Linda Huesca Tully1 Comment on Born Going Up in the WorldAlice (McGinnis) Schiavon Benita (McGinnis) McCormick Edith (Hoag) Eugene McGinnis Jane (McCormick) Olson Joan (Schiavon) Huesca John McGinnis Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis Ralph Schiavon

Born Going Up in the World


Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca 
(1928 – 1987)

1928 was a year of prosperity, hope, and bravado.
It was the middle of the Prohibition era, and Calvin Coolidge was president of the United States.  The U.S., along with 14 other countries, signed the Kellogg-Briand Pact, also known as the Pact of Paris,  a treaty that condemned war between two countries and advocated peaceful resolution of international conflicts (though some of the signers would violate it over the next decade.)
A page from my mother’s baby book, showing
her arrival on July 4, 1928, at 3:40 a.m. and
her address as 6042 Stoney Island Avenue,
Chicago, Illinios.
General Douglas MacArthur, president of the American Olympic Committee, unabashedly boasted of the team’s goal to “represent the greatest country on earth” and “win decisively” before his athletes swept to victory at the 1928 Summer Olympic Games in Amsterdam. Walt Disney introduced the first cartoon with sound: Steamboat Willie, starring a cheerful little dancing mouse named Mickey who went on to become the most famous rodent in the world. Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin and in so doing modernized medicine and saved millions of lives.
A first class postage stamp cost two cents.  The Soviet Union exiled Leon Trotsky. Amelia Earhart became the first woman to fly an airplane successfully across the Atlantic Ocean.
To me, though, the most important event of 1928 did not make the headlines.  It was the birth of my mother, Joan Joyce Schiavon.
My grandmother, Alice Gaffney (McGinnis) Schiavon, had spent July 3rd trying desperately to cool off from the hot and humid weather.  With her husband Ralph Schiavon at work downtown, Alice took their four-year-old son, Tommy, to visit her mother, Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis and maiden aunt Elizabeth “Lyle” Gaffney, at the old family home at 8336 Drexel Avenue.  The mercury that day hovered near 90 degrees Fahrenheit, but the humidity in the air made the air feel much hotter.  Alice, with a month to go before her second child was born, felt itchy, uncomfortable, and huge.
Playing cards under the shade tree with her mother, aunt, sister Benita (McGinnis) McCormick, and sister-in-law Edith (Hoag) McGinnis, Alice watched as Tommy played with his cousins, Jack, Phil, and Jane.  She must have been as grateful as the kids were when the ice cream man came down the street, ringing his little bell, and she probably wished her final month of pregnancy would melt away as quickly as the cool treat.
It had been a long year.  Alice’s father, Thomas Eugene McGinnis, had died the year before.  As much as she missed her father, she knew her mother, who missed him even more, welcomed the distractions of her children and young grandchildren. The ice cream and the Prohibition beer Alice’s intrepid brother Gene had brought offered the adults respite and refreshment.
Afternoon faded into evening.  The kids would have practiced marching for a block parade, and the men would have joined their wives and families at Mary Jane’s house after work and reminisced together over dinner about holidays past, laughing and telling silly stories.  The women would have adjusted the pins in their hair to keep the stray strands out of their faces as they did the dishes, and they would have delighted in any whisper of a breeze as their cotton dresses produced as they brushed lightly against each other in the airy kitchen, while the men would have checked the ice box to make sure it had enough ice to keep the meat, coleslaw, and potato salad cold for the next day’s picnic.
The Schiavons returned home to their Hyde Park neighborhood late that evening, sharing the gossip of the afternoon and eagerly looking forward to the next day. If Alice was starting to feel a combination of giddiness and fatigue, she probably dismissed it as simply anticipation of the Independence Day festivities all of Chicago would celebrate the next day.

The weather, in typical Chicago fashion, had hovered near 90 degrees Fahrenheit that Tuesday, but overnight it abruptly turned into a driving rainstorm.  Perhaps the thunder and lightning were nature’s way of ushering in Independence Day with the appropriate fanfare.

During the early hours of Wednesday, July 4th, Alice Schiavon went into labor.  Whether she didn’t take the signs seriously at first, thought she had plenty of time, or was waiting for the storm to clear, we will never know. Finally, she called her brother John to take her to the hospital while Ralph stayed home with their son.  Kissing her husband and her sleeping son, she climbed awkwardly into John’s large sedan.

John McGinnis was thrilled that his soon-to-be godchild would be born on the Fourth of July.  Resolving to give the new baby a proper welcome to the world, he decided against taking the 10 block direct path to Woodlawn Hospital and opted instead to drive a circuitous route through some of the lovelier winding lanes of the city.  Never mind that the poor visibility of darkness and pounding rain interfered with the view!  In typical McGinnis fashion, brother and sister belted out old Irish ditties and  cracked outlandish jokes, seemingly oblivious to why they were out and about at three o’clock in the morning in a heavy electrical storm.  They barely made it to the hospital.

Reality kicked in as John pulled up to the emergency entrance to Woodlawn.  By now, Alice was  breathless from her advanced labor.  It must have been a confusing and chaotic arrival as John and the nurses struggled to help the young mother out of the rain and into the hospital. Thankfully, Doctor Thomas Doyle, the family physician, was already there to greet them.

Alice had barely settled down from her wild ride when things began happening much faster than they had four years ago when Tom was born. As the situation escalated and the nurses realized they had to move quickly, they shooed John away, eased his 30-year-old sister onto a portable bed and wheeled her into an elevator.

Mothers know that when it comes to their offspring, things seldom go according to plan and even babies have minds of their own.  And so it went with Alice.  She never made it to the delivery room but delivered a healthy baby girl right there in the elevator. It was 3:40 in the morning when little Joan Joyce Schiavon made her dramatic entrance into the world and into the hearts of her family.
Years later, my mother would say she was born “going up in the world.”

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know Ralph and Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon and their children Joan and Tom, or are you a member of the Gaffney, McGinnis, or Schiavon/Schiavone families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Amanuensis Monday: “This is the Wish of their Mother”Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon Joan (Schiavon) Huesca Ralph Thomas Schiavon

Amanuensis Monday: “This is the Wish of their Mother”



[Note:  Amanuensis is an ancient word meaning one who performs the function of writing down or transcribing the words of another.  Derived from the Latin root manu-  , meaning manual or hand, the word also has been used as a synonym for secretary or scribe.]

Inside cover of my mother’s baby book,
as inscribed by her mother, Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon
ca. July 1928

 

Joan is the dearest sweetest little girl I ever knew, and I consider myself a very lucky woman to be blessed with such lovely children and she and Tom.  I know they will both always be the joy and comfort to me in my old age as they are now, and I only hope and pray I may live to see them both grown to manhood and womanhood.  May God bless them and always keep them as dear and sweet as they were when they were little.  I hope they will always stand for what is right, be good citizens and keep their religion and respect old age.  This is the wish of their mother. 
 
                                                                                          Alice McGinnis Schiavon
 
 
 
My mother, Joan Joyce Schiavon, made her grand entrance into the world on the Fourth of July in 1928, the second of two children born to Ralph and Alice Schiavon.  Alice kept a small clothbound baby book, in which she shared her hopes and dreams for my mother and her older brother, Ralph Thomas “Tom”.  
 
Her prayerful wishes were granted. Tom and Joan grew up to be people of faith and integrity.  They had loving marriages and good children, looked out for others, and cared for their parents.  My grandmother Alice always considered herself blessed to live long enough to see her dreams fulfilled.  She was 67 years old when she died on New Year’s Day, 1963, not quite a year after the birth of my youngest sister, the last of her eight grandchildren.
 
Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully
 
 
Did you know, or are you a member of the Schiavon/Schiavone or McGinnis families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.
Linda Huesca Tully4 Comments on Sentimental Sunday: Not Just Another Name on a Family TreeGilbert Huesca Joan (Schiavon) Huesca

Sentimental Sunday: Not Just Another Name on a Family Tree

My Mother, Joan Joyce Schiavon (1928 – 1987)

 

Far from being “just another name on the family tree,” my mother was the reason for my passion for our family history and traditions.  She came from a long line of storytellers and entertained us with her tales of not only her own family but my father’s as well.  She loved history and literature and faith and believed it was important to understand all three in the context of one’s own family if one was to appreciate his or her place in the world. 
 

A year and a half after she died of lung cancer on September 11, 1987, my bereft father decided to publish her unfinished autobiography.  His introduction, below, shows his devotion  to his wife of 33 years.  

In the preface that follows, my mother shares the passion she had for life, faith, and family, which endeared her to all she met. She also shares a universal hope: that she be remembered.  Though the preface is relatively short, it speaks volumes about the person she was and the mother I miss.

My parents, Gilbert and Joan Huesca,
at my sister’s home, February 1981, Santa Clara, California

 

INTRODUCTION
 

          This is a copy of the original preface written by my darling wife, Mrs. Joan Huesca.  She typed it on June 24, 1987, two days after she learned she was terminally ill with cancer.

 
          She wanted to revise the original copy, but as much as she wanted to, she never again got the chance.  However, I know she could have affixed her signature on this preface.
 
          Her autobiography was her gift of her heart to her family, and her legacy to the world of the thoughts and high moral values of a true lady.

 

                                                                                        Gilbert Huesca
* * * * *
PREFACE
 
I hope that I will not be just another name on a family tree, hanging precariously on some obscure branch.  I am dedicating this autobiography to you, my dear family; my darlings who are here now, and my precious ones to come, who may be able to know me, while I am praying for you in heaven.   I want to share my life with you.  For I have truly lived for you.  To you, my future descendants, I was here, I lived, I felt, I thought, and yes, I acted.  And as happens to all of God’s creatures, I left this earth to join our Lord, Mary, our Blessed Mother and all the Saints in heaven.
 
I have not been gifted with a literary talent, so dear reader, I do ask your indulgence with my poor attempts as memories or thoughts may not be written in a correct sequence of events, but will be written as they are recalled.  Ideas and life styles may change as you read this, but I beg of you to keep your standards and morals on the highest plane.
 
In the years of the 1980s, much is said about “woman’s independence.” Remember, my dears, that one cannot ever be independent of another.  To some extent, through our lives, we must lean one to the other. Therein lies our strength.  We must support one another.  My dependence has been on my dearest husband, Gilbert Huesca, the companion and love of my life, and our four precious, darling daughters.  For me, they have all been a very special blessing and gift from God.  My life and my being have been enriched with their love.  Through the experiences that I have lived throughout my life, I pray that you will build your lives about your family.  My prayers are that you, too, will find that same love and enrichment and that God’s blessing will be with you throughout your lives.

                                                                                          Joan Huesca




 
Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully
Linda Huesca Tully3 Comments on My Wonderful MotherJoan (Schiavon) Huesca Schiavon Tully

My Wonderful Mother

Joan Joyce Schiavon (1928 – 1987)

 
My mother, Joan Joyce Schiavon
Age 26
Chicago, 1954
 
“So when are you going to write about my Grandmother?” 
 
A few evenings ago, my son, Michael, asked the question I have avoided for far too long.
 
I told him I was trying to work toward writing about my mother but struggled with it because we were so close.  The pain of losing her was holding me back, even now.  
 
Michael pressed for a better answer.  Born in 1988, just eight months after my mother’s death at age 59 from lung cancer, he never had the chance to know her in person, as he had known my father and his paternal grandparents.  Nor, he reminded me, had his younger brother and sister, Kevin and Erin.
 
Michael added that she was not just my mother, but his and his siblings’ grandmother, their Nana, too.  He wanted to know more about her – the story of how she got lost as a toddler in the Michigan woods; what it was like to grow up during the Great Depression;  her struggles and her triumphs; her sense of humor; her fascination with Mexico; and her passionate love for my father, her daughters, and her grandchildren.
 
It was then that I realized that this year will mark 25 years – a quarter of a century – since my mother died.  My mother would have smiled at me in her wise and gentle way and said it was high time to move forward.  She would have been right.   Silly me to not have heard her voice in my heart.  It is time to do this.  It is time to honor my wonderful mother and to share her life with my precious children and the rest of the world.  
 
I will do my best to do that, beginning today.  For Michael, Kevin, and Erin.  For my sisters, my family, and myself.  
 
And for my mother, Joan Joyce Schiavon, whom I love more than words could ever say and whose warm embrace I still feel, all these years later.  “I knew you could do this,” she might have said knowingly. “Better late than never.”
 
 
Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully
 
.
 
Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Amanuensis Monday: A Grand AuntAlice (McGinnis) Schiavon Benita (McGinnis) McCormick Delia Gaffney John Francis Gaffney Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis Thomas Eugene McGinnis

Amanuensis Monday: A Grand Aunt

[Note:  Amanuensis is an ancient word meaning one who performs the function of writing down or transcribing the words of another.  Derived from the Latin root manu-  manual, or hand, the word also has been used as a synonym for secretary or scribe.]

 
Benita Elizabeth McGinnis (1889 – 1984)
From my Grand Aunt Benita Elizabeth McGinnis’ scrapbook – written when she was a mere 92 years young.
Born in Conneaut, Ohio, 5 years after my parents’ marriage and 3 years after the birth and death of an older sister, Mary Margaret, who only lived 3 days.
 
It is plain even in this infant picture that I was striving for balance.  I suppose this is because I was born under the sign of Libra, the Scales.  I’ll do anything to stay on both feet!
Benita McGinnis, age 3, 
Conneaut, Ohio, 1892
 About 1902*.  The dress I am wearing was a lovely blue.  The goods were given me by my darling grandfather.**  My mother made it.  The aunts gave me the pearls.  I recall that Aunt Deal** carried me in the blue dress to gaze down at my grandfather in his bed.  He had just died.  I cried because he could not speak to me and tell me how he liked my dress.
 
For my fifth birthday, I got this this lovely blue, brown, tan and gold plaid with a puffed neck yoke of gold silk.  My hair was getting very long and I wore it in 8 curls. Each day Aunt Delia curled it and brushed the curls over her fingers to make them glossy.
Benita McGinnis in her 
birthday dress, age 5,
Conneaut, Ohio, ca. 1894

The words above were written by my Grand Aunt Benita (or Aunt Detty, as my mother, sisters, and I called her) in a scrapbook about her life she created when she was 92 years old.  Aunt Detty was one of the most fascinating persons I have ever been blessed to know.  She was born on September 30, 1889, the eldest of four children born to Thomas Eugene McGinnis and his wife, Mary Jane Gaffney.   Her younger sister, Alice McGinnis, was my maternal grandmother.

Although there was an age difference of 66 years between us, I feel we were kindred spirits who shared a love for and interest in many of the same things:  writing and traveling, faith and family.  She also was a renowned artist (though I missed the boat on that one) who was always trying new media and finding new ways of looking at the world.  We spent many hours together, drinking wine, sharing stories, poring over photographs, and solving the problems of the world.  A loving wife and mother and friend to all, she was my mentor and, in many ways, the role model of the kind of person I hope to be.

 

*      Though Benita showed the date of her two-year-old self as 1902, it was in fact taken in 1892.  She always did look young for her age!
**   The (maternal) grandfather to whom Benita refers here was John Francis “Jeff” Gaffney, who died on February 28, 1892.
*** Aunt Deal was Benita’s maternal aunt, Delia Gaffney.  Delia went by several nicknames, including Di and Deal.
There will be more – much more – to come about Aunt Detty in future posts.
Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully
 
Linda Huesca Tully4 Comments on 1940s Radio Days1940 U.S. Census Project 4th Combat Cargo Group Amateur Ham Radio Amelia Tully Vivian Tully Welner Bing Tully

1940s Radio Days

Welner “Bing” Tully – (1922 – 2007)

This week, the 1940census.com Ambassador program has asked its “1940s Ambassadors” to write about technology, science, or transportation during the decade of the Greatest Generation.

And when the 1940 United States Federal Census is released in a mere 18 days, one of the first people I will look up will be my late father-in-law, Welner “Bing” Tully.

Amelia Tully, about 1940

Bing and his older sister, Vivian, went to live with their paternal aunt, Amelia (nee Tully) Moreno Binning as young children after both of their parents became ill and were no longer able to care for them.

It was middle of the Great Depression.  Amelia and her family lived in East Los Angeles.  Though the newly extended family lived in a poor section of town, Amelia managed to support her family with the modest earning she made from her small grocery store.  She loved Vivian and Bing as if they were her own children, and they were devoted to her in return.  Bing helped her at the grocery store after school and tinkered around the house, always trying to fix things for his aunt and make her life easier.

Amelia gave Bing a lot of freedom to explore new things and learn as much as he could, and she would encourage him read and do his homework when things were slow at the store.  He stumbled on an advertisement one day for a ham radio kit and became intrigued by the idea of being able to talk to others who shared his passion for science and technology.  With no money for luxuries, however, Bing figured out how to build his own radio set, taught himself Morse Code, and obtained a ham radio license to broadcast under the call letters W6RMQ.

Wooden sign crafted by Welner “Bing” Tully

The romance of communications and its many media appealed to Bing, a gregarious and affable young man who was fascinated by the boom of technology.  In 1940, at age 18, he took a job as a messenger delivering telegrams for Western Union, often riding his bicycle across long stretches of Los Angeles to deliver good news and bad to all kinds of people.  Though he never opened the envelopes, he wondered what kind of reaction they would elicit from the receivers – joy or jubilation, shock, or sadness.

Bing Tully’s career as a messenger boy was short-lived when a jealous man had him fired for what he misconstrued as advances on his girlfriend.  He thought the woman had asked Bing to wait while she left the room to get a pen to write down her phone number.  It turned out that she was getting her purse to give him a tip.  Unfortunately for Bing, it would be his last one as a Western Union man.

Welner “Bing” Tully, 19 years old
Los Angeles, Calfornia, 1941

Sunday, December 7, 1941, marked a turning point in his young life when, like most Americans, he learned from a radio broadcast of the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  Though families had gathered around their radio sets to hear the news and enjoy live music, comedy, and serial programs together for years, they did so purposefully and urgently now, listening to constant updates on the tragedy and on the ensuing American involvement in what was now World War II.  “Stay tuned,” was a familiar refrain that began during radio days and made its way into the culture of the time as a way of letting you know that something important was coming.

And something important came, indeed.  Radio took on new importance for Bing and many young men of his generation as it became a powerful – and potentially dangerous – wartime tool.  In 1940, the United States federal government had passed the Telecommunications Convention, prohibiting the 51,000 American amateur radio operators from communicating with other hams outside the U.S. and requiring all licensees to send their photo, proof of U.S. citizenship, and a set of fingerprints to Washington, D.C.

Once the U.S. entered the war in 1941, the government suspended ham radio operations completely in the interest of national security.  Full operation would not be restored until 1946.

Skilled amateur radio operators now became valuable resources for the U.S. military, and over the course of the war, about half of them – some 25,000 in all – signed up to serve their country.

Bing was one of these volunteers, entering the Army Air Corps at Hammer Field in Fresno, California, on February 4, 1943, as a Private First Class, Service Number V19100848.  Originally hoping to become a pilot, he was rejected some five months into his training when his instructor learned he had fainted once as a child during a Southern California heat wave.

The Army Air Corps reclassified him as a radio operator and assigned him to the 4th Combat Cargo Group in the China-Burma-India theater.  He and his fellow soldiers arrived in Sylhet, India, just after Thanksgiving 1944, where they joined a task force of Canadians and Australians, providing airpower support to the British 14th Army, which was retaking Burma from the Japanese.

CCG aircraft transported reinforcements and supplies for the Allies, moving supplies for the construction of the Ledo Road, carrying men, mules, and boats across the Irawaddy River, and flying soldiers, gasoline, and ammunition over the Burma “hump” to  China.

In May 1945, just a few days after the war had officially ended, Bing and 7 other men were sent to repair some runway lights at  Meiktila, a beleaguered airstrip and constant source of fighting between the Allies and the Japanese.  The lights always needed repair or replacing, because the Burmese liked to take the colored glass and melt it down to make it look like valuable stones or gems.  For some reason, before the men could finish repairing the runway lights, their pilot took off without them, leaving them stranded there for three days.

The war may have been officially over, but the area surrounding the field remained treacherous, with pockets of enemy troops here and there.  Bing tried radioing in code for help, using fake call letters, so as not to alert any remaining Japanese who might pick up his signal.  When his calls went unheeded, he decided to take a chance and used another American’s radio transmitter to radio to Chittagong in English:  “Tully here.”

“Hannan here,” came back the reply. Bing recognized the name as that of his bunkmate.  He could finally relax.  “8 men with runway lights stranded at Meiktila.  Require transportation back.”

A C-46 arrived shortly, and the men continued on their duty.  It would be some nine months before Bing left for Calcutta and departed on the troop ship Marine Wolf for San Pedro, California, stopping briefly in Honolulu, Hawaii.

The 4th CCG was inactivated on February 9, 1946.  Bing Tully was discharged as a Staff Sergeant a day later in San Pedro, after three years of service.  He would always remember his days with the 4th CCG with fondness.

I always thought I knew my father-in-law well, but like many of his “great generation,” he downplayed his role in the war.  He downplayed his life, too, preferring modesty to boasting about himself or his adventures and good deeds.  Perhaps I’ll find out more about him soon in the 1940 Census, which by the way, is looking for volunteer indexers in its 1940 Census Project.  Why don’t you join me?  It should be a lot of fun.

Stay tuned.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know Welner “Bing” and Vivian Tully or their aunt Amelia (Tully) Moreno Binning; or are you a member of the Hoppin, Tully, Moyer, or Moreno, or Binning families?  Were you or was someone you know assigned to the 4th Air Combat Cargo Group in the CBI Theater?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Linda Huesca Tully2 Comments on Talented Tuesday: The Great Gene SheeboAlice (McGinnis) Schiavon Benita (McGinnis) McCormick Francis Eugene McGinnis Gene Sheebo Jack McGinnis Joan (Schiavon) Huesca John McGinnis

Talented Tuesday: The Great Gene Sheebo



Francis Eugene McGinnis (1891 – 1961)


Because both Irish immigrants and Irish-American were, in general, looked on with disdain during the late 19th century and even into the early 20th century, many are said to have taken to appearing in vaudeville as a way of gaining recognition and respect. 


It is said that by appearing in blackface, Irish performers “hid” their identity and “became” part of the society and culture that otherwise had no use for them.  

Francis Eugene McGinnis, aka
“Gene Sheebo”

My grand-uncle, Francis Eugene McGinnis, who was known to family and friends by his middle name, Gene, was one of those who dabbled in this form of vaudeville.  Blackface had been popular for nearly 80 years by the time Gene McGinnis adopted the comic persona of “Gene Sheebo,” singing and performing in various venues in Chicago and the Midwest.   (Blackface would die out in the 1950s with the advent of the civil rights movement.)


Unlike his older sister, Benita, and his younger brother, John, who had dark hair, Gene and his younger sister (my maternal grandmother), Alice, had bright red hair and freckles that sometimes made them the targets of relentless teasing by their peers.  Perhaps because of the paralysis on his left side and the back and leg pain he suffered as a result of a childhood bout with scarlet fever, Gene also encountered difficulty finding suitable employment.  It should be no surprise, then, that he might have found some comfort in the control he must have felt as he applied burnt cork to his face and hair before going onstage to perform in front of an audience as someone very different, comical and seemingly carefree.


His stint as a vaudevillian did not last past a couple of years.  Afterward, Gene became “Brother Francis Eugene” during a short career as a Trappist monk in Kentucky.  His draft registration cards for World Wars I and II show him later on as a salesman for the National Refining Company in Chicago and then as a senior clerk for the Works Project Administration (WPA).  

My Uncle Gene performing in vaudeville.
Photo by Walinger Studio, Chicago, Illinois

Gene McGinnis never married.  He was a loving uncle to his nieces and nephews, however, and he doted on my mother, Joan Schiavon, often bringing her candy and telling her magical stories.  


My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, worshipped Uncle Gene.  She often waited at the living room window, watching for his arrival and the wonderful sweets he would bring, always packaged in a white box tied up with a bow, from him, her “beau.”  She would sit at his feet as the family listened to the radio in the evenings and tried to mimic him as he told jokes and sang songs.   Once, her cousin, Jack McGinnis (son of Gene’s brother, John), who was a few years older than my mother, asked her if she would marry him when she grew up.  My mother, who could not have been more than about five or six at the time, replied right away that she would, but added that she would have to marry Uncle Gene, too, because that way he would always bring candy.  

Uncle Gene – with a broken
arm?  Chicago, circa 1950.

Cousin Jack shook his head gravely.  “You can’t do that, Joan, because it would be bigamy,” he said.   My innocent mother replied, “well, it may be big of you, but it’ll be just as big of Uncle Gene, too!”  


As Gene aged, his aches and pains worsened, and he tried in vain to relieve his constant discomfort with medication and, eventually, alcohol.  Shortly after my mother and father married, Uncle Gene’s health deteriorated, and he went to live with them for a couple of years at their apartment on the south side of Chicago.  He became ill in late January of 1961 and entered Cook County Hospital, where he died of a heart attack on February 3, 1961.  He was 69 years old.  He is buried at Holy Sepulchre Catholic Cemetery in Chicago, Illinois, next to his parents.


Some might say that Francis Eugene McGinnis led a sad life.  Though there may be some truth to this, he was also a man of strength and determination who strived in the best way he knew to overcome daunting obstacles with grace, humor, and courage.  And because of that, we, his family, will never forget him as the Great Uncle Gene.


Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully



Linda Huesca Tully1 Comment on Thankful Thursday: The Wonders of Modern MedicineBenita (McGinnis) McCormick Francis Eugene McGinnis Gaffney John McGinnis Mary Jane (Gaffney) McGinnis Thomas Eugene McGinnis

Thankful Thursday: The Wonders of Modern Medicine


Francis Eugene McGinnis (1891 – 1961)

It was one of those trying weeks some years ago, the kind most families experience, when our three children, at the time preschoolers, came down with colds that developed into ear infections and strep throat.   Between calling the doctor and flipping through parenting books to check symptoms, my husband and I fretted over our little ones, taking their temperatures, coaxing eyedroppers of children’s Tylenol and antibiotics into their wiggly little mouths, and rocking them late into the night to soothe their discomfort.

Like parents everywhere, we rejoiced when they bounced back to their sweet and silly selves, triumphantly running around the house with more energy than ever without any sign of having been feverishly sick days before.

A few nights later, after I had put the baby to bed, I opened an old family scrapbook and came across a familiar photograph of my grand-uncle Gene McGinnis as a toddler.  Next to it, his older sister, Benita (McGinnis) McCormick, had written an account of his own illness in 1894, some 90 years after the fact:

My brother Eugene caught scarlet fever and was later paralyzed on his left side, never really regaining full use of his left arm.  He was about 3 – 3 1/2 years of age at the time.

Called “Gene” after his father, Francis Eugene McGinnis was born on September 16, 1891, in Conneaut, Ashtabula County, Ohio, the second of four children, to Thomas Eugene McGinnis and Mary Jane Gaffney.

Francis Eugene McGinnis
1891 – 1956

He was an active, mischievous little boy with the curly, bright red hair of his Irish heritage and a keen sense of the famous McGinnis humor to match.  And he was always looking for the next adventure, as my Aunt Benita continues:

We, he and I, were playing Indians.  We had feathers in our hair and were going to capture our mother and John, the baby, in his playbox beside her sewing machine.

We ran in from the apple orchard, shouting at the top of our lungs. Just as we neared my mother, Eugene fell to the floor.  He was deathly pale.  My mother sent someone uptown for the doctor.

Dr. Upson came at once and put Eugene to bed.  He examined me, too, but said I could stay on the couch in the kitchen.  We had scarlet fever!

I can’t recall that John ever got it, but Eugene became paralyzed before he was better of the fever.  My mother’s hair was blue black then.  Before (Eugene) was better, her hair had turned pure white.

19th century parents worried about their children just as parents do today, but the stakes back then were higher.  Illnesses such as scarlet fever, diphtheria, and whooping cough claimed the lives of many children and left long-lasting effects on others.

My husband’s and my efforts to coax flavored antibiotics into our children paled with the treatments most 19th century parents faced.  A family medical guide of the time prescribed home treatment according to severity.  My great-grandmother, Mary Jane, would have given her mildly ill Benita a recipe of Epsom salts and acetate of ammonia, along with a diet of mutton tea, toast, and barley or rice water for the first few days.  Luckily, Benita seems to have recovered fairly quickly.

Gene, however, worsened over the next few days.  It is likely that he became bald – not because of the fever itself, but because his parents had to shave his head, for fear that the presence of hair could cause brain affliction and eventual death.

In the cases of severe throat ulceration, parents were supposed to use a camel’s hair brush to apply a solution of nitrate of silver to the throat, “morning, noon, and night.”  If you ever have had to hold a sick child still while the doctor swabbed his or her throat to check for strep infection, you can only imagine what a trial this must have been – not only for the worried parents but also for their terrified children!

But this was not the worst of it.  For the sickest children, doctors prescribed bloodletting from the head or the arm.  Applying two to six leeches to each side of the head, just under the ears, was thought to relieve the brain of undue symptoms and presumably prevent death.

No wonder my poor great-grandmother’s hair turned white.

Though we do not know whether Uncle Gene had to endure the latter treatment, it is certain that scarlet fever left an indelible mark on him.  He was partially paralyzed on his left side for the rest of his life and suffered from physical and emotional scars as a result of his left leg being shorter than the right.  His classmates teased him because of his deformity.   My mother, who was very close to him, said he never complained of his afflictions.

A self-effacing man, he tried to mask his pain in various ways, performing in vaudeville for a few years and later, living for a short time as a Trappist monk.   He had never quite recovered from his childhood disease, and as his health worsened, he came to live with my parents shortly after they were married.  He died in 1956 at the age of 65 and is buried with his parents at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in Chicago, Illinois.

Thanks to modern medicine, scarlet fever today is not only preventable but highly treatable.  We have ready access to doctors, advice nurses, and antibiotics, all of which make it easier for children to be healthy and carefree and parents to breathe a little easier.  And that is something for which we all can be thankful.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know the McGinnises, or are you a member of the McGinnis or McCormick families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Mystery Monday: The Railway Men of Orizaba, Part 2Bennett Perrotin

Mystery Monday: The Railway Men of Orizaba, Part 2

Edward Joseph Organ (1859 – 1893)

“To Dear Mrs. F. Perrotin, Mater in Mexico”

Looking over the collection of photographs that belonged to my great-great grandmother, Catherine (O’Grady) Perrotin, I found one that was especially compelling and have been wondering about its subject for some time now.

Though he was not my ancestor, he certainly was related to someone, and it seems only fitting to honor his memory, out of respect for the friendship he shared with Catherine and her family.

Edgar Joseph Organ dedicated this cabinet card photograph to Catherine Perrotin on February 27, 1893.   Taken at the Lucio Diaz Studio in Orizaba, Veracruz, Mexico, the photograph is addressed to her as his “Mater in Mexico.”

Catherine, who would have been about 51 at the time, might indeed have been a mother-like figure to many of the expatriate railway men in Orizaba at the time.  Most likely, many of these young men, originally from England, Ireland, France, and the United States, had embarked on their great adventure working on the fledgling Mexican railway, Ferrocarriles Mexicanos, as bachelors, while others may have left wives and children behind for several years.  Catherine already had been living in Mexico for at least 25 years.  She would have been able to offer wisdom and counsel to these young men on the local customs, manners, and language.

In this portrait, Edgar strikes a somewhat casual pose.  His broad hands appear strong from years of physical work.  He is dressed either as an engine driver, leaning against a half column on top of which are stacked three or four books.  Perhaps these were to indicate that he was an educated man and enjoyed reading.  This seems to be borne out by his strikingly beautiful handwriting on the reverse of the cabinet card.  He also seems to have had some artistic talent, evidenced by the flower, leaves and feathers he incorporates gracefully into his capital letters.

Edgar Joseph Organ

The great care that Edgar took to dedicate this to my great-great grandmother aroused my curiosity about him.  Documentation varies, but he was born in the southwest region of the United Kingdom in about 1859, in either Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, or Monmouth, Wales.  Cheltenham lies some 22 miles east of the village of Ruardean – where Timothy Bennett lived with his own family – while Monmouth is about half that distance to the west.

According to the England and Wales FreeBMD Marriage Index: 1837 – 1915, he and Elizabeth Maria Woodward registered their marriage in Gloucester between October and December 1879.

They appear two years later in the 1881 England Census, living at 18 Salisbury Street in Cheltenham, with a six-month-old infant daughter, Elizabeth.  By this time, Edgar is identified as a 22-year-old railway fireman. Both he and his wife are noted as born in “Gloster” – the abbreviation for Gloucester.

Did Edgar and Timothy Bennett know each other before they went to Mexico?  It seems likely, especially as both had been railway firemen before they advanced to engine driver.  They probably trained together on the double Fairlie steam locomotive in Bristol, down the River Severn, where the Avonside Engine Company manufactured some 53 of these for Ferrocarriles Mexicanos to navigate the steep grade from Cordoba to Orizaba, Veracruz, until the railway converted to electric engines in 1920.

Though it is uncertain when both men left for Mexico, we know that Timothy married Maria Dolores Perrotin at the railway station in Orizaba in September of 1885.  Months before Dolores’ father, Francois Perrotin, died of meningitis in 1891, Dolores and her husband and young son moved from Mexico to England to live near Timothy’s mother and family in the Forest of Dean.  Catherine would join them in 1895.

Two months after dedicating his portrait to Catherine Perrotin, Edgar appears as an engine driver on the passenger manifest of the ship Aurania, arriving in Liverpool, England, from New York on April 25, 1893.

Tragically, he died some six months later on November 28, 1893, in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, England.  He was only 32.  The entry in the National Probate Calendar (Index of Wills and Administrations), 1861 – 1941 does not list the cause of death, but it does indicate that he left a widow, Elizabeth Maria Organ, who received his effects in the sum of £178 when the will was administered on December 23, 1893, just two days before Christmas.

Was Edgar ill before he left Mexico?  Did he become ill after arriving in England?  Or did he die accidentally?

Where was Edgar and Elizabeth Maria’s daughter, Elizabeth?  Unless she died before her father returned to England, she would have been about twelve years old in 1893.  The other possibility is that she could have been living with relatives during this time.  In any case, I cannot find her after her initial mention in the 1881 England Census and wonder whatever became of her.

Any extra money that Edgar might have brought home from his adventurous sojourn working on the Mexican Railway would have come in handy for Elizabeth Maria, though it could have not lasted long after she became the sole breadwinner.  In a sad turn of events, she reappears in the 1901 England Census in Barnwood, Gloucestershire, working as a storeroom servant at Barnwood House, formerly an estate that was later converted to an insane asylum.   Listed as a widow, Elizabeth was 39 years old.  Had she not only lost her husband but her daughter, too?What happened to her after that?  I only wish I knew.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Linda Huesca TullyLeave a comment on Mystery Monday: The Railway Men of Orizaba, Part 1Bennett Perrotin Timothy Bennett

Mystery Monday: The Railway Men of Orizaba, Part 1

The photograph above, taken at the Lucio Díaz Studio in Orizaba, Veracruz, Mexico, is identified as an “Instant Portrait.”

Who are these men?

This cabinet card photograph is part of a larger collection of “mystery pictures” that belonged to my great-great grandmother, Catherine (O’Grady) Perrotin.

From the date on the back, it appears she received the photograph while living in Orizaba, Veracruz, Mexico, perhaps as she was preparing to move to England in 1895 to join her daughter, and son-in-law, Maria Dolores and Timothy Bennett.  At that time, she would have been about 53 years old.  Of course, it is also possible that the picture was sent to her after she arrived in England.   It was taken in Orizaba, at the Lucio Díaz studio.

The men appear to have been friends or co-workers of my great-great grandfather, Charles Jacques François (“François”) Perrotin, who was a mechanic for Ferrocarriles Mexicanos, the Mexican Railway System, at Orizaba Station. (François died in Orizaba on May 25, 1891, of meningitis.) Timothy Bennett, Maria Dolores’s husband, also worked for Ferrocarriles Mexicanos as a train engineer.  They appear to be either American or European, perhaps British, French or Irish.  This is especially plausible, given that these groups engineered and built the Mexican Railway line from Veracruz to Mexico City.

The two gentlemen pictured above appear to be dressed in conductors’ uniforms, wearing ties, pocket watches, and pinstripe suits.   The bowler hats they are wearing would suggest that these are not their official portraits, as they would be wearing conductor’s caps instead.  There is no identification or dedication on the back of the card, except for the name of the photography studio.

If anyone reading this has any thoughts on the identity of these men or suggestions for where to look next, I’d love to hear them.

Next:  The Railway Men of Orizaba – Part Two

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully