Treasure Chest Thursday: The Lady Plate

My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca used to say that my grandmother, Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon, was her own best customer when it came to their Chicago antiques business, Chatham Galleries.

The Lady Plate, signed by the artist Dapoigny and undated, was with
 us so long, she was practically a beloved member of our family.

One of the most stunning pieces in the Chatham collection was the large porcelain plate pictured here.  Measuring about 27 inches in diameter, it bore the likeness of an aristocratic lady dressed in vivid hues of burgundy, white, pink and blue, painted on a gold field with raised designs.    The plate was signed "Dapoigny"on the bottom and was not dated.  

The lady on the plate appears to be French.  Beyond this, we know nothing of the plate's provenance.  This was one of the articles my grandmother and mother brought back from Europe, though I do not recall hearing where they found it.

The "Lady Plate," as our family called it, hung in Chatham Galleries for a while.  Like so many other things, she eventually made her way to my grandparent's home, where she reigned in splendor for nearly a decade. Before my grandmother died in 1963, she gave the Lady Plate to my mother, knowing she would always cherish it.

My mother at Chatham Galleries, the antiques business she and my
grandmother owned.  The Lady Plate hangs behind her on the wall.  The
gentleman with my mother is unidentified.  Chicago, Illinois, 1951.

The Lady Plate became a special part of our family, and we accorded her the reverence and love as the grande dame she was.   

She came with us when our family moved down to Mexico City and again a few years later when we moved to California, both times safely cradled in a bundle of blankets on my mother's lap in the front seat of our yellow 1962 Ford Falcon station wagon. This was no small feat, considering the plate's size and heaviness.

The Mexican roads were not the best, even the modern toll roads. My father did all he could to navigate around bumps and holes in the road, but this was not always possible over the 3,000 or so miles we covered.  There were no seat belts in those days, so we were jolted back and forth and up and down as the car rounded sharp curves, dodged erratic drivers, or hit the inevitable surprise pothole.  Through it all, my mother held tight to her treasured bundle.  Thanks to my parents' diligence and care, the Lady Plate survived without a scratch.  She seemed to graciously accept her new place of honor on the living room wall wherever we went, presiding over us with her peaceful countenance.

The Lady Plate hung on the living room wall of my grandparents' 
Chicago home, circa 1950 - 1959.

My father, Gilbert Cayetano Huesca, always carefully anchored the Lady Plate to the wall to keep her intact and safe.  Despite her vintage, which we guessed to be between 200 - 300 years, she never grew old but remained serenely beautiful, outlasting her many owners, including my grandmother and my mother. 

She was there for us during the milestones of our lives: our first steps, birthday parties, graduations, marriages.  She was there as we faced the loss of our mother to cancer and when we brought our newborn children home to visit their grandfather.  

She seemed invincible all those years, surviving the jarring  7.1 Loma Prieta Earthquake that struck Northern California in 1989 and who knows what other calamities centuries before.   Yet like many things of beauty, she could not last forever.

Her long life span finally came to an end one afternoon about four years ago.  My precious father, by then 92 years old and still strong and independent of body and mind, was deep cleaning his living room when he moved the couch away from the wall. Somehow he must have bumped into the Lady Plate, and she came crashing to the floor.  Thank God he was not hurt.

Not knowing what had happened, I arrived at his apartment for lunch a short while later and found him sitting at his table with his head in his hands, a large plastic bag containing the pieces of the beloved plate by his side.  He was overcome with grief.  I think he felt as though he had lost a good friend who had been a part of his life for over fifty years.  To him the Lady Plate represented my mother - his wife, the most beautiful and important lady in his life and the owner of his heart.  We held each other and cried.

It could have happened to any one of us.  My dear father, the most careful and meticulous person I have known, was not at fault for the demise of the Lady Plate.  Ever mindful of my mother's love for this prized possession, he had cared for the plate for over two decades as one who had been given a special treasure to guard.  Sometimes, though, things happen, no matter how hard we try to prevent them. Perhaps it was simply her time.

I have the Lady Plate now, carefully put away in her new form.  A large part of her face is still intact, but the rest of the pieces were not so lucky.  I just cannot bear to part with her, even in her fragments. Maybe some day I will be able to have someone put her back together so she can resume her place on our own living room wall to lovingly watch over and be cherished by future generations..

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully


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

Workday Wednesday: Going into the Antiques Business

Alice Gaffney (McGinnis) Schiavon (1895 - 1963)
Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca (1928 - 1987)

Having amassed a sizable amount of furniture and antiques during her European travels to add to her already large collections, my grandmother, Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon, now needed a place to put them.

Invitation to and newspaper
article about the grand opening
of Chatham Galleries.  Note that
Schiavon is misspelled "Chiavon."

As much a lover of a good find as she was of the thrill of the hunt, my grandmother was a familiar face at antique stores and estate and second-hand sales both in Chicago and near the family summer cottage in Big Blue Lake, Michigan.  She developed a passion for exquisite European antiques - not the kind one finds in an old farmhouse, but the type one would have in a fine home.  She had a large assortment of porcelain, including Dresden, Meissen, Limoges, Sevres, Haviland, Capodimonte, Belleek, among others.

My grandmother, Alice Schiavon at left, with her older sister, Benita
(McGinnis) McCormick, at the grand opening of Chatham Galleries,
September 29, 1951, Chicago, Illinois.  The bronze dog with puppies was
one of the pieces brought back from Europe the year before.  It was a
 favorite piece of my grandmother's - perhaps this is why it was never sold.

Her doll collection already took up considerable space in the family home at 8200 St. Lawrence Avenue..  A November 11, 1945 article in the Chicago Daily Tribune noted that the dolls took over the entire basement, at one time numbering 3,600.  It was no surprise, then, that Alice needed more room to house her treasures.

My grandfather, Ralph Schiavon, always supported Alice in her shopping expeditions.  He understood that his wife was not content to be home cooking and cleaning but needed to be busy with her collections and projects.  So when she suggested opening a gallery, he was happy to help her get started and gave her the funds she needed.  He agreed with her that it would be a good opportunity for their daughter, Joan (my mother) to spend more time with her in a common endeavor; moreover, he liked the idea of my mother learning the ins and outs of running a business.

My mother holds a french antique couple from the early
1800s in this article on the Chicago Antiques Exposition
and Hobby Fair, published in the Chicago Daily Tribune.

When Alice and Joan returned from their European adventure in the fall of 1950, they set to work to plan their business, scouting locations, contacting vendors, evaluating inventory, and arranging displays.   Nearly one full year later, on Saturday, September 29, 1951, they opened The Chatham Galleries at 8231 Cottage Grove Avenue, on Chicago's South Side, stocking not only antiques but also fine art, gifts, and greeting cards.

Interestingly, the name of the building it occupied was the Aranoff Building - a slightly different spelling than that of Abraham Aronoff of New York, who had been a constant companion of my mother and grandmother's during their recent tour of Europe.

My mother, Joan Schiavon (right), age 23 here, proudly greets her
 sister-in-law (and my godmother) Angelina (Ciliberto) Schiavon,
 just before the store'sgrand opening.  I do not know the identity of
the  young man in the center; could he be Angelina's brother, Joe Ciliberto?

My mother's college friend, Margaret Yu, sent best wishes and hearty encouragement to the mother-daughter team. She recalled that in her own hometown of Hong Kong, the Chinese invited all their friends and family to visit on frequent occasions when they opened a new business.

The idea was that when passers-by looked in the store and saw a crowd gathered, they would go inside, too, because they wanted to be part of whatever was going on.

This seemed like good advice, and before long family, friends, and even some of my grandfather's business associates were filling Chatham Galleries during several open house events.

The store became a popular fixture in the neighborhood, and Alice and Joan began to see their share of business.  My mother would later laughingly say, however, that my grandmother was her own best customer.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know, or are you a member of the Schiavon/Schiavone, Ciliberto, or McCormick families?  Do you remember Chatham Galleries?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Travel Tuesday: Homeward Bound on the Queen Elizabeth

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca (1928 - 1987)
Alice Gaffney (McGinnis) Schiavon (1895 - 1963)

From Cherbourg to New York aboard the R.M.S. Queen Elizabeth, September 29 - October 4, 1950

On Friday, September 29, 1950, my mother and my grandmother, Joan and Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon, boarded the R.M.S. Queen Elizabeth at Cherbourg, France, bound for New York City.  They had been away for six weeks, traveling extensively through nine European countries including England, Ireland, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Monaco, and France.  

"Mother and I in dining room with 'Dreamboat,' our waiter,
October 3, 1950,"  Joan Schiavon wrote on the back of this
photograph, adding,  "Very, very English, I say!"

It had been an exciting trip, filled with fascinating people, new experiences, and places that seemed exotic to two midwestern women.   

My grandmother came home with eight trunks, loaded with exquisite antiques, collectible dolls, porcelain figurines, and other fine collectibles.  Other pieces, including some furnishings too big to carry home, would make their way to Chicago on container ship, intended for the new fine art and antique gallery my grandmother would open.  Most of them, however, would eventually make their way to her home, where they would live quite happily with her and my grandfather, surrounding them with their history and graceful elegance for the rest of their lives.  

List of Incoming Passengers on the Cunard llne
R.M.S. Queen Elizabeth from Cherbourg, France,
 to New York, shows Cabin class passengers Alice
 and Joan Schiavon, ages 53 and 22, on lines 19
and 20. Note that my grandmother's name is 
penciled in erroneously as "Auceg" Schiavon.

Though my mother brought back her own souvenirs, she returned a new person, confident, mature and sophisticated.  Having the opportunity to connect her new experiences to her family's Italian and Irish heritage and values,  she gained a new appreciation for her parents and discovered the value of opening herself to new experiences.  

Art and history came alive for her in Europe, renewing her sense of wonder in a world she had thought of as old and boring until now.  She learned how to adapt to new situations, and found that a smile and a sense of humor were her best tools, even when she didn't speak the language.  

Though she may not have realized it at the time, she also learned a considerable amount about porcelain and silver, which became enduring passions for her.

Most of all, I think she realized that she was an interesting and attractive lady with a lot to offer the world through her sweetness, intelligence, quick wit, and earnestness.

From left to right, Abe Aronoff, my mother and Grandmother, Joan and
 Alice Schiavon, and unknown woman.  In the foreground is Sylvia Gianorio,
 a friend my mother made on the Queen Elizabeth.  I believe Sylvia is the same
person  who later married a man named Herman Lehnert and moved to
Alaska.  She and my mother corresponded for many years.

Abraham Aronoff returned to New York on the Queen Elizabeth, too.  As far as I know, he and my mother did not see each other again.  She would always be grateful for his gallant company and gentlemanly treatment toward her and Alice.  In later years, whenever she reminisced about her European trip, she recalled that he was a kind and decent person.

My grandfather, Ralph Schiavon, met Alice and Joan at New York Harbor on Wednesday, October 4, 1950.  They ran up to him and threw their arms around him, nearly knocking him down in their excitement to see him after so long.  Neither one of them could stop talking. 

He could not believe how much older his daughter looked.  He laughed when he saw all of Alice's trunks - and her big smile.   Thank God for porters, he must have thought.  Then after some time to rest and recover, it was off to Grand Central Train Station and home to Chicago.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know Ralph, Alice, and Joan Schiavon, or any of the people in this story? Are you a member of the Schiavon/Schiavone, Huesca, or Gianorio, Lehnert, or Aronoff families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Matrilineal Monday: Falling in Love with Europe

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca (1928 - 1987)
Alice Gaffney (McGinnis) Schiavon (1895 - 1963)

European Tour - August 15 - October 4, 1950

Though my mother initially had not wanted to go to Europe, she was soon mesmerized by the fascinating people and whirlwind activities on board the luxury oceanliner H.M.S. Queen Mary as it sailed across the Atlantic Ocean from New York to Europe.

Joan Schiavon and a young Italian admirer on board the H.M.S. Queen Mary,
August, 1950.

While my grandmother, Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon quickly made friends with a number of couples, my mother soon found she had no shortage of dinner and movie escorts. 

Among these was Abraham Aronoff.  From what I recall my mother telling me, they met on board the Queen Mary, but he appears in several pictures with her, not just on the ship but in Switzerland and Italy, too.  It is not clear whether he just happened to be on the same tour as the Schiavon women or if he rearranged his itinerary to be with them.  In any case, while my grandmother enjoyed having him around, my mother was not interested in anything beyond a friendship.  

Abraham Aronoff and my mother,
Rhone Glacier, Interlaken, Switzerland
September 2, 1950

From what I have been able to find out about Mr. Aronoff, he was from New York.  The passenger manifest on the return Cunard ship R.M.S. Queen Elizabeth notes that he was 40 years old and resided at 1664 Davidson Avenue in the Bronx.  I was able to find him in the 1940 U.S. Census, where he lived with his Russian-born parents and a brother.  His occupation was listed as a post office clerk.  

(Coincidentally, shortly after my mother and grandmother returned to Chicago, they opened an antiques gallery on Chatham Avenue in the "Aranoff Building.")  

After the Queen Mary docked in Southampton, England, Joan and Alice took the train to London, where they stayed for about a week, going to the theater, haggling over silver on Portobello Road, and visiting Buckingham Palace (where my mother did her best to make the Queen's Guard crack a grin).

They continued on to Ireland, stopping to kiss the Blarney Stone, and to Dresden, Germany via Belgium and the Netherlands.  After witnessing the rebuilding that was going on in postwar London, my mother was shocked at the tragic destruction she saw in Dresden, which was bombed heavily during World War II.  They did not stay there long but left after about a day for Switzerland, visiting Geneva, Lucerne, Berne, and Interlaken.  As you can see from the photos, Abraham Aronoff was there, too.

Mother and daughter were highly impressed by the cleanliness of the Swiss.  It was their honesty, however, that left the greatest impression on my mother, who forgot her purse on a park bench in Lucerne and returned some time later to find it, still on the bench, untouched.   

Alice and Joan Schiavon,
Rhone Glacier, Interlaken

I love these photos of them.  Note the formality of their dress, even on the Rhone Glacier at 8,000 feet high!  In today's world, most people would never dream of dressing in skirts and heels but would have bundled up in down jackets, jeans, and sturdy hiking shoes.  The board underneath their feet does not look all that secure, either, does it?

From Interlaken, the intrepid trio traveled by train to Italy. They rode on a gondola under the Via degli Schiavone, laughed at the surprisingly small Leaning Tower of Pisa, and marveled at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  They rubbed their hands for good luck across the now well-worn bronze foot of Jesus in the Pieta (today sheltered behind glass) in Saint Peter's Basilica in Vatican City, prayed in the Catacombs, and marveled at the beauty of the Appian Way on their way down south to Naples.  

During their numerous stops throughout the Continent, my grandmother searched out the best places to buy exquisite antiques, porcelain, and silver, eager to bring them back to Chicago, where she planned to open an art and antiques gallery.  She had excellent taste and seemed to have an innate sense of knowing what to buy. She made sure my mother paid attention so she, too, would learn to appreciate their history and beauty.

Abraham Aranoff with my mother and
grandmother, Rhone Glacier.

Of all the places they visited, I think my mother loved Italy the most.  It meant a lot to her to be in the land of her father's birth, and though she could not speak Italian, she appreciated the grand history and culture and religious influence there.  Her only disappointment was that while they visited Naples, near my grandfather's birthplace of San Sossio, they never actually made it to that small mountain village, most likely because it was not an easy place to reach.

Toward the end of September, my mother and grandmother spent a few days the south coast of France, visiting Nice and Monte Carlo, Monaco, before heading to Paris.  Their last stop was at Cherbourg, France, where they boarded the R.M.S. Queen Elizabeth for the trip home the United States.

My mother, Joan Schiavon, back row,
with the ubiquitous Abe Aranoff,
Naples, September 17, 1950.

With their trunks brimming with carefully packed antiques, Irish Belleek tableware, German Dresden figurines, and French Meissen and Limoges dishes, tour books, and souvenir postcards, it was a surprise that there was anything left in Europe after they returned to America.  

My mother left her heart there, though.  After all her youthful protests against going across the pond to Europe, she was not ashamed to admit that she hated to leave, and she vowed to return one day.   

It would be her only trip there. Many years later, her daughters - my sisters and I - would travel to Europe at various times, retracing her footsteps in some of the old places and exploring new ones she had long dreamed of visiting.  She may not have made it back in her lifetime, but she was definitely there with us in spirit.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Those Places Thursday: Reluctant Traveler

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca  (1928 - 1987)

Aboard the R.M.S. Queen Mary, August 15, 1950,

   New York to Southampton

My mother's passport photo, 1950

My mother did not relish the idea of going to Europe, especially with her mother, Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon. But in the summer of 1950, she had no better plans.

The thought of going there to hunt for antiques - and with her eager mother! - in a continent that was rebuilding itself barely four years after World War II, was not her idea of fun.

Here, my mother and grandmother (each marked by an "x") stand on deck,
far right, waving farewell to my grandfather as their ship departs New
York Harbor for Southampton, England, Tuesday, August 15, 1950.

She shuddered at the idea of staying in archaic old hotels, walking through dusty shops, haggling over old things that would eventually sit on shelves to collect even more dust, and spending time with people her mother's age instead of other young adults. 

Her father, Ralph Schiavon, turned a deaf ear to her protests.  He did not want Alice to travel alone and knew how much she had looked forward to spending six weeks with her daughter away from the distractions of their daily lives.  Moreover, he understood that Joan's experience in a wider world outside her own sheltered sphere in Chicago would  benefit her in the long run more than he or Alice ever could do on their own.  He arranged an comprehensive and elaborate itinerary for his wife and daughter and booked them on a transatlantic cruise on the luxurious R.M.S. Queen Mary.

My mother on the deck of the R.M.S. Queen Mary. 

When the reluctant 22-year-old Joan walked up the gangway and stepped onto the deck of the enormous cruiseliner on that balmy August day, little did she know that this trip would become a defining moment in her life.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know the Schiavon family, or are you a member of the Schiavon/Schiavone or Huesca families?  Did you sail on the Queen Mary in 1950? If so, share your memories and comments below.

Talented Tuesday: Our Chinese "Auntie"

The Very Talented Miss Margaret Yu

Margaret Yu, far right, circa 1950.  I am not sure where this photo was
taken or whether the people with her were family members or friends.

My mother, Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca met Margaret Yu while both were attending Saint Francis College in Fort Wayne, Indiana.  Margaret was an exchange student who had studied Linguistics at Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and my mother was a drama major. They hit it off instantly and and began a friendship that flourished and deepened over the years until my mother's death in 1987.

Margaret came from a family of elite professors in Hong Kong.  Her parents owned two neighboring houses, one built in Chinese style and the other built in Western style, on a hill overlooking Kowloon.  One week the family would live in the Chinese house, speaking Mandarin and observing Chinese customs, and the next week they would move everyone - servants and all - into the Western house next door, where they would speak English and live according to British customs.   My mother believed this accounted for Margaret's flawless English and impeccable manners.

Margaret was a highly cultured lady, having traveled with her parents and brothers and sisters around the world several times. She was well read and spoke several languages fluently, Mandarin, Cantonese, English, German, and French among others.  Yet for all her worldliness and sophistication, she loved having fun just as much as the next young woman, and she and my mother spent their free time going to the theater, playing card games, or sipping root beer floats (also called "black cows" in the Midwest) with their classmates at Woolworth's lunch counter.

Having no family locally, Margaret frequently accompanied my mother on her weekend visits home to Chicago.  The two of them would sit cross-legged on my mother's bed and talk late into the night, sometimes giggling so much that my grandparents, Ralph and Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon would have to knock on the bedroom door to ask them to keep the noise down.  Even so, my grandparents loved Margaret and treated her like a special second daughter, allowing her all kinds of indulgences, such as sleeping in late in the morning and running around the house in her bright red Chinese silk pajamas.  My grandfather delighted in her effusive compliments on his Italian cooking.  At times she would reciprocate the favor, cooking elaborate Chinese dishes for the family.

Once my grandmother walked into the bedroom and found Margaret sitting straight up in bed, eyes closed and motionless.  Fearing she might have had had a heart attack, my grandmother shook her, and Margaret awoke with a start.  Margaret later explained that the Chinese slept that way because they believed that it would be easier for them to go straight to heaven if they died in their sleep.   My grandmother never found out whether this was true or not, but she was quite relieved.

Margaret gave my mother this silk
embroidered Chinese purse in about
1948.  My mother treasured it and carried it
proudly on special occasions.

Margaret Yu returned to Hong Kong at the close of the academic year, but she and my mother remained close friends all their lives. They wrote long letters to each other throughout the years, sharing everyday stories of their lives, hopes and dreams.

Margaret's letters were instantly recognizable. Printing her return address under her name, "Miss Margaret Yu," she always wrote on aerogrammes,.  These were were thin, light blue letter stock, bearing imprinted postage images of Queen Elizabeth II (Hong Kong was still a British colony at that time) and labeled "Par Avion/Via Air Mail" in blue and red type.  It was always exciting to see these exotic letters, often featuring red Chinese characters and sometimes even exquisite pre-printed drawings.  How thin they were, yet how much news they contained!

My mother would slit the letters open carefully but eventually allowed us the honors as we grew older and more adept at such things.  She breathlessly read "Auntie" Margaret's letters to my father, my sisters and me, as we crowded around her, glued to every word. Through these letters we got a taste of what it was like to live in Hong Kong during a pivotal time of economic and cultural turmoil.  As the years passed,  we began to feel as though we knew her almost as intimately as my mother did.

We heard about the linguistic classes she taught at the University of Hong Kong and of the books she wrote on the subject.  We learned about the rise of factories that made the colony a manufacturing giant in the 60s.  We heard harrowing stories of the chaos and riots in mainland China that spilled over into Hong Kong as Chairman Mao Zedong's Communist Party challenged British rule. Being young children, we wondered what Aunt Margaret meant when she said that a lot of the "intellectuals" had to go into hiding to avoid being rounded up by the Communists and that the Red Guard was indoctrinating children to turn in their parents for cultural "sins."  And we listened closely at the dinner table as my parents discussed the latest letter detailing Aunt Margaret's efforts to join the mass exodus from the island, fearful of a Communist takeover.

In about 1967, my mother and father tried unsuccessfully to sponsor Margaret so she could emigrate to California.  They wrote to our local Congressman, Don Edwards, the Department of State, and anyone else they thought could help.  As we understood it, part of the problem was that so many people were trying to leave Hong Kong that the United States set a quota for the number of visas it could grant, which it did by a yearly lottery.  We anticipated the lottery deadline every year, but Margaret's number was never drawn.  After several years of unsuccessful attempts, she applied for and was accepted as an immigrant to Canada.  She arrived in Vancouver, British Columbia in the early 1970s, where she settled near some of her relatives.  My mother was dismayed that Margaret had not made it to the U.S., but she was relieved to know her dear friend had finally managed to leave Hong Kong after all the turmoil there.

My mother and Aunt Margaret finally had their long-awaited reunion in about 1973 or 74, when Margaret flew down  from Vancouver to San Francisco International Airport.  She stayed with us for a couple of weeks, and she and my mother stayed up late into the night laughing and catching up on life, just as they had when they were young college co-eds.  When she returned home, there were just as many tears as there was laughter.  

Aunt Margaret and I shared a mutual love of foreign languages, and when I announced that I wanted to learn 17 languages like her, she gently corrected me and said she only spoke only eight.  She encouraged me to pursue my language studies and suggested that I should visit Hong Kong one day.  Just knowing someone who could speak many languages made it seem more possible to study several myself, and I did just that. By 1977, things had calmed down in Hong Kong, and I went there on a familiarization tour for airline employees. I visited some of Aunt Margaret's friends on the faculty at the University of Hong Kong and had the time of my life.  If not for her, I might never had gone there.

My mother and Aunt Margaret continued writing letters to each other as the years went by, but now they talked on the phone from time to time, too. In the summer of 1987, when my mother learned she had cancer, she wrote to Aunt Margaret to break the news.  Margaret's quick response, below, penned in her elegant hand, comforted my mother beyond words:

                                                                                                   July 31, 1987

My dearest Joan,

Thank you ever so much for your letter.  I was very very saddened & shocked by the bad news & couldn't be at ease for a whole day or two. I really don't know what to say to comfort you. I'm sure you'll know that I'll pray hard for you for a miracle from God to grant you minimum pain & eventual recovery.  I know you have a lot of courage and have done your very best as a good wife, mother, citizen & friend and, prior to that a good daughter.

I am most grateful to you and yours for your generous love and goodwill to me all these years.  My great regret has always been that I have not been able to invite you & your husband to come & visit me here as I live in a one-bed room apartment and for the last 10 years have not enjoyed robust health.  I so wish to be able to travel down to visit you now but I have not been able to go anywhere for many years.  My brothers & sisters come from Hong Kong, Toronto & Michigan to see me year by year & most of the them stay in a hotel - they can afford it, thank God.

I feel nostalgic for all the good times I did have with you and yours.  I do remember your parents only too well.  Your father bought us two tickets to see a beautiful Chinese play in Chicago and when I said I wanted to buy a watch he got me a lovely gold one for only $15 which I wore for many, many years.  He cooked a lovely dinner at Easter for us.  It was a fish with dressing that tasted so much like a favourite Chinese dish of mine. Your mother spoiled me right & left, letting me run around the house in my pyjamas all morning so that I could feel completely at home.  She called my pajamas "fire-crackers" because the top was a bright fiery red. She was such a sweet kind lady and so hard-working on her dolls.  I didn't say all this to you when I visited you in San Jose because I'm such a shy person about expressing my emotions, but I can assure you I did miss them.

Do let me know how you get on if you feel like writing and whether there is new medicine or treatment the doctor can give you which helps.  How is Gilbert taking it all? Are some of your daughters there to look after you?

I am much older than you - 67 now - and have had lots & lots of pain for many years.  But I am still up and going most days of the week.  I pray God all the time to let me go to Him before too many more years - in peace.  

My fondest love to you, Gilbert, Linda & all the girls.

                                                                        Ever yours, 

                                                                              Margaret

Eleven years later, in April 1998, my husband and I and our young children drove north to British Columbia on Easter vacation.  When we arrived in Vancouver, I phoned Aunt Margaret, eager to see her again. 

It was not a good day for her.  By now, she would have been about 78 years old.  She apologized, saying that she was in poor health, and she asked me to call back two days later, on Wednesday afternoon.  Wednesdays, she explained, were the days she received visitors.   While this seemed a bit formal and old-fashioned, Margaret was very clear, and it was obvious that she had practiced this routine all her life.  When I called two days later, there was no answer, and we left for home the next morning.

She continued to write to my father and me off and on after that, but her letters stopped eventually.  We never found out why but guessed it had to do with her frail health.

Margaret Yu never married.   I think she had several nieces and nephews who looked after her as she grew older, but in all fairness, they probably did not know all her friends to keep them informed about her progress as she grew older.  I wish I knew what became of her, but I will never forget how much she meant to my mother and to all our family.  She may not have been an official part of our family tree, but she will always hold a special place in our hearts as our honorable and beloved "Chinese Auntie."

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know Margaret Yu or Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, or are you a member of the Schiavon/Schiavone, Huesca, or Yu families? Did you live in Hong Kong during the upheaval of the 1960s?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Matrilineal Monday: College Girl

Joan Joyce (Schiavon) Huesca  (1928 - 1987)

My mother graduated from Aquinas High School in 1946, a year after the Second World War ended.

Joan Schiavon, Chicago, 1945

My grandparents decided my mother, Joan Joyce Schiavon, should attend college near their Chicago home, and they sent her to Saint Francis College in Indiana.

While there, she met a young exchange student from Hong Kong, Margaret Yu.  Margaret had gone to Marquette University, where she majored in Linguistics.  She and my mother became close friends, and Margaret spent many a night at the Schiavon household during weekend trips home to Chicago.

In her sophomore year, my mother transferred to Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa, as a drama major.  I do not recall her reasons for doing this, but she loved it there, in part because it was far enough away from her sheltered life at home to have the freedom she craved.

Cover of the Drake University 1949 yearbook

I used to think the name of the Drake University yearbook (pictured on the cover at left), Quax, meant something significant in Latin.  How naïve I was not to see that it was clever play on words - named for the noise a drake (an adult duck) makes!  (Drake, of course, was not named for a duck but an Iowa state governor, Francis Marion Drake.)

My mother was not exactly the most serious student at the time, but she sure enjoyed campus life.  She excelled in her favorite classes - drama and literature - but she also took classes in costume, social science, gym, and badminton.  She ate lunch daily with her "chums" at the popular Benson's Restaurant at 2417 University Avenue in an area of Des Moines called "Dogtown," and she cheered on the Drake Bulldog college football team along with a number of her many admirers, or "dreamboat escorts," as she called them, many of whom she met in her drama classes or at the Newman Club.

Her yearbook is dotted with her breathless and exuberant descriptions of classmates and friends:

The Fine Arts majors - my mother is
on the bottom row, far right

"A real doll...met her in Women's League."  "Real swell gal - in costume class" "Dick played pinocle til late one night.  He and Bill took me to (the) football game - real sweet guy! ...Bill lived upstairs - a real dreamboat -  I had an awful crush on him." "Lyle was a real ladies' man - but a sweet guy - in drama classes!"  "Arlene was always borrowing my clothes - we double-dated at a party at my place."  "Tall and blond and dreamy eyes - just my type - I was in charge of his costumes!"

My mother used to tell my sisters and me that she was too young to appreciate a college education at the time.  Many women of that era, in fact, went to college to major in "marriage," hoping to find a husband and settle down and raise a family.

Whether her parents wanted this for her or not, they apparently were unimpressed with my mother's "social" studies and decided that their $400 annual tuition would be better invested in other ways.  They called my mother home to Chicago in June 1949.    She hated to leave her exciting life and friends at Drake, but she was otherwise glad the experiment was over.

It would be some years before she wished she had stayed and completed her degree, but she went on to become a savvy and successful businesswoman, all the same.  When my sisters and I were young, she read to us constantly, making stories come alive with her dramatic interpretations.  Often repeating the words of her college drama and Shakespeare professors, she encouraged us from an early age to write well and develop good diction.  I can still hear her coaching us as we practiced school presentations to "Project! Project your voice so it reaches the back of the room! Make your voice heard!"

My mother stressed to us the value of education and encouraged us to seize every opportunity to make the most of our school years  - and to never stop learning.  Never was this more evident than in the last years of her life, when she became an assistant teacher for special education students at Modesto High School in Modesto, California.  She had a way of inspiring even the toughest students to discover their potential and to excel.

Some people learn from books, and some people learn from experience.  My precious mother did both, and by following her own advice, she became a wonderful example for us and many others we will never meet.  As far as I am concerned, she was one of the smartest people I have ever known.

When I went to college, my mother encouraged me to join the Newman

Club, a social organization for young Catholic students.  She often talked

about how much fun the Newman club was, but she does not seem to be

too excited about it here.  Was she wishing she could be standing in

 the upper rows among all those young men with an "x" over their heads?

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully