her back with all the tenderness an older brother has for his sister.  He and his bride, Angelina “Angie” Ciliberto, asked my mother to be a bridesmaid at their wedding in 1946 and later, to be the godmother to two of their four children.  She reciprocated the honor; Uncle Tom and Aunt Angie were my very special – and very treasured – godparents.  
Tom’s name was one of the last my mother spoke shortly before she died, as she waited for his hurried arrival from his home in Chicago, Illinois, to her bedside in Modesto, California.

 

“Back to school again, but not to St. Dorothy’s this time.  Instead I was sent to St. Joachim’s along with my brother Tom.
 
“This will be your first indication that there was quite a difference between my brother and me.  But there was, and I might as well confess it now.  He was not only a boy (there’s a lot of difference right there!), older than I, but even in his earliest years, everyone seemed to agree that he was somewhat of a genius, while I was sweet, quiet, and timid mischievous me!  Not really very bright, but appealing. (Well, I must have had some good qualities, don’t you agree?)
 
Lazy Days at Big Blue Lake:  (left to right) Tom Schiavon, Elizabeth “Lyle” Gaffney, and Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon.  Between 1929 – 1932.   Hmm…deep in thought.  Notice Aunt Lyle’s curious expression.  Could she be wondering what her nephew was up to with her in that canoe?

“Genius or not, Tom was a problem to the school and the Sisters who taught there.  My mother claimed that she spent most of her time traveling from the house to the Principal’s office to see what Tom had gotten into almost daily.  One time, she arrived at Tom’s classroom to find the Sister covered from head to toe with grease from an engine Tom had brought to school.  Another time, she was called to the Principal’s office to find my brother and a representative of the Street Car Line. Seems Tom had decided to conduct a scientific experiment to see how awake and aware people were early in the morning, and had taken my Mother’s clothesline and interlaced it between the handles on each seat, then sat and watched people on their way out of the street car, falling as they went, and deduced that they really weren’t wide awake after all.  

 
“Still another time, when the Sister in charge of Tom’s classroom returned there after recess, she found that he had turned the classroom around, and her desk and that of the students were placed in reverse order than they had been originally.  ‘Of course,’ explained Tom, ‘you’ll all ruin your sight, as the sunlight is coming from the wrong direction, the way you had things placed before.’
 
“Now, back to  me, how could I ever hope to compete with that?”
 
                                                                            – Joan Huesca
 
Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully
Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Sentimental Sunday: If You Try Hard Enough, You Can Do AnythingBenita (McGinnis) McCormick Elizabeth Lyle Gaffney Emanuel “Vito” Schiavone Emanuela (Sannella) Schiavone Joan (Schiavon) Huesca Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis Phillip McCormick Ralph Schiavon

Sentimental Sunday: If You Try Hard Enough, You Can Do Anything

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca
1928 – 1987
 

In her own words  (Part Five)

 
On June 24, 1987, a couple of months before she died of lung cancer, my mother, Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca began writing the story of her life. Earlier, she described her earliest memories of life with her parents until the Great Depression cost her father his job and she had to move in with her grandmother, Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis and Mary Jane’s sister, Elizabeth “Lyle” Gaffney and life at the family cottage at Big Blue Lake, Michigan.
 
In this excerpt from her book, Joan Joyce Schiavon Huesca:  an Autobiography, she recalls her first days at school, her paternal grandmother, Emanuella Sannella, and lastly, her beloved father, Ralph Schiavon:
 
 
“Grandma [Mary Jane McGinnis] and Aunt Lyle [Elizabeth Gaffney] didn’t want me to go to Kindergarten, as they wanted me to stay home with them, and that was just fine with me.  I was so happy there in that home of love, they petted and praised me all the time, and I loved every minute of it!
Emmanuella (Sannella) Schiavon,
Chicago, Illinois

“Finally, though, it was time to start first grade, and I couldn’t escape from that reality.  My cousins Jane and Buddy* took me to St. Dorothy’s School, dutifully placed me at the end of a long line of children, then got in their respective lines, and in all the confusion of so many children in the school yard, somehow, I would manage to break away and walk home.  There I would be found sitting on the front steps waiting for Grandma to come down and let me in.  I didn’t want to leave my two darlings, and school became a terrible drudge to me.

 

“My Grandmother Emanuella Schiavone had come to live at my parent’s home.  I remember that my parents took a trip to Cuba during these years, and when they returned, they decided that I should return home to live.  My Father had started his own business as a Tax Consultant, and was beginning to prosper once again, though we were far from being rich in those days.  I don’t really remember much about my Grandma Schiavone at that time, except for one visit to my parents’ home while she was there.  She was in the kitchen frying up what my Father called “ladyfingers,” made of mashed potatoes rolled up, with parsley and garlic flavored.  I remember they tasted very good.  Grandma couldn’t speak any English, so we really couldn’t communicate very well, for I couldn’t speak Italian, either.
 
“Let me take the time now, to tell you about my Father.  For all of my life, he has been a sort of hero to me, his early years were very humble.  He was born in a small village called San Sossio**, in Italy, just south of Rome, and north of Naples.  Through the years, Daddy would tell us a few stories about his background and his youth, and these I’ll try to relate to you now.
 
“Daddy told us that there were records in the village church tracing his family back to the time of the early Romans.  But, he didn’t seem to know where his Father, Emanuel Schiavone***, had originated from.  Grandpa turned up in San Sossio one day, and must have been a dashing figure in his day, dressed in a long black flowing cape with a gold earring in one ear!  He courted my Grandmother, who was Emanuella Sannella, and married her, and they lived their first years of marriage in San Sossio.  My Uncle Pat (Pasquale) was born, then my Father, and after his birth, since he was such a big baby, my Grandmother wasn’t able to care for him, so he was sent to live with some maiden ladies, who sort of adopted him for the first few years of his life.  They were apparently very well to do, and my Father grew healthy and well fed.  He used to tell us, he especially loved goat’s milk, and would go right up to the goat, for a fresh drink of it!  He even used to ride on the goat’s back, until he got too big for that, and transferred to a donkey!  
 
Note the submarine
name, “USS South
Carolina” inscribed
in Ralph Schiavon’s
sailor’s hat.

“

 joined the United States Navy during World War I, and was active on a submarine.  He used to say how frightened he was, especially since he and his shipmates would be locked into a compartment when the ship was submerged.  Daddy…was stationed at Great Lakes Naval Training Station, near Chicago.  There, he met my Mother.  When they married, a few years later, Daddy got a job working in a shoe store, and he attended a night school, until finally, he received a degree to practice government tax laws.  The purpose of this long tale, is to relate to you, something which has always impressed me, with the drive and ambition of this great man who was to be my Father.  His example has been a part of my being since I can remember.  I guess I have believed, because of him, that if you try hard enough, and put your goals high enough, you can do anything.  

 
“Through the years, my Father prospered, and was quite well to do, but he never forgot his humble beginnings, and he had a devotion to his family, and his Mother and brothers and sisters, throughout their lifetimes…My Father adored his Mother, and his devotion to her was inspirational. Each year of his life, until her death, he would make two trips all the way from Chicago to Boston (one trip, always for Mother’s Day), to spend with her.”
 
                                                                                      – Joan Huesca
 
 
 
*     Jane and Buddy were Benita Jane and Phillip McCormick, Jr.  Their parents were Phillip and Benita (McGinnis) McCormick, and Benita was the oldest child of Thomas and Mary Jane McGinnis.
**   For reasons of accuracy, I have changed my mother’s phonetic spelling of my grandfather’s birthplace from “San Saucio” to  the official spelling of the village, namely, “San Sossio (Baronia).”  The village is located in the province of Avellino, Italy.
***   My mother, who never met her grandfather, believed his name to be Emmanuel Schiavone.  In fact, his name was Vito Isidoro Schiavone, and he was known as Vito.
Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully
Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Little Blonde Joan Lost in the WoodsAlice (McGinnis) Schiavon Joan (Schiavon) Huesca

Little Blonde Joan Lost in the Woods

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca
1928 – 1987
 

In her own words  (Part Four)

 

My mother at about a year old, Chicago, Illinois
On June 24, 1987, a couple of months before she died of cancer, my mother, Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca began writing the story of her life, Joan Joyce Schiavon Huesca:  an Autobiography.  Here, she tells about getting lost in the  woods surrounding Big Blue Lake, Michigan, while her mother was out antique hunting.   
 
 
“My Mother was blessed with a ‘happy-go-lucky’ character, with a witty sense of humor shining through.  As the Irish would say, she was born with a ‘gift of the gab!’  She loved antiques and beautiful things.  Of course in those days, since the Depression was in full swing, money was scarce and she would travel the farm roads, looking for bargains.  We had a maid who stayed in the cottage with us, and when I was about three years old, my Mother went off and left me with the maid.  When she returned, I wasn’t in view, but she thought I was playing a hide-and-seek game with her as I often had done, finally, when the maid burst into tears and my Mother realized that I was gone…her baby was LOST!
 
“Faintly, I can remember, I had heard about fairies, and I recall going into the woods to find some.  I am told that I was clothed only in a bathing suit, and small rubber bathing shoes.  I don’t remember anything about walking through the woods, but I do remember sitting down on a step, and I must have fallen asleep.
 
“I was awakened by a lady and a little boy.  I was in their house, and I remember sitting down and eating with them.  The  next thing that I remember is that I had an exciting motorboat ride across the lake to our beach where I could see my Mother and a large group of people waiting for me.  What I was unaware of at that time, was that I had been gone for more than eighteen hours!  In the meantime, the newspapers carried the headlines, ‘LITTLE BLONDE JOAN LOST IN WOODS!’  The Forest Rangers had a plane out looking for me, over 1,500 Boy Scouts were searching through the woods, and my Mother was in a state of hysteria.  
 
My grandmother, Alice McGinnis Schiavon,
about 1935, Chicago, Illinois
“I was fine, except that my feet had worn through my light footwear and were badly blistered and cut.  The family who had found me had to calm their little boy, who had been praying for a baby sister and thought God has answered his prayers when I appeared on their doorstep.  God indeed, must have been watching over me, as the forest was inhabited by many potentially harmful animals, snakes, bears, etc.  There were also patches of quicksand in other areas not distant from the cottage, and had I wandered in another direction, I might have perished in the quicksand.  
 
“There is, many times in life, a humorous side to things, and one of those funny moments happened just the next day. Mother, the gung-ho antique hunter, was off down the roads for a new ‘find’ early the next morning! When she stopped to fill up the gas tank, she overheard two men discussing the big news of the day…ME!  One of the men was going on about ‘how women these days were neglectful of their Motherly duties.  Just imagine how a mother could leave her child with a maid, and go out looking for antiques!’  Then he turned to my Mother and asked, ‘What do you think, Madam, would be a fitting punishment for a careless mother like that?’
 
“Trying to control herself from laughing, my Mother replied, ‘A woman like that should be tarred and feathered!’ and off she went, blissfully searching for more antiques…”
 
                                                                                – Joan Huesca
Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Summers in the Wilds of MichiganAlice (McGinnis) Schiavon Angelina (Ciliberto) Schiavon Joan (Schiavon) Huesca Ralph Schiavon William McGinnis

Summers in the Wilds of Michigan

My mother, 18 years old, Big Blue Lake, Michigan, 1946


Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca

1928 – 1987
 

In her own words  (Part Three)

On June 24, 1987, a couple of months before she died of cancer, my mother, Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca began writing the story of her life.  In the first and second parts of this series, she describes her early years at home.  In this excerpt from her book, Joan Joyce Schiavon Huesca:  an Autobiography, she fondly recalls her family’s summers at Big Blue Lake, Michigan, and their cottage, Bunny Rest.

 
“Memories are funny, especially as one grows older.  They don’t seem to be recalled in sequence of time, so if I sort of “bounce” things about, please understand that one memory many times sparks another.

 

Bunny Rest, so named by my grandmother, Alice (Gaffney)
Schiavon, because that was where the family went to rest
what she referred to as their “bunnies.”
Big Blue Lake, Michicgan, about 1945
“My Grandfather’s brother, William McGinnis, known to our family as ‘Uncle Bill,’ had retired in his later years to live in a house that he built at Big Blue Lake, about thirty miles north of Muskegon, Michigan.  He lived a hermit-like life there, living off the land, trapping mink and other small animals in the winter, and renting boats, selling bottles of water, and whatever else he could to people visiting the lake.  (I hesitate to use the term ‘tourists,’ as people in those days were hardly of a present day category of ‘tourists.’)  Uncle Bill’s home at that time was quite small.  A tiny kitchen, combination living-dining room, a good sized room, used as a closet, stairs to a second floor with one big room, used as a bedroom, a screened-in porch along the front and one side of the house, a wood-burning stove for cooking, and a true-to-name ice box filled with the ice that Uncle Bill would cut from the frozen lake in the winter and store in a tiny cellar beneath the kitchen sink.  Outside to the back of the house was the privy.  No indoor bathroom here!
 
“My mother was the only one in the family who kept in contact with Uncle Bill, and when she was notified that he had fallen and was hospitalized with a broken hip, she drove the 200 miles from Chicago to where Uncle Bill was interned in a hospital.  From what I had been told, Uncle Bill died from his injuries, complicated by pneumonia.  He willed his property to my Mother.  This must have happened in about 1929, as I was just one year old when we first went to the “cottage” to spend a summer there.
 
“Surprisingly, I learned to swim before I could walk.  We had the nicest beach on the whole lake, and I would be placed in the shallow water to play, and one day, off I went, swimming!
 
“We spent every summer at the cottage.  When school was out, off we would go, packed to the hilt in the reliable Ford of the day, a high vehicle, narrow, and with narrow tires, and a running board along each side.  My Mother was the driver in the family.  Long before, my Father, who had purchased our first car, tried to drive it home, and found to his amazement that the salesman had forgotten to show him how to stop the car, so he just had to keep driving til he used up all the gasoline.  That must have frightened him, for he never really drove a car, so my Mother took over.

 

Back row, right:  My aunt and godmother, Angelina “Angie” (Ciliberto)
Schiavon.  Front row, center:  My mother, Joan Schiavon.
About 1946, Bunny Rest Cottage, Big Blue Lake, MI 
What a driver she was…FEARLESS!  She loved to speed, and would seem to be driving as fast as the car would go.  Roads in those days would be unrecognizable today.  There were no freeways, but one lane in each direction, unaptly called highways.  Fortunately, they were paved.  Ten or twelve miles from a little town near the cottage, called Twin Lakes, was a dirt ‘lumber trail’ to travel [as far as] about two blocks from the cottage.  (Later, this would become first a gravel road, then finally, a black-topped paved road.)  From this point, [another] lumber trail to the cottage (which still exists today).*  From Twin Lakes, one would enter a thick, pine forest.  The cottage was nestled in the midst of this forest, with sandy ground all about. The lake was just down the way, and we could see its sparkling blue water through the trees.
 
“What a wonderful place for city children such as we! Such a different life, and such wonders to explore! We adjusted to the lack of civilization nicely.  My Father would remain in Chicago, working to provide for us. On weekends, he would travel to Muskegon by train (must have been a ‘milk-train’ as it stopped at every little town along the way), usually a trip of eight hours.  We looked forward to his arrival, and would leave early in the day to ‘go to town’ to buy groceries and look around the stores.

 

My mother told me that her Great
Uncle Bill McGinnis also built
this (red, I think) log cabin on his
property, not far from Bunny Rest.
“On the way, we usually stopped at a wayside cafe where we would feast on barbecue beef sandwiches while my Brother would order a bowl of chili with oyster crackers.  Our big treat would be to attend a movie theater, and we would be just in time for the 10:00 p.m. arrival of the train.  
 
“I remember, standing outside the depot, watching the train light from afar, and then the engine chugging into the station, excitedly watching for my Daddy who always seemed to be the first person standing on the train platform waving with one hand and grasping a small satchel in the other.  I remember running to meet him, and trying to help him carry his bag which always was too heavy for me. We would all squeeze into the car, and on the long drive home (cars didn’t travel as fast as they do today), I would fall asleep, and be awakened when we would drive alongside of the cottage, then sleepily find my way upstairs after a dish of milk, bread, topped with sugar, for a nightcap. Much of the time, we all shared the big room upstairs, but on mild nights, we children would love to sleep on a cot on the porch.  There, we would wake during the  night and see families of deer on their way to the lake. Usually, the moonlit nights would be clear and the beauty of the forest would be a breathtaking backdrop for this scene of nature.


                                                                             – Joan Huesca




Linda Huesca Tully1 Comment on Remembering Mary Jane and Elizabeth GaffneyBenita (McGinnis) McCormick Elizabeth Lyle Gaffney Jane (McCormick) Olson Joan (Schiavon) Huesca Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis Philip "Bud" McCormick Phillip McCormick Thomas Eugene McGinnis

Remembering Mary Jane and Elizabeth Gaffney

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca 
1928 – 1987
 

In her own words  (Part Two)        

 
On June 24, 1987, a couple of months before she died of lung cancer, my mother, Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca began writing the story of her life.  In this excerpt from her book, Joan Joyce Schiavon Huesca:  an Autobiography, she tells readers how she came to live with her grandmother, Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis and her great-aunt (and Mary Jane’s younger sister), Elizabeth “Lyle” Gaffney, during the Great Depression:
“The years of the Depression were upon us, though I really wasn’t aware of it, at the time.  My Father lost his job as a Supervisor with the Internal Revenue Service when the Roosevelt Regime came into Presidential office, and since my parents didn’t have any other income, I was sent to live with my Grandmother, Mary Jane McGinnis and my Great Aunt ‘Aunt Lyle,’ Elizabeth Gaffney, and my ‘Uncle Gene,’ Francis Eugene McGinnis (my Mother’s brother).  Grandma had a small pension from the city, so we were sure of enough to eat.
Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis,
about 1935, Chicago, Illinois
 
“I really don’t have much memory of my parents during those years, and only remember one time when they came all dressed up for some occasion or other to my Grandmother’s house.  We lived on the second floor of a ‘two flat’ building owned by my ‘Aunt Detty,’ Benita Elizabeth McCormick (my Mother’s Sister), and her husband, my ‘Uncle Phil,’ Phillip C. McCormick.  My cousins, Benita Jane (Janie) and Phillip (Buddy) were their children and lived just below us.
 
“Grandma and Aunt Lyle were the dearest, most loving people I have ever met in my lifetime.  My life was full of their Irish humor, blarney, and love, even complete with little Irish ditties:
 
‘Saint Patrick was born at four in the morning,
His Mither and Fither were there at the time.’
 
“My earliest memories with Grandma and Aunt Lyle were of so much love.  They were wonderful to me.  What can I tell you about Aunt Lyle?  She was always smiling (I heard that she had quite a taste for liquor).  But, though I guess I have to be truthful and say she was fat, she had the softest lap in the world. I’ve been told that I was her favorite.  (Lucky me.)  Another early memory was the beautiful little coat she made for me.  It was a light salmon pink velvet, trimmed in ermine balls.  Aunt Lyle had been a Milliner, and was famous for the beautiful hats she made.  I understand she used to design a special baby bonnet for the babies in the Henry Ford family.  I never saw a million dollars, but I did have a lot of those bonnets, too, along with many hand-smocked little baby dresses that the Fords didn’t have.
 
My mother, Joan Schiavon (far left), with her cousins, Benita Jane “Janie” and Phillip “Bud” McCormick,
about 1931, Chicago, Illinois



I guess that Grandma McGinnis was the example of what I always had hoped I would be like.  Grandpa [Thomas Eugene] McGinnis died a year before I was born, but always it seemed to me that Grandma had lived just for him, loving him completely.   (I, too, have been blessed with the dearest Husband ever, so it seems my prayers had been answered in that respect.)  Grandma had the bluest eyes.  How well I remember them, they were always full of love.  Two days a week were ‘baking days,’ and Grandma would produce all kinds of delicious pies, cakes, and bread.  

Elizabeth Gaffney (1862 – 1934)
The back of this photograph reads “Pin-Lock
Medal, Chicago” and is dated
May 31, 1898.

There was always extra dough, most of the extra would be made into ‘little pies,’ little triangles with either cinnamon and sugar inside, or ‘leftover’ apple slices from the bigger pies.  The ‘little pies’ were just for me.  I can remember sitting at the kitchen table for hours, my nose barely reaching the top, rolling a little ball of dough (sort of smudged looking, ’cause my hands weren’t always as clean as they should have been), and when Grandma would turn her back, I’d pop the whole thing into my mouth.

 
Our house was always full of delicious aromas of baked goods, and some of this must have wafted out of doors, as there always seemed to be a stream of people at our back door, especially when Grandma had been baking. People were desperately hungry, and they seemed to know that there would always be something for them at Grandma’s.  I didn’t mind all the people who came around, as to this day, I love to have company.  I do remember one ‘visitor’ especially.  A gentleman, who seemed quite poor, but was different from all the others, as he came around to sell things such as aprons, pins, needles, pot holders, etc.  Grandma always asked him in, sat him down for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, and as many times as she could, would buy something.  In later years, this same man, whose name was Morris B. Sachs, became quite wealthy, owned a large department store in Chicago, and finally, became the Treasurer of the City of Chicago.
Elizabeth “Lyle” Gaffney’s millinery shop, early 1900s,
either Conneaut or Cleveland, Ohio.  She also made
hats for Annie Sullivan, Helen Keller’s teacher and
was the chief milliner for Marshall Fields 
Department Store in Chicago.


“Sleeping with Grandma would be the happy time of the day for me.  Grandma wouldn’t let me get up as early as she, so I would lie there under her big quilted comforter, and play imaginary games on the stitching on the comforter, imagining that I was traveling roads to heaven knows where.
 
“Those were days of imagination, and our toys were mainly very small things, for no one could afford to buy much in the way of toys.  I would play for hours with local politicians’ business cards, standing them up along the window sill, and pretending that I was their teacher, and they my pupils. . . . Memories such as these seem to live on with one through their lifetime.”
 
                                                                                      – Joan Huesca

Copyright (C) 2012  Linda Huesca Tully
 
 


Did you know any of the people mentioned in this story, or are you a member of the Schiavon/Schiavone, McGinnis, Gaffney, McCormick, Olson, or Huesca families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Linda Huesca Tully2 Comments on Treasure Chest Thursday: Early MemoriesAlice (McGinnis) Schiavon Huesca Joan (Schiavon) Huesca Ralph Schiavon

Treasure Chest Thursday: Early Memories

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca
1928 – 1987

In her own words  (Part One)

On June 24, 1987, a couple of months before she died of lung cancer, my mother, Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca began writing the story of her life.  The following is an excerpt from the first chapter of her book, Joan Joyce Schiavon Huesca:  an Autobiography, in which she describes one of her earliest memories:

Cover of my mother’s autobiography,
1987, Modesto, California (published privately)

“I have been told that I was a cuddly blonde with a mass or curly ringlets atop my head, crowned with a big pink bow.  My dress was of a pink satin tunic with a pink net full short skirt decorated with little blue satin rosebuds.  Dressed in all my finery, my parents took me to a social gathering at the American Legion Hall (Woodlawn Post)., of which my father was a member, having served on a submarine in the U.S. Navy during World War I.  I can remember their being very proud of their “doll-like” little girl.  There I was, standing right in front of two big doors which led into a large hall, filled with BIG PEOPLE!  I can remember so clearly, feeling so frightened, and I began to cry, as I seemed to be the smallest and only little girl there.  Tearfully and red-faced, I tried to pull back from those doors…but to no avail, as I made my entrance to society puffy-eyed and sobbing.  To this day, I feel that same bit of timidness in a large group of people with whom I am not well acquainted.”

                                           – Joan Huesca



Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Wordless Wednesday: Joan and Tom SchiavonJoan (Schiavon) Huesca Ralph Thomas Schiavon

Wordless Wednesday: Joan and Tom Schiavon


Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca 

1928 – 1987

Ralph Thomas Schiavon
1924 – 1993
 
Brother and Sister 
Tom (age 5) and Joan (age 18 months)
Winter 1929
Chicago, Illinois
Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully


Linda Huesca Tully2 Comments on Thankful Thursday: From the Angels in HeavenJoan (Schiavon) Huesca John McGinnis Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis Ralph Schiavon Thomas Eugene McGinnis

Thankful Thursday: From the Angels in Heaven


Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca 
(1928 – 1987)

It was still early morning on the Fourth of July, 1928, when my grandfather, Ralph Schiavon, still half asleep, rolled out of bed to answer the telephone.  Doctor Thomas Doyle, the McGinnis and Schiavon family physician, was calling with good news.

 

My mother, Joan Joyce Schiavon, Chicago, Illinois,
about five months old, 1928

“Well, Ralph, you’re the lucky father of a beautiful baby girl,”  he announced.

Ralph, a big man who seldom showed his emotion, felt such a surge of happiness that he thrust his powerful arm forward in triumph.  The force of his fist put a hole through the wall.
Meanwhile, John McGinnis, Alice Gaffney (McGinnis) Schiavon’s older brother, was already driving through the streets of Chicago, celebrating the birth of his new godchild, Joan.  Unable to wait for the city’s fabled fireworks festivities to begin that evening, John stayed at the hospital just long enough to see his tiny niece and left soon afterward to buy himself some firecrackers.  He was so excited that he set these off under several overpasses in the neighborhood to announce his Yankee Doodle niece’s birth.
Meanwhile, back at the hospital, my mother was making her own mark. Born one month premature and weighing slightly over two pounds, little Joan Joyce had the distinction of being one of the first babies to be born at Woodlawn Hospital.  A couple of days after she was born, a serious infection swept through the hospital nursery, and as a precaution the nurses moved Joan out of her bassinet and into Alice’s room, where she spent the rest of her two week stay swaddled in the top drawer of the dresser next to her mother’s bed.  It probably saved her from the deadly infection, which took the lives of all but two of the newborns.  My mother was one of those blessed miracle babies.
Joan at about a year old,
Chicago, 1928

Joan’s arrival was great cause for celebration in the Schiavon and McGinnis households.  Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis, her maternal grandmother, was beside herself with joy.  Looking at Joan’s fair face and tiny brunette curls, she concluded that her beloved husband, Thomas Eugene McGinnis, who had died in 1927, had chosen my mother specially from the angels in heaven and sent her to his grieving family.  The thought of this was a great comfort to Mary Jane, and it formed a special bond between my mother and her Grandma McGinnis that would endure for the rest of their lives.

Fast forward to a warm afternoon in late July, 1987, some 59 years later.  A month earlier – and only two weeks before what would be her last birthday – my mother had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer.  She and I were having lunch together in a small cafe near my office in Los Altos, California, having one of our memorable heart-to-heart mother-daughter talks.  It was a luminous day, and the midday sun reached through the wide window, its rays enveloping us reassuringly in their gentle warmth.
We were all too aware that our time together had become precious and short.  We talked about many things, one of them being husband’s and my decision to finally have our first child.  We had delayed this for the first three years of our marriage, but my mother’s illness had put things in a new light.  As we sat at our table, drinking Diet Cokes, I confessed to my mother the sadness I felt that she might never know her grandchild.

 

She said nothing for a moment and then took my hand in hers.  Looking me straight in the eye, she said, “Linda, not only will I know your children, but I’ll go up to heaven and find them among the angels there.  I’ll play with them, and then I’ll send them down to you.”
My husband and I now have three wonderful children, and to this day, I believe my mother did just that.
Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, her parents or children, or are you a member of the Schiavon/Schiavone, McGinnis, Huesca, or Tully families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.