Friday's Faces from the Past

Do you know this soldier?

This photograph of an unidentified young
soldier was in a frame with a family tree
group, hanging on a wall in my Aunt's
 living room. Is he English?

When my family and I traveled to Mexico City to visit our Huesca family in June 2003, I spotted a large frame on the wall of one of my paternal aunts. The frame contained a pictorial family tree of the Huesca family, lovingly made for her by one of my Huesca Sánchez cousins. 

Most of the photographs on the family tree were of my paternal grandparents, José Gil Alberto Cayetano and Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, my great-grandmother and great-aunt, Maria (Amaro) Perrotin and Blanca Perrotin, and their 11 children, including my father, Gilbert Huesca, my aunt C., and their brothers and sisters. There were about five other small photographs in the frame that I did not recognize. These pictures were not placed on the family tree, because no one seemed to know who they were.  At the time we looked at the photographs, neither my father nor my aunt were able to identify them.

I immediately asked my aunt, or Tía C. for permission to borrow the frame and make copies of the photographs from behind the glass.  She was happy to loan it to me, and I am eternally grateful to her.  It took some time to find a copy and print shop near our hotel.  Bundling the frame with sweaters, I made my way through the press of pedestrians and headed to the shop, taking care to not bump into anyone on the way. Those who have been in Mexico City know this is no easy task.

The job took over an hour to complete, but it was worth the effort.  Most of the copies turned out well, considering the photographs themselves were still under glass.  This one, however, turned out a bit fuzzy, and it is hard to make out the name and location of the photographer on the bottom.

I cannot be sure, but I wonder if it is a portrait of Charles Bennett, son of Timothy and Maria Dolores (Perrotin) Bennett, of Ruardean, Gloucestershire, England.

If you can identify this handsome young man or have any thoughts on possible clues, let me know, and I will share the information in a later post.

**********

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Are you a member of the Bennett, Huesca, or Perrotin families, or do you know the identity of this young man?  Share your memories and comments below.

Sentimental Sunday: To the Mothers in Our Lives

Happy Mother's Day 
    Feliz Día de las Madres 
       Bonne Fête des Mères 
           Buona Festa della Mamma
       Hyvää äitienpäivää
    Lá na Máthar Shona ar
       

No matter what your language, "Mother" is the sweetest word of all.

Margaret McCoy
Born Ireland (abt. 1823 - abt. 1857)

Catherine O'Grady
Born Waterford, Ireland (abt. 1835 - 1901)

Adela Baron
Born San Francisco, California (1862 - 1917)

Concepción Celaya
Born Sonora, Mexico (1830 - after 1910)

Alice Gaffney McGinnis
Born Conneaut, Ohio (1895 - 1963)

María Angela Catalina Perrotin
Born Orizaba, Veracruz, Mexico (1893 - 1998)

Emanuela Sannella
Born Accadia, Puglia, Italy (1867 - 1966)

Mary Jane Gaffney
Born Milwaukee, Wisconsin (1858 - 1940)

María Amaro
Born Orizaba, Veracruz, Mexico (1872 - 1970)

Selma Justina Kangas
Born Vasa, Finland (1894 - 1949)

Patricia Ann Fay
Born Stuart, Iowa (1925 - 1997)

Sara Ellen Riney
Born Rineyville, Kentucky (1884 - 1938)

Joan Joyce Schiavon
Born Chicago, Illinois (1928 - 1987)

Linda Huesca
Born Chicago, Illinois (19--   )

Happy Mother's Day to all the wonderful mothers in our lives!

Above, "Happy Mother's Day" in the languages of our ancestors, in order of appearance:  English, Spanish, French, Italian, Finnish, and Irish.

Copyright ©  2013  Linda Huesca Tully

Are you a member of the Baron, Celaya, Fay, Gaffney, Huesca, Kangas, McCoy, O'Grady, Perrotin, Sannella, Schiavon, or Tully families? 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.

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

"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


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

Sympathy Saturday: "Do Not Give In": Part 1

Condolences

Cañada Morelos, April 25, 1915

                       

Mrs. Catalina Perroton.

Tierra Blanca

My Dear Friend,

As I send you my greetings together with all the well-deserved attentions to you and your kind family, I want to send you my deepest sympathies on the death of the Child Gilberto, and you must not believe that it was caused by a Cold, but by the bump he had on his head, which sooner or later would have a sad ending.  It happened…there is nothing you can do but have patience.  Now do not give in to the Pain; but Look at this news with some calm, understanding that it is better to grieve over the dead rather than wish  them alive again; as I did, for I have spent my life in tears wishing they were alive.  The conjugal bond offers us flowers and pleasures…but the cross of marriage, offers us a world of woes.  No matter how much a family may possess, all must go through that world of woes…but all you can do is have a big soul, a Heart that neither denies the truth nor gives in to tears but Sees that this is part of life.  Calm, my friend, calm, do not give in and do not carry this burden around with you.  Give my kisses to all the children.  Your friend who esteems you,

Enrique Huesca

At left, the original letter (in Spanish) from Enrique Huesca to 
Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, 1915

The above is my English translation of a letter that my paternal great-grandfather, Jose Enrique Florentino Huesca, of Cañada Morelos, Puebla, Mexico, wrote to his daughter-in-law – my grandmother, Angela Catalina (nee Perrotin) Huesca, in Tierra Blanca, Veracruz, Mexico, shortly after the death of her young son, Gilberto Huesca. 

Gilberto was about two years old when he died.  The exact cause of death is unclear; many of the civil records of the village of Tierra Blanca from 1915 were burned in a fire, and most of those who might have known the details have gone on to their heavenly reward. 

Maybe he fell or suffered a blow to the head while playing or pulling down some heavy object from above.  Maybe he had a tumor of some sort.  We may never know, but we can only imagine the grief Catalina felt at losing her sweet little boy.  Enrique, as he was known, gently tells his daughter-in-law that she must not believe that her toddler died of a cold and adds that “sooner or later” the lump would have a sad ending.  In what must have been nearly unbearable for Catalina to conceive, he goes on to reassure her that the child’s fate might have been worse had he lived. 

His words today might sound terribly fatalistic, but they came during a trying period in Mexico.  The country was in the throes of a revolution, and Tierra Blanca and surrounding areas not only experienced the heavy casualties of that conflict but also lost many people, young and old, to outbreaks of measles, diptheria, and smallpox. 

It would have been easy for a young 21-year-old mother to “give in to the pain” of losing her child when she was scarcely an adult herself.  But her father-in-law’s words must have given her the strength she needed to go on and care for her husband Cayetano and their three children, Enrique, Eduardo, and Victoria, even as she was in the first trimester of yet another pregnancy.  Like many of the women of her time, Catalina would prove to be strong and resilient.  She and Cayetano would have 17 children in all, 11 of whom survived into adulthood. 

Catalina and Cayetano Huesca and sons (left to right) Gilberto, Eduardo, and Enrique,
in front of their home, Orizaba, 1913.

Enrique’s letter hints at his own trials and tribulations.  We know little about him except that he was born between 1847 and 1850 in Puebla, Mexico, to Jose Calletano de la Trinidad Huesca and Josefa Rodriguez.  A devout Catholic, he followed in the family trade as a carpenter, crafting interior furnishings for the cathedral and churches of Puebla, a city known for having as many churches as there are days in a year.  He taught his children to do good for others but to keep their acts to themselves, often reminding them to “never let the right hand know what the left hand is doing.”  This was a refrain that his children and their children would carry with them all their lives.

Born at the end of Mexico’s civil reform war, Enrique lived through some of the most turbulent eras of his country’s history.  Before he had even reached his teen years, he undoubtedly witnessed the Battle of Puebla between the French and Mexican armies.  He would have rejoiced wildly with his family at the Mexican victory on May 5, 1862, only to be devastated barely a year later when the French regrouped and defeated the Mexicans in a second battle at Puebla and went on to topple and replace the Mexican government with what Napoleon III referred to as his “Mexican Empire.”  He and his parents would have discussed the resurgence of the deposed Mexican president, Benito Juarez, who with the backing of President Abraham Lincoln, reclaimed his government and had the puppet Emperor Maximilian Hapsburg executed by firing squad in 1867. 

The uncertainty of the times and their severe impact on the nation would continue for many years as subsequent regimes rose and fell one after the other, culminating in the Revolution of 1910 and indelibly scarring the psyche of the Mexican people with the ironic realization that the only constancy in their lives was that  - save their faith in God and their love for one another - nothing, including happiness, could either be certain or last forever. 

Next:  Sentimental Sunday - "Do Not Give In" Part Two

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully 

Francisco Perrotin: 1866 - 1899

Francisco Perrotin

1866 - 1899

“The first cases (of yellow fever) in Orizaba were all of persons living in a small radius, close around the railroad station. In the next epidemic they spread out a few hundred yards farther and took in another block of houses a little farther off from the railroad station as a center, and it may be that in course of time they will establish themselves permanently a little farther off from the railroad station. But at any rate that point, at Orizaba, is the highest point where I found the Stegomyia mosquito permanently breeding in the country of Mexico.” 1   


My great-grandfather, Francisco Perrotín (seen here with his wife, Maria Amaro, their son, Francisco, and infant daughter, Catalina), was one of those “first cases.” A mechanic at the railroad station in Orizaba, in Veracruz state, Mexico, he was likely bitten by an infected Stegomyia fasciata mosquito as he worked on one of the engines there. He was pronounced dead at his home on San Cristóbal Street in Orizaba on Saturday, November 11, 1899, at 6:00 p.m., by Dr. Rafael Labardini, the Perrotin (and later Huesca) family physician. He was 32 years old.


A search for answers

The initial outbreak in Orizaba stunned scientists, as the offending species was not native to a city that rose 4,500 feet above sea level. Scientists and medical experts on the disease quickly descended on the area and traced the source of the disease to the mosquitoes breeding in the waste water from the Montezuma brewery, across the street from the railroad station in the port city of Veracruz. Mosquitoes were believed to have been transported inadvertently on the trains to Mexico City and were released when the cars were unloaded at Orizaba, accounting for the first wave of cases at and around that unfortunate station. 2

Yellow fever was the scourge of the late nineteenth century along the east coast of Mexico, the Caribbean, and several port cities in the United States and Central and South America. After a 3 – 6 day incubation period, victims suffered fever, headache, chills, jaundice and vomiting. Most people survived this first stage, while a fifth of those afflicted were doomed to die in misery, experiencing multiple organ failure, internal bleeding, delirium and coma. The vomit, which took on the consistency of coffee grounds (when it was in fact coagulated blood), gave the condition its Mexican name of El Vómito Negro – the Black Vomit. It might as well have been the plague for the terror it wrought in those days.


Although the modern-day world has seen a significant decrease in cases of yellow fever thanks to the wonders of vaccines, there still is no cure for it. Modern-day treatment for the disease includes offering the patient plenty of rest and fluids, blood transfusions for severe bleeding, and dialysis in the event of kidney failure.


From pot-maker to boiler-maker
If Francisco Perrotin’s demise was dramatic, so too, were his beginnings. We can trace the Perrotin family back to Melle, an ancient rural town in the region of Deux-Sevres in western France. It was rumored that his grandfather, Jacques Perrotin, had served with the Napoleonic Army. Francisco's father, Charles Jacques François, however, had refused to perform his obligatory military service and instead left Melle for America with his brother Romain Paul. With enough money for only one ship’s passage, Charles Jacques François smuggled the younger Romain Paul in a mattress onto the “good ship” Louis XIV at Le Havre, France, arriving at New Orleans, Louisiana, on November 29, 1843. Safe from capture for draft evasion, the brothers shortened their names to François and Paul.


The sons of a long line of chaudronniers / poeliers, or oven and pot makers, François and Paul were hard-working, ambitious, and creative. The brothers arrived in America during the last stages of the Industrial Revolution.  They became entrepreneurs, building stoves and ovens and figuring out how to use their metal-working skills in new ways. They made enough money to travel to Cuba, where they stayed for a time, and returned briefly to France to settle the affairs of their newly-deceased father before returning to the United States. In 1860, François married Catherine Grady, a young Irish seamstress who had sailed to America with her own sister some years earlier. The couple lived in Shreveport for a time before moving to New Orleans and later, it was said, to Niagara Falls before heading to Orizaba to make their mark on the flourishing railroad enterprise being promoted between Veracruz and Mexico City.

The Niagara Falls connection
And here is where the mystery of Francisco’s birth begins.

Family legend has it that my great-grandfather, Francisco Perrotin, was born in Niagara Falls, but no one can say for sure. His sister, Maria Dolores, was born on 15 September 1866, in Orizaba, Mexico. If indeed he was born in Niagara Falls, it could have been between 1865 and as late as March 1866, though the later he was born in this period, the more likely it would have been in Orizaba. Maria Dolores could have been born prematurely; hence, it would be possible that Francisco could be born in the same year as his sister and their mother become pregnant right afterwards. If he was born in Orizaba, it probably would have been after the first part of 1867.


Of the five vital records that mention Francisco, four place his birth sometime between 1 April 1865 and 31 May 1867. Only one, his death record, is way out of range. This would be understandable, as the informant, Porfirio Amaro (Francisco’s brother-in-law), would be more likely to have estimated his age.


1.  Marriage between Francisco Perrotin and Maria Amaro
     Date:  3 March 1889
     Age noted on record:    22
     Possible Birthdate Parameters:
     From March 4, 1867 on


2.  Birth Record of Francisco Perrotin, Jr (Francisco's son)
     Date:   31 March 1890
     Age noted on record:   24 
     Possible Birthdate Parameters: 
     Between March 4 and 31, 1867


3.  Death Record of Francois Perrotin
     Date:  26 May 1891
     Age noted on record:   24
     Possible Birthdate Parameters:
     Between 27 May 1866 and 26 May 1867


4.  Birth Record of Catalina Perrotin
     Date:  31 May 1893
     Age noted on record:  26
     Possible Birthdate Parameters: 
     Between March 4 and 31, 1867


5.  Death Record of Francisco Perrotin
     Date:  11 November 1899
     Age noted on record:  29
     Possible Birthdate Parameters: 
     Between 13 November 1869 and 12 November 1870


As the informant for his father, Francois’ death record, Francisco should be a credible source.  However, his age does not line up with the other records. I think it is possible that with all the grief he was going through and all the affairs he had to handle, he forgot that he had just turned 25 and stated erroneously that he was 24.


By removing Francois’ and Francisco’s death records, we narrow down the birthdate parameters and can conclude that Francisco probably was conceived almost immediately after his sister’s birth and would have been born prematurely in Orizaba, between March 4 and 31, 1867.   It also would mean that he was not 29 years old but 32 when he died of the horrendous Yellow Fever, or “Black Vomit” as it was then called, on November 12, 1899.


As for Niagara Falls, could a third child have been born there – perhaps before Maria Dolores and Francisco? Perhaps it was a boy – also named after his father but more likely “Frank” or “Francois.” This would seem plausible. Part of the legend surrounding my great-grandfather was that he was named “Frank” Perrotin. Could there have been a Frank Perrotin who died young, say, before Francisco was born in 1867? This, too, would be reasonable, as Francois and Catherine had some six years from the time of their marriage in 1860 to the time of Maria Dolores’ birth in 1866, to conceive other children during that time, though these conceptions could have resulted in miscarriages, stillborns, or childhood deaths. It still makes sense to think that Catherine and Francois left Louisiana shortly after their marriage, as it would not have been a desirable place to raise a family on the eve of the Civil War. Niagara Falls, by contrast, was home to a number of Frenchmen, refugees from the politics down south.


Though they may have stayed there for a few years and would been closer to Francois’ brother Paul and his own family (who lived in New Jersey at the time?), I think it became apparent at some point that Niagara Falls was not where Francois and Catherine wanted to spend the rest of their lives.


A new venture
Shortly after arriving in Orizaba, Catherine gave birth to two children within a short period of time. María Dolores was born on September 15, 1866, and (following the theory mentioned above) Francisco followed a scant six months later – a surprise if ever there was one. Though premature, the child was buoyed by the high tropical climate, where the air was pure and everything flourished, and he grew into a strong young man who followed in his father’s footsteps as an engine mechanic.  

Thanks to Francois' keen instinct for opportunity, the family was financially comfortable and well-travelled.  Maria Dolores married a British train driver, Timothy Bennett, at a celebrated wedding at the Orizaba train station in 1885, and Francisco married Maria Amaro in 1889.  He was 22; Maria was 18.  The couple welcomed their first-born son, Felix Francisco “Pancho”, a year later. Four other children followed: Juan, Catalina (my grandmother, or Abuelita, who was named for her own Irish grandmother, Catherine), Hugo Ramiro, and Blanca Luz.


The young family lived in a house on the "with the letter 'I' on the second street of San Cristobal" in Orizaba. Francisco and Maria (who presumably was multilingual like her husband) spoke Spanish, French, and English at home, and their children grew up speaking all three languages fluently and gliding easily from one to another, much as their parents had done before them.


François died of meningitis in 1891 at his home on the station property. A year later, Francisco and María’s infant son, Juan died of the same disease while still in his infancy. Shortly afterward, María Dolores and Timothy left for England with their own two young children. The grief of losing her father, coupled with the fear that the dreaded meningitis might affect her own babies, must have shaped María Dolores’ decision to embark on such a major change, although it is also probable that Timothy was ready to return home to his own family and origins.



Catherine, also grieving for her beloved François and missing her daughter, eventually decided to join her and her son-in-law in England. Though she hated to leave her son and grandchildren, Pancho and Catalina, she told herself that Francisco was going to be all right with his young and growing family, while Dolores, in a new land, needed her more. She left for England in 1895.  As she bade Francisco farewell, she may have wondered whether she would live long enough to see him and his family again.  Little did she know that she would outlive her son by two years.   


When Francisco died in 1899, Pancho was 9; Catalina was 6; Hugo was 4; and Blanca Luz (later called Blanca) was a month shy of her first birthday. Juan had died seven years before of meningitis.  

Of the five children, Juan was the shortest-lived, succumbing at the age of nine months, while Catalina (pictured below, left) would live the longest, dying in 1998 at the age of 105.

Pancho grew up to become a mechanic in the new family tradition. He married a woman named Ester, and they had two daughters, Catalina and Celia. He died in 1921 or 1922, probably in Veracruz state. My father, Gilbert Huesca, recalled that his Uncle Pancho had very Irish looks - a stocky build, red hair and fair skin. He also remembered that his Uncle owned a most unusual cast iron stove, untypical of the stoves in Orizaba at the time. Did Pancho build it? Or did his grandfather, Francois, the poelier?

Hugo became the family correspondent with his grandmother Catherine, his Aunt Dolores Bennett and his cousins overseas. When his letters stopped suddenly following a major earthquake in Mexico, the Bennett family assumed that he and all the rest of the Perrotin family in Mexico had been killed in the earthquake. (Contact between the two branches of the family resumed a century later, when Don and Jennie Murray of Highnam, England, contacted me and began correspondence, in June 2006.) Other than this, I do not know whether Hugo ever married or at what ever became of him.

The three Perrotin women had wavy dark brown hair and lively brown eyes, and they possessed an inner strength that was as appealing as their beauty. Blanca Perrotin was about 5’6”, slender, regal, proud, strong-willed, and beautiful. As a young woman, she was the image of her grandmother, Catherine, and perhaps because of this, she felt extremely close to her all her life, though Catherine had left Orizaba three years before Blanca was born. She was married briefly, but when she found out that her husband had a temper and was known to sleep with a dagger strapped to his calf, she either separated from or divorced him immediately and resolved never to marry again. Perhaps because of this and because she never had the family she had wanted, she became rather bitter. Her stern personality was quite a contrast to her sister Catalina’s, who was a happy person and surrounded by a loving husband and 11 children.

Still, Blanca (shown at right), Catalina, and their mother, Maria (Amaro) Perrotin, were very close. Aunt Blanca and her mother lived together all their lives, always next door or very near Catalina, first in Orizaba , Veracruz , and later in Mexico City. Aunt Blanca was the leading authority on the Perrotin family. When I was 9 years old, our family moved from Chicago to Mexico City. My great-aunt Blanca, my Abuelita (grandmother) Catalina, and my mother became fast friends, perhaps because of their shared Irish heritage, and they spent hours poring over family pictures and sharing family stories. Although she did not need to work, Aunt Blanca was an industrious woman and worked with her nephews (my paternal uncles) in their embroidery businesses. She died in about 1980 or so, roughly at about 88 years of age.

María Amaro Perrotin, Francisco’s widow (shown above), would live to age 98. A beautiful and attractive woman, she would marry again, twice in fact, after Francisco’s death, to foreigners; both of whom died of natural causes. She ran a bakery or café in Orizaba, helped by her daughters.  It was there that Catalina met the young Cayetano Huesca, who she would soon marry.

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1  Dr. L.O. Howard, chief of the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Office of Entomology, reporting on the pattern of the initial outbreak of yellow fever in Orizaba during 1899, Transactions of the Second International Sanitary Convention of the American Republics, The Willard Hotel, Washington, D.C., October 9 – 14, 1905
 
2  Dr. Narciso del Río, one of Mexico’s top experts on yellow fever and a member of the Consejo Superior de Salubridad Pública.  Public Health and Reports, Volume 28, by the American Public Health Association, 1903


Post Script:  Revenge

My husband and I have been sick since last week with nasty colds - it is very damp here in California right now - and we’ve spent a considerable amount of time resting and reading. Last Saturday, I read up on yellow fever (not the best topic to tackle when you’re sick, by the way) and learned a considerable amount about Stegomyia fasciata, the species of mosquito that became infected and went on to spread the disease throughout coastal Mexico and beyond. It must have really made an impression on me, because when I went to bed that night, I had vivid dreams about mosquitoes and yellow fever.


Sometime during the middle of the night, our eldest son tapped on our door to ask where the bug spray was. It seemed that there was what he called a "gi-normous bug” flying around outside our bedroom, on the upstairs landing. Our son tapped again on our door a few minutes later and said he couldn't find the bug spray and was going to leave the bug there.


Now, normally one of us (not me, mind you) would have gotten up at that point to take care of the dreaded intruder, but my husband and I were too sick and too out of it to budge. Still, I knew what was out there and spent the rest of the night in restless sleep, terrified of being bitten by that horrible mosquito and getting West Nile Virus or some other blood-borne disease. Funny how one's mind can take off like that! When I awoke in the morning, I rolled up a nearby magazine, gingerly opened the door, and held my breath as I looked about the landing. There it was, just above the bathroom door.


"Damn you!" I yelled at him as I swatted it violently. I startled myself with my own reaction and then realized I had killed it not just for myself but for Francisco and the family he left behind. Looking at its flat, lifeless form on the magazine, it seemed ironic to think that such a small insect could have inflicted so much misery.


I went back to bed and slept quite well.




Did you know Francisco or Maria (Amaro) Perrotin or their children, or are you a member of the Perrotin, O'Grady, Amaro, or Huesca families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

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A Legacy Renewed, A Cause for Celebration

A legacy renewed, a cause for celebration

On a cold wintry morning on the eve of the Civil War some 150 years ago, a dashing red-headed French baker and a wide-eyed, dark-haired Irish seamstress pledged their undying devotion in a loving embrace before God as they were joined in marriage in a small Catholic church in Shreveport, Louisiana. The bond they shared made them feel strong and invincible, the same way it had made their parents and grandparents feel.

The world lay before Francois and Catherine Perrotin, and they knew could do anything together. They dreamed of the places they would go and the children they would have, and they resolved that this wonderful love they had for each other would flourish and keep their family strong and close and great.

Little did they know that over a century later, a handful of their sixth and seventh generation descendants would also embrace in the atrium of a California hotel, brought together by the same bond that had united Francois and Catherine and reuniting a family whose branches, separated by an ocean and scattered throughout three continents, had lost contact for over a century.

(Left to right) Back row: Michael and Charles Tully; front row, Linda Huesca Tully, Gilbert Huesca, Jennifer Murray, Erin Tully, and Don Murray. Missing: Kevin Tully

Our reunion with Don and Jennie Murray of Gloucestershire, England, was definitely a dream come true and just as magical as we had hoped. My father, Gilbert Huesca, my husband, Charles, two of our children, Michael and Erin (Our son Kevin had to work that day) and I met the Murrays at the Burlingame Embassy Suites for brunch on Sunday, February 26, 2007. A very kind reporter for the San Jose Mercury News, Scott Herhold, joined us to cover the historic occasion.

Unlike some first meetings in which you look at each other awkwardly and try to think of something intelligent to say, we never stopped talking from the moment we met. How else could it be? With so many family stories to share and mysteries to explore, we plunged into a conversation that lasted until well past nine o'clock that evening.

We spent the rest of the week visiting local Bay Area landmarks, such as Mission Santa Clara, Big Basin State Park, Monterey, and Carmel. We also spent a fair bit of time at our home, studying family pictures, marveling at common characteristics, and figuring out who went where on our ever-growing family tree. And of course, we took a fair amount of pictures of our own.

By the time the Murrays returned home to England, it was hard to say goodbye. We felt we had always known each other, and maybe in a strange way, we had. It was as if Francois and Catherine, the links that had brought us together in the first place, had planned the whole thing.


Meeting Don and Jennie was just the beginning. We have stayed in close touch, sharing yesterday’s stories as we encounter them anew and laughing over today’s stories of our respective present-day families. Since our first contact, I have “met” seven other members of their extended family, living in Spain, Mexico, the U.S. and Canada.

The e-mails and phone calls keep coming and along with them come old family pictures, letters and always, more stories. I am continually amazed by the pride in and passion for this heritage of ours – a common thread, it seems, perhaps sewn into the fabric of our family by seamstress Catherine O’Grady Perrotin.

I had hoped to write about this sooner, but I must make a confession here. The Murrays’ visit struck such a personal chord with me, that it has been almost too personal to write about. These long-lost cousins, this newly-found family, have moved my heart so deeply with their love for and devotion to one another and their desire to keep our history alive for those to come.

And yet it is important to record this event, because it is all about a very special celebration. Not just my own, or my father's, or my children's, or Don and Jennie's, but a celebration of our wider family - those who could not be there to join us but who share in this blessed family heritage.

It is about the reunion of a family whose branches each thought the others had perished tragically, only to discover them years later, alive and flourishing. It is about individuals who taught each other about their ancestors and in turn learned something valuable about themselves. It is about an appreciation of grandparents and great-grandparents and collateral relatives we never knew but whose quiet influence still reverberates in our own lives. It is about a celebration of the family.

To celebrate the family is to know that we are not alone. Whether near or far, whether we know it or not, another person shares a common facial expression, walks the same way, cries for the same reasons, drives a similar car, maybe even likes the same movies or gives their children the same names.

To celebrate the family is to understand who we are and how we got to be that way. It is true that each of us is unique, but we are who we are in great part thanks to – or in some cases, in spite of - someone else who was there first. Someone blazed a trail for us, consciously or not and whether we chose to follow it or not. Though they lived in a different time and place than we do today, their experiences and challenges may have been similar.

The experiences that touched our ancestor’s lives, from major events such as migrations, wars, and disasters to everyday occurrences such as courtships, Sunday dinners, misunderstandings, and vacations, to personal characteristics such as a particular skill or choice of a common trade or religious convictions, form us in mind and heart.

To celebrate the family is to honor those who have gone before us. We discover and learn from their struggles and triumphs, share their joys and cry over their sorrows. We rejoice in the present, daring to live with purpose and faith and passion, giving unabashedly of ourselves to our loved ones near and far. We look ahead to the future, keeping alive the traditions, stories and values that define us, in the hope that they will enrich the lives of those who are yet to come.

In doing all these things, we reinforce the foundation that was laid so long ago and pay tribute to a family that has taken risks, supported each other through good times and bad, and thrived through the generations.

Thank you, Francois and Catherine, for your legacy of love. It has endured and grown beyond your wildest dreams, and it is what binds us together and keeps us strong and close and great. And that is cause for celebration.

Are you a member of the Perrotin, O'Grady, Bennett, or Huesca families?  If so, I'd love to hear from you.