Finding A Home, Building a Legacy

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

Once my parents, Gilbert and Joan Huesca, realized that South San Francisco was not the warm and sunny place where they had dreamed of living, they began scouring the Bay Area for a place we could call home.

Flickr Images, Courtesy Jitze Couperus

In mid-July of 1967, they bought their first home for $17,000 in San Jose, about 40 miles from South San Francisco, and by the end of August, we had moved in.  It was foggy as pea soup as we left "South City," and headed south on Highway 280, up and down the oak-covered hills.  

About 20 minutes into our drive, the fog gave way to blue skies and sunshine, and the hills took on a sunburned hue.  They looked so different from the same green hills we had seen only a few months earlier when we first arrived in California.  My parents must have noticed it, too, as my father commented on it.  "We got here toward the end of the rainy season," my mother reminded him, "but  summer must have changed all that. Maybe this is why people call California the Golden State," she mused.   

The temperature rose as we continued south, and by the time we arrived in San Jose, all the windows in the car were down.  The two of us who got the window seats in the back tried with all our might to obey our father and keep our heads inside, but it was hard because we did not want to miss anything.  Our two other sisters, who sat in the middle, fidgeted as they tried to look past us.

San Jose was a rapidly-growing, beautiful city of over 400,000 people and countless fruit orchards, large homes, clean, wide, tree-lined streets, and enormous sedans that seemed to have been made just to drive down those avenues.  "Is this our street?" we kept asking.  Our parents patiently put up with our excitement, and my mother told us how many miles we had left to go, but I don't know if it made much difference.  We could not believe how lucky we were to be moving to such a beautiful city, especially a bright and sunny place.  We eagerly read the street signs, looking for Foxworthy Avenue, where our house would be. When we finally turned the corner onto the long-awaited street, we were all talking at once and my mother had to tell us to settle down.

And then there we were.  My father approached the house slowly, pulling our Falcon station wagon up to the curb in a dramatic pause so we could get a good look at it straight on, before he turned into the driveway to park.  We all pushed our way out of the back seat and raced each other past the lacy jacaranda tree and up the juniper-lined walkway to the front porch to see who could be the first to go inside.  

I do not remember whether my father or my mother unlocked the front door, but I do recall marveling that it was a double door, something I never would have imagined our house would have.  The facade of the house was green and white with brick trim. Inside, we ran breathlessly from one room to another, barely stopping in each as we tried to take in everything.  The house had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spacious living room, a galley kitchen that led into a dining room, a two-car garage, and a big back yard.  

In a matter of minutes, we finagled our bedroom assignments, the two oldest sisters sharing the room near the front of the house and the two youngest in another room at the back, just across from our parents.  A fourth bedroom would serve as a small family room when it was not used for guests.

My parents were ecstatic that they were now homeowners for the very first time, and it did not take them long to begin the first of their many do-it-yourself projects.  They were resourceful and creative, and they tackled projects most weekends, often staying up late into the night to finish something, whether it was painting, wallpapering, building shelves, or installing tile.  To my knowledge, my father had never done this kind of work before, but he was so deliberate in everything he did that his results were always stunning and professional-looking.  He discovered a love for working with tools, and he began to amass quite a collection of them until he had to build cabinets and holders to keep them organized.  Thinking back on this now, it is clear that he inherited these talents from his own father.

My sisters and I - from the oldest to the youngest - had assigned chores and typically spent Saturday mornings helping clean the house before we could go out to play.  My parents made it very clear that because we all lived in the same house, we also had an obligation to take care of it.  

My father often told us that everything costs money to buy, but it costs just as much or more effort to take care of it.  He was an exacting taskmaster and took pains to show us how to "do things right the first time."  Unfortunately, he had to show us these things not only the first time but many times after, as we sometimes got distracted.  He used to tell me to do things in his style, not mine, which was not very thorough.  I used to think my own way was not so bad, but as I matured, his way, which was always methodical and thorough, became my style, something of which I could be proud.

My mother was equally organized and creative.  She resurrected one of her old pastimes from her Chicago days:  antique hunting. She had become close friends with a neighbor, Katy West, who had lived across the street from us in South San Francisco.  Katy showed her how to go "garage sailing," that is, to seek out neighborhood garage and yard sales for bargains.  The first thing my mother had bought was a silver butler's ashtray. She took off after that, hunting down antiques many a Saturday morning and coming home with amazing "finds" of Royal Doulton, Sevres,  Capodimonte, and Belleek porcelain and a number of silver spoons and other pieces.  

We were never far from family.  My great-uncle and great-aunt, Phil and Benita McCormick, their daughter Jane and her husband, Eldon "Ole" Olson, and granddaughter lived a short drive away up the peninsula.  We spent a lot of time visiting each other, with Aunt "Detty," as we called Benita, and Uncle Phil usually being the anchors of our  family gatherings.  In addition to our visits with them, we often hosted relatives from out of town and found that living in California made it easy for people to want to visit us!  

My parents were not wealthy, but they went out of their way to help others, giving what they could and never asking for reward or recognition.  They especially wanted to give back to those who had once helped them.  When the truck driver who had helped us in Mexico mentioned in a letter that his son had lost his eyesight in an accident, they arranged for the Lions Club (to which my father belonged) to sponsor an eye operation to help his restore his sight.  The surgery was unsuccessful, but they let the young man stay at our home for a few months after that so he could have a taste of life in the United States.  When they heard that Dr. Jose Felipe Franco wanted his young granddaughter to learn English, they brought her to stay with us over the summer. 

After we had lived in San Jose a couple of years, my parents decided to go into business for themselves again.  They had run a silk screen printing business in their early married years in Chicago, Illinois, and they decided to apply what they had learned to a new field, the advertising specialty field. 

Advertising specialties are a form of marketing - what some people would call the imprinted "giveaways" that businesses give their clients and politicians give their constituents and potential voters, such as pens, balloons, calendars, and gadgets.

My parents named their business Gilbert Advertising Specialties, because my father's first name was easier for people to pronounce his last name of Huesca.  They started it at home and moved it eventually to a large showroom and office, where they served clients large and small, local and nationwide. They enjoyed working with young and energetic salesmen and went out of their way to train them and encourage them to excel at their job.  They also wanted my sisters and me to appreciate how much work was involved in running a successful business.  To this end, they encouraged us to help them and taught us about customer service, professionalism, accuracy, and quality control.  They took great pride in their work and were highly respected in their field until they retired in the mid-1970s and sold the business. 

They had realized their dreams and of settling down, raising a family, and giving back to others in thanksgiving for what they had received.  They attributed this to the grace of God and their strength together as a loving couple who were one in thought, word, and deed.

What a blessing they were not just for my sisters and me, but for all who would come to know them.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know, or are you a member of the Huesca family?  Share your memories and comments below.

Traveling Tuesday: California Here We Come

California Poppy, Flickr Photos,
courtesy Brian

Having packed our 1962 Ford Falcon station wagon to the hilt for the long drive to California, my father, Gilbert Cayetano Huesca, stopped one last time at my grandmother's home so our family could give her one last goodbye kiss.

She was 68 years old by then and had started to shrink in height, like her mother before her.  As we stood eye to eye, each wiping tears from the other's face, I wondered when we would see her again.

Many of our other relatives had come to my grandmother"s home to say their goodbyes to us, too. She had prepared a big send-off for us, much the same as she had when we had arrived just three years earlier.  I remember thinking how lucky we were to have so many people who cared about us.

We set off in the first days of April, just after Easter, and as we made our way north, the world kept turning.  Martin Luther King spoke on April 4th at New York's Riverside Church, denouncing the Vietnam War and exhorting his audience to "break the silence of the night" by speaking out against it. On April 5th, Philadelphia '76er Wilt Chamberlain set an NBA record for a whopping 41 rebounds in a close game (115-104) against the Boston Celtics.  The next day,  French Premier Georges Pompidou formed a new government, called the Third Ministry.  The biggest news of that week, however, occurred April 7, the day we arrived in Northern California, when Israel shot down six Syrian MiGs over the Golan Heights, prompting a major air battle that would lead to the Arab-Israeli War two months later.

As we crossed the border from Tijuana into San Ysidro, California, we noticed a difference right away as wide, modern freeways replaced narrow, tired, and bumpy highways. Cars were larger.  Green freeway signs with raised letters seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.  It felt as though we were gliding along, not driving.

My parents decided to take scenic Highway 1,  also known as the Coast Highway, so we could have our first look at the Pacific Ocean.  My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, wanted us to never forget the day we arrived in "Sunny California." The dramatic sight of the gleaming waves against the cerulean sky as we crossed Bixby Bridge high over Big Sur will remain in my memory forever.  I fell in love with the sea that day.  

Bixby Bridge, Big Sur, Flickr Photos, courtesy Sequoia Hughes

It was exciting to hear English spoken on the radio again.  My mother had to adjust the stations occasionally as we would drive out of range, so we listened to quite a variety.

One of  the songs that was popular on the airwaves that day was "Happy Together" by the Turtles, at that time the #1 Billboard Song for the third week in a row.  A catchy and upbeat tune, it seemed a fitting background to the excitement we all felt as we marveled at the wonders of our new home state.

It did not take long for my father to find a job working for a sign company in South San Francisco, and he and he and my mother found a small ranch style house to rent on San Bruno Mountain, up a hilly street at Morningside Drive in a neighborhood bearing the cheery name of Sunshine Gardens.   Our side of the street was the last row of houses on what was called Sign Hill, just below large concrete letters that spelled out to the world that this was  "South San Francisco - the Industrial City."

How exciting, we thought, to be in San Francisco at last.  But where were all the cable cars and skyscrapers? Only after a couple of weeks did we learn that South San Francisco, also known as "South City," was not really part of the grand City by the Bay, but was in fact separated from it by San Bruno Mountain.  

My parents enrolled us in the neighborhood public schools.  My sisters attended Sunshine Gardens Elementary School, and I went to Parkway Intermediate School, a short walk from home.  

One day in May, my father took my sisters and me downtown to the hardware and the five-and-dime store.  We saw a sign advertising the city's annual Mother's Day celebration.  We entered our mother in a contest that was part of the celebration and were surprised a few days later when she won Mother of the Year.  

She was, of course, thrilled.  We all went downtown for the parade and cheered loudly as she got to ride down the street in an open air car.  We wanted everyone in town to know she was our mother.  When the parade ended she was awarded her special prizes from the sponsoring shops:  a rubber spatula, a can opener, a ladle, and a mixing bowl!  Definitely the signs of a time that was about to come to an end.  It did not matter that day, though.  My mother was very proud of her honor and grateful to her family for nominating her.  She baked us a chocolate cake that night to celebrate.

There was something else we had not expected.  Being right between the ocean and the San Francisco Bay meant that the marine layer of fog came in every morning, putting a chill in the air that sometimes dropped close to freezing, even in the summer.  We could actually watch as it shrouded our street and slowly crept down Forest View Avenue on its way to the downtown area at the bottom of the hill.  When that happened, the sun disappeared and  you could not see a thing.  Some mornings the fog would burn off by midday, but other days it just lingered there, gray and taunting, as we wondered what had happened to the Sunny California everyone had talked about.

My mother simply could not understand this. So much for "California Dreamin'," the song made so popular a couple of years earlier by the Mamas and the Papas. No one had told her about the fog.  She began to wonder if we had fallen for a myth.   She and my father began looking into sunnier places to live.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know, or are you a member of the Huesca family?  Share your memories and comments below.

Daily Life in 1960s Mexico City

Flickr images, Courtesy Michael McCullough

The three years my family spent in Mexico City before moving to California in the mid-1960s gave my my sisters and me the opportunity to get to know our paternal relatives and learn my father's native language and culture.   I have often thought that if every young person had the chance to live in another country, our world would be a better place for it.

Being children, we adapted easily to our new life down there as it came.  We probably did not even notice there was much difference between the Mexican and American way of life.  For me, it was when we moved to California, that I noticed the differences more.  By then I was nearly twelve, a pre-adolescent and more sensitive to differences.

From the fourth through the sixth grade, I learned so much about the conquistadores, the Aztecs and other natives, and the trials and victories of Mexico that I treasured its heritage as much as my American heritage.  Even knowing that both countries had been at odds with each other over what is now the Southwestern United States, it did not seem unnatural to love both for their pride and richness of culture.  My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, probably had a lot to do with this, as she had a lifelong fascination with Mexico and the Mayan culture in particular.

The one thing my dear mother could not master was how to cook a proper Mexican meal, though she tried her best to watch and learn from my grandmother and my aunts.  She seemed meant to excel at her American and her father's Italian specialties, illustrated one day when she invited one of my aunts to see her cochina.  She had been trying to translate the Italian word for kitchen, cucina, into Spanish.  My aunt figured it out and was relieved there was not a live pig in the house.

Instead of "depriving" us of Mexican dishes, we got to enjoy the best of all worlds:  my mother's specialties and my aunts' Mexican cooking.  What wonderful cooks my aunts were!  They made the best mole poblano, enchiladas suizas, tortas, and other specialties too numerous to mention, always using fresh ingredients from their daily trips to the neighborhood market stands and shops.

Those markets were a feast for the senses.  American-style supermarkets were just getting started in Mexico, but the way people shopped then and still do today, was by going daily to market to pick out produce, meats, chiles, and other tempting items from local farmers and vendors.   There was no such thing choosing between paper or plastic bags at the store, either.  Shoppers brought one or two of their own colorful plastic woven shopping bags, just enough to fit what was needed for the day's meals.

There was a tortilleria, or tortilla shop, just down the street from our home on Altamirano Street.  On our way home from school, we often stopped to watch two Indian women make  towers of warm, fresh tortillas.  They had broad faces and thick black hair tied into long braids going down their backs.  The dull color of the maize they worked seemed to come to life against their bright aprons over their peasant blouses and long, full dark tiered skirts.  All day long they would sit cross-legged on angled stools, rolling masa, or dough into small balls and patting them back and forth quickly between their hands.  

Flickr images, Courtesy Kimberly Vardeman

Once the dough was flat and thin, they placed it onto a conveyor belt which flatted it even more between rollers.  They would take turns, one shaping the tortillas, and the other placing them over a fire, turning them over constantly by hand while they cooked.  We could see the burn marks on their reddened hands from the hours and days of work over that hot stove.  I wonder how many of us thought about that when we bit into these heavenly-tasting staples of Mexican cuisine. 

Sometimes, you did not even have to leave home to buy things.   Often, things would come to you.  Street vendors, called pregoneros, were plentiful in most neighborhoods.  The vendors came down the streets in pushcarts or by bicycle, whistling and calling out their wares in a nasally sing-song: "Candyyyyyyy?"  "Ice Creeeeeeeeaaammmm?" "Floweerrrrrrrs?"  "Sugar Caaaannnne?  Sweet Sugar Cane!"  "Loofahsssssss? Spongessssss?"  Chiles?  I have the freshest chiles!"

Even the garbage man got in on the act.  Though we were in the middle of one of the largest cities in the world, there were no garbage trucks but individuals who pushed large metal cans slowly down the street.  "Garbaaaaage?"  Garbage!"  they would chant, loudly enough for Mexican housewives to hear through their open windows.  The women would rush to bring their small plastic bags of trash out to the street, where they would drop it into the large metal can and give the man a 20 centavo coin - the equivalent of about two cents.

The garbagemen tied long primitive looking brooms to the cans.  They probably made the brooms themselves by wrapping long bunches of thick straw around long sticks.  This was the kind of broom most houses had, and you often saw women outside in the mornings after breakfast, sweeping the sidewalk in front of their homes, greeting their neighbors and passersby.

There always seemed to be some kind of wonderful festival.  Three Kings Day - the feast of the Epiphany on January 6, trumped Christmas in Mexico.  Christmas managed to remain a religious holiday, and families everywhere prepared by hosting posadas, or Advent parties, reenacting the trek to Bethlehem by Joseph and Mary as the guests/pilgrims go from house to house, singing for shelter.  Santa Claus was practically non-existent, and children received clothing as Christmas presents.  The real loot came on Three Kings Day, when the Magi brought all the toys and candy to good little children.

There was no question, though, as to who had the best holiday lighting.  While Mexican homes restricted their outdoor decorations to images of snowmen, Santa Claus faces, and the three kings, businesses big and small created fantastical scenes with bright colored Christmas lights.  The skyscrapers were the best, as the lights often covered most of their façades in moving scenes, each trying to outdo the other.

They did this on Independence Day, too.  September 16 - the day that Mexico declared its independence from Spain in 1810, is the day Mexicans revere, not May 5 as is mistakenly feted here in the United States.  On September 16, the president of Mexico appears on the balcony at the Presidential Palace in the downtown Zócalo, to proclaim the Grito de Dolores - the Cry of Independence and to ring the Bell of Independence against a background of colorful fireworks.

Not only did Mexicans honor their mothers and fathers with special days, but they also had special days to honor teachers, children, policemen, mailmen, and even garbagemen.  But none of these could hold a candle to the most sacred day of all for every Mexican:  the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Every December 12, Mexicans celebrate the anniversary of the apparition of the Blessed Virgin Mary to the Indian Juan Diego in 1531 on the hill of Tepeyac, which at the time was on the outskirts of the city.  Dressed in the clothing of a native Indian woman, she gave him a sign to bring to the bishop, along with instructions that he should build a church on Tepeyac.  The church would aid in the conversion of and offer consolation to the people of Mexico.  The sign, which Juan Diego thought was an unlikely bunch of roses wrapped in his cloak, turned out to be a miraculous image of the Virgin on the cloak, or tilma, instead.  The bishop built the church, and since then, Juan Diego was declared a saint and Our Lady of Guadalupe was declared patron saint of Mexico and of all the Americas.

Her image is everywhere in Mexico:  in homes, on windshields, on clothing, and in stores.  On December 12, people flock to what is now the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe to pray and hear the story again.  Many make pilgrimages from afar, sometimes coming the final miles on their knees in penance for their sins.  But the message is clear that it is a day of prayer, reflection, and immense love for Our Lady, who Mexicans consider their spiritual Mother. 

The time we lived in Mexico taught me so much more than any class on culture could have done.  We may have left these customs and so many others behind us in Mexico as we left for our new home in California, but the memories of them still live deep in my heart and form much of who I am today.   I will be ever grateful to my parents and to the wonderful people of Mexico for this priceless gift and the many lessons it has taught me.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know, or are you a member of the Huesca family?  Do you have a favorite memory of living abroad?  Share your memories and comments below.

Sentimental Sunday: Family Treasures

When we moved from Mexico City to California in the spring of 1967, what I dreaded most was being far from our extended Huesca family. 

Cause for Celebration:  Our family got together for holidays but also birthdays, 
anniversaries, and other special occasions, such as this one, taken between 1956 - 57. 
 My mother wrote the names on the photo above.  My grandmother, Catalina
(Perrotin) Huesca, is in the dark dress with the lace collar, next to her mother,
Maria (Amaro) Perrotin.

Back in those days, our life in Mexico was centered on family, rather than on activities. In our family, my grandmother or Abuelita, Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, was the matriarch, and she held court on the usual family days: Christmas, Three Kings Day, Mother's Day, and her birthday, May 31st. Aside from that, everyone was welcome to come to Sunday afternoon dinner at her home on Carpio Street, where despite the postage-stamp size of her kitchen, there was always a multi-course meal with plenty of food to go around.

My great-grandmother, Maria (Amaro) Perrotin, who was in her late 90s, could either be found at Abuelita's house or at her own home next door.  There, she would line up a row of tiny children's wooden rush chairs gaily painted in bright colors.  Once we children were seated, she would sit on a tiny chair, too, facing us right at our level. She had been shrinking for many years due to her advanced age and fit quite nicely in the miniature chairs. In fact, I was already taller than she was. Her small stature and her fragility appealed to us and made us feel rather protective of her.  We had no idea that for all her delicateness, she had outlived three husbands and four children and raised her two daughters mostly on her own through some of the most trying periods of Mexican history.

My father was the third of eleven children born in the state of Veracruz, on Mexico's eastern seaboard, to Catalina (Perrotin) and Cayetano Huesca. As all of them lived in the Federal District by the 1960s (except for my uncle Carlos, who had moved to Chicago, Illinois), that meant that most of the time we had the pleasure of being around one or more of our 18 uncles and aunts and over 40 first cousins, not to mention my grandmother, great-grandmother, and great-aunt and a number of other relatives.

As all the brothers and sisters had taken an active part in the family hotel and restaurant business in Veracruz, it was only natural that most of them would become entrepreneurs themselves.  Not long before my grandfather, Cayetano Huesca, died in 1937, the family had begun yet another business:  making linens for hotels and restaurants.  

Enrique and Eduardo were the eldest of the remaining 11. Uncle Enrique used to say that to have a successful business, you have to find a need and fill it.  This is probably what the family did - found a dearth of quality custom-made linens and decided to make them themselves.  The whole family worked together - a given for such large family.  Enrique managed the business.  My father and Eduardo traveled around the country selling and distributing the linens.The younger siblings did their part, too, often hurrying home from school to work on the sewing machines and irons or fold the finished products.  

As the children grew up and started lives and families of their own, Enrique and Eduardo each opened their own linen embroidery businesses.  My grandfather Cayetano's brother, Jesús Huesca, helped Enrique in his business. Slightly bent, he was a quiet, gentle man who dressed in light khaki shirts with bolo ties and matching slacks and wore a straw hat.  By the time we met him, he must have been in his late seventies.  He was always glad to see us and after a big hug, he would take us by the hand and lead us through the factory, pointing out the latest embroidery designs or letting us run our fingers over finished tablecloths.  

Enrique and my father were nine years apart, but they could have been twins for all their similarities.  They thought alike, dressed alike, and had the same mannerisms.  They finished each other's sentences, even years after we had moved from Mexico City.  He and my Aunt Meche had four sons, while my parents had four daughters.

Uncle Enrique and my father used to take our families together on Sunday drives into the country, where we would have picnics, go horseback riding, and go swimming.  Health conscious since his youth, Enrique walked and exercised several miles every day, did not smoke, and ate sensibly, way into his old age.  He loved books and music and was very spiritual, often discussing God and morality with us.  Sometimes during our visits he would have me read the front section of the newspaper and discuss the day's stories, to improve my Spanish language comprehension and pronunciation.  I loved being around him and my aunt and their sons, who were like big brothers to me.

Eduardo's business was on Carpio Street, just a couple of blocks from my grandmother's house and across the street from the famous Alameda Park. My great aunt Blanca Perrotin, who was my grandmother's younger maiden sister, used to help Uncle Eduardo in his business, embroidering beautiful floral designs on table linens, aprons, and sheets.  She liked to stay busy and worked with him well into her eighties.

Uncle Eduardo visited my grandmother daily and years later moved in with her.  He was either divorced or separated by then.  For this reason, I never had the pleasure of meeting his children (I think he had a son and a daughter), something I regret.  My sisters and I might have reminded him of them, because he always talked about them when he was around us.  He was a philosopher at heart and loved discussing life and politics with anyone who would listen.  Tia Blanca usually sat at my grandmother's dining room table, recalling family stories and poring over old photographs.  It was hard to get anything past her; she had excellent hearing and a mind like a steel trap, and she could be quick to correct a detail from a conversation going on in the next room and go right back to what she was doing without skipping a beat.  

She was always bringing out boxes and albums of family photographs and knew the stories behind all of them. How I wish I knew what happened to those treasures! Some of those photographs were of our English cousins, the Bennetts.  They were cousins of my grandmother and Blanca's who lived in England and, according to Tia Blanca, had perished during the Second World War.  Happily, this was one of the few times my aunt was mistaken; decades later my husband and I would visit some of the Bennetts in England, where they were very much alive.

My Uncle Mario usually brought flowers or some sweet treat when he came to dinner on his breaks from his job as a trolley driver.  His blue uniform and cap complemented his handsome red hair and blue eyes, which were always twinkling.  A bachelor at that time, he used to joke to my parents that he wanted to marry a gringa -  an American - like my mother.  He was quite a people-watcher and always had a funny story to tell about his passengers.  It is hard to imagine him without a broad smile on his face.  

My father's youngest brother, now in his seventies, was a young man back then, fresh out of university, newly married, and beginning what would become a successful career in communications.  Though he had been only a baby when his father died, he inherited Cayetano's business acumen and passion for his family.  I remember my parents marveling at his energy, vision, and generosity.  He has not changed and continues to look out lovingly for both his immediate and extended family with an enormous heart of gold.

My father always said his sisters were some of the most beautiful women in Veracruz state.  Those were the words of a loving brother, to be sure, but there was no question that they were beautiful, outside and in.  They became the sisters my mother never had and showered my sisters and me with attention, hugs, and kisses.

Victoria, the oldest, had been a beauty queen in Orizaba.  Her nickname was Bella, or Beauty.  She was petite and delicate and like two of her brothers, had gorgeous natural red hair and blue eyes.  She was a widow and worked hard to support her two daughters with a small sandwich shop she ran from her home.  We often went to visit her and played a Mexican version of Ring Around the Rosy or card  games with her younger daughter.

I do not remember visiting my aunt Lucia much, probably because she lived quite far from us, though in the same city, and her children were much older than we were.  I wish I had known her better.  I seem to remember hearing that she had been ill quite a bit.  This may be why she did not come over, but everyone loved her.

Aunt Delia Domitila lived near La Villa, or the neighborhood famous for the location of the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe.  When we were not at her apartment and playing with her youngest son, she was at our house or my grandmother's, showing us her latest crafts. She was such a creative lady, always crocheting doilies and making dolls and gifts for others. She also was a smart dresser and an excellent cook.  Always the life of the party, her nickname was La Periquita - the parakeet - partly because she loved to talk and partly because her voice was so musical. It could be hard to get a word in edgewise sometimes when she got excited about something, but she was so much fun that no one seemed to mind.  She was always showing us photos of her children and in later years was extremely proud that all had become distinguished professionals.

My two youngest aunts, who are in their eighties now, married performers who played in the Jarocho group of Andrés Huesca y Sus Costeños.  Andrés was my father's cousin, known worldwide for his traditional harp playing, coupled with the traditional music of Veracruz state.  Ricardo Díaz and Rodolfo Ruvalcaba, who played guitar and sang with him, were handsome and talented and funny.  

When we visited the Ruvalcabas, my sisters and I would disappear to the TV room with our four cousins to watch episodes (subtitled in Spanish) of The Flintstones cartoons or The Beverly Hillbillies or sing Beatles songs, or play silly games together while our parents laughed downstairs over cocktails. My aunt loved to entertain and was gifted at making everyone feel welcome and happy.  She used to set an elegant table and always played what seemed to me to be very sophisticated music in the background, and Uncle Rodolfo told jokes at the bar while he made drinks for the adults and poured Cokes for the kids. They were so kind and loving to us that I never wanted to go home.

We lived next door to my father's other sister (named for her mother) and my Uncle Ricardo.  To this day, my aunt still has the most expressively beautiful dark eyes and wavy hair. She was so youthful that when her three daughters became teenagers, people used to mistake her for their sister. She was extremely close to my grandmother and devoted herself to caring for her and her own family.  She and my mother shared many a morning cup of coffee together, talking about their daughters and their hopes and dreams for the future. She tried to teach my mother to cook Mexican food, and my mother taught her to make spaghetti and meatballs.  

Living next door to the Díazes meant we got to play with our cousins daily. We created so many memories, bonding over paper dolls and Chinese Checkers and spying on our parents together.  We became more like sisters than cousins, and I remember laughing with one of them because we looked so much alike.  We still talk frequently, and I cannot imagine what my life would be without them.

I am so grateful to my parents for giving us this marvelous opportunity to know our relatives.  Thanks to their foresight, our closeness with our Huesca relatives has grown stronger over the years as we have forged many memories together.  My children stay in touch regularly with their second cousins now and delight in being Facebook friends and talking to them on Skype. Like their parents, they cannot get over how similar they all look and sound and how much they have in common, even though they live thousands of miles away.  That is the wonderful thing about family - our love and shared history connects us through a lifetime, through generations.

When I was young, I was afraid that when we moved to California we would be too far away from our extended Huesca family in Mexico. As I write this, nearly 50 years later, I am happy to say we are closer than ever.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know, or are you a member of the Huesca, Perrotin, Díaz, or Ruvalcaba families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Follow Friday: Master Weaver

Yours truly comparing notes with Jacqi Stevens

When you write about family history, it's nice to read the work of others.  It refreshes your perspective, gives you insights you might not have had, and exposes you to different writing styles. It's even more fun when you can meet the writers behind the works. This past weekend brought one such treat - meeting fellow genealogist and writer Jacqi Stevens, of A Family Tapestry. 

Jacqi and her husband, Chris, were in town to research the Bean branch of their family. Well, maybe it would be more accurate to say this was one of their many stops up and down the Peninsula, as they hit some of the haunts family historians would consider "fun" places to go - historical societies, newspaper archives, and cemeteries. 

  Jacqi and Chris Stevens      

True to her blog's name, she weaves together the various strands of her research, instincts, a keen sense of history, and the big picture as she tells the stories of her family. Not only does she let you in on  the fascinating details of their lives but shares her thought process and the resources she used to learn about them. She is a master story weaver and relentless detective who knows how to engage her readers through her warm, witty style and subtle sense of humor. Just when you think she has told the whole story, she comes up with one more surprising detail, one more hidden resource - or one more cliffhanger.  

Meeting Jacqi was as much fun as reading her posts.  We spent a delightful afternoon over coffee at a sidewalk cafe in downtown San Jose, comparing notes on research, writing, and families. I marveled at the fact that she has been able to post a blog article every day of the year. (I feel lucky if I can crank out a story or two a week!) We also discussed a certain family name we have in common, though at this point we have been unable to link our two branches. Still, you never know.

Even if you haven't had the pleasure of meeting Jacqi, visit her blog.  You'll learn a lot, and you'll want to come back for more.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Share your memories and comments below.