Once More Around the Block

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


A love story

When we kids wanted to hear a story, our parents, Gilbert and Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, often reminisced about their first date.

It was early May, 1954, and they went to see Otto Preminger's River of No Return, starring Robert Mitchum and Marilyn Monroe.  When my father picked my mother up at her family's antiques store, Chatham Galleries, she said her father, Ralph Schiavon, had told her in no uncertain terms that she was to be home by 9:30 p.m.

"He was a big man with a big voice," my father told me.  "And your mother said, if he said 9:30, it had to be 9:30.  Not a fraction of a second later."

They took the Illinois Central (known locally as the I.C.)  "L train," short for Elevated train, downtown.

"We never saw the movie, of course,"  my father confessed.  "I sat there looking at her, and she was looking at me.  And we left there and got to the station and found that the train had already left.

"She said, 'Oh my God, we missed the train!  What can we do?'

"I said, well you better call your father.  So she did, and he asked where we were.  She told him we were right in the Loop, and he said, well you must return on the next train.  I could hear his voice, even from the phone booth.  It was very stern. 

"When we arrived at the station, he was there to meet us.  I thought, oh my God.  I was already afraid of meeting him, and this was the first time I met him.

"And he was very kind.  What a relief.  I was very thankful for that."  

Did they kiss goodnight? 

"Not that night.  Not with her father standing right there," my father grinned.  "I knew I couldn't if I wanted to see her again."

My mother loved talking about that first date.  She removed one of her earrings and gave it to my father to hold for her during the movie.  She conveniently "forgot" to ask for it later, so my father would have an excuse to bring it back to her and they could see each other again.  (My mother told this story so many times that when I began dating, I always planned ahead what small item I could "forget" in case I wanted to see my date again.)

She didn't remember seeing much of the movie, either.  While they sat in the theater, she spent most of the time moving my father's arm off her shoulder, only to have him put his arm around her again.  

Whenever she recalled this part, her face would light up.

My father's friends, Frank and Fern Waples, waited up for him that night as if he were their own son.  Fern asked how he liked the movie.  "Beautiful movie," my father replied.  "I don't know what happened, but it was a beautiful movie!"  

"Gilbert!" she exclaimed.

When he told her about the missed train episode, she frowned.  "This isn't just any girl, Gil.  If you really want to see her, you'll have to get her home on time and do exactly what her father says."

The Schiavon home, 8200 South Saint Lawrence Avenue,
Chicago, Illinois

From then on, my father walked over to the Schiavon home most evenings to visit my mother.  He did not own a car or have much money, so their dates typically consisted of coffee and dessert at the Waples home, strolls in the park, or simple walks around the block, holding hands and talking.  As far as they were concerned, they could not have enjoyed each other more if they had been on the Champs-Elysées or dining at a five star restaurant.  Being together was all that mattered.

Though my mother was nearly 26 and a responsible adult, she still lived at home with her parents, as most young single women did in the 1950s.  Moreover, as the daughter of a strict Italian father who loved her fiercely and protectively, she accepted that he was the head of the household and respected his stringent rules.  

This, however, is not always easy to do, especially when the days have grown long and you are very much in love.  

"Oh, please, Gil," she would say most evenings.  "Let's just go once more around the block."  

How could he say no to her? Off they would go, again and again, oblivious to the neighbors watching amusedly from their porches in the sticky Chicago heat, until the street lights on Saint Lawrence Avenue came on and my grandfather would look out the front window.

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Thankful Thursday: A Priceless Find

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

Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon  (1895 - 1963)
Fern (Lawton) Waples (1899 - 1961)


"She's too much girl for you."

My father, Gilbert Huesca

So said Fern Waples, my father's landlady and friend, with her sly smile as she watched him look back longingly at the Chicago antiques gallery where he had met the girl of his dreams on a sunny afternoon in late April, 1954.

My father, Gilbert Huesca, grinned back.  He loved nothing more than a good challenge.

That morning, he had asked Mrs. Waples to show him where he could buy a Mother's Day card to send his mother, Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, in Mexico City.  Mrs. Waples, a savvy woman who knew all the best places to shop, remembered there was a place, Chatham Galleries, about two blocks from her home.  Known chiefly for its European art and antiques, it also carried a nice greeting card selection.  She offered to take him there.

Mrs. Waples busied herself looking at the antiques while my father wandered around.  As he would tell the story years later, a "beautiful young lady" approached him and asked if she could help him.

He told her he needed a card for his mother for Mother's Day.  "I want something very special for her," he said, "with simple but loving words."  She paused thoughtfully and led him to the greeting card display.

As she began pulling out cards and making suggestions in a soothing voice, my father nearly forgot why he came in the first place.

She was five-foot-four, but she looked much taller in her high heels and slender frame.  She moved with the grace of a dancer, looking up often at Gil intuitively as she talked.  Her medium brown hair was swept into soft curls that crowned her head, drawing attention to her expressive brown eyes.  Her complexion was fair and smooth, and her red lips curled easily upward into a smile that was confident yet sweet and gentle.  Her words were crisp and lilting, and to him, they sounded like music.

By the time he paid for a card and left, Mrs. Waples, who was already outside and was watching through the window, looked at him knowingly.

"You sure took a long time in there, Gil," she said.

My father was breathless.  "Fern,  I bought a beautiful card...but...I just love the girl!"

She shook her head.  "Forget it," she said, 'She's too much girl for you.  You could never handle her."

As they walked down Cottage Grove Avenue, my father reflected on his landlady's words. Maybe she was right about this girl.  Then again, he wondered how it was that he could think of nothing else.

The next time he was off work, he found himself returning to Chatham Galleries.  Not seeing the young shopkeeper, he asked the older lady working there whether she was there that day.

Alice (McGinnis) Schiavon looked up at the handsome young man.  "Oh, that would be my daughter Joie," she said. "She's at the restaurant* next door." My father thanked her and went over to the restaurant.  There she was, sitting at the lunch counter.

My father took a deep breath and approached her.  "Joie, do you remember me?" he asked, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

He thought he saw her blush.  "Oh, yes," she said.  "You bought the Mother's Day card with the flowers on it."  She let him take the stool next to her.

My father could not believe how easy she was to talk to, and he soon forgot his nervousness as he told her about his home in Mexico City and his experiences in Chicago over the past eight years.  She asked to see a photograph of his mother and laughed when he told her about his first weeks in Chicago, when his restaurant meals consisted of only apple pie because that was all he knew how to order in English.  He was captivated by her own stories and her sharp wit and her devotion to her parents, and he became intrigued with learning more about this beautiful lady. There was something about her - a sense of goodness and dignity and culture - that appealed to him.

My mother, Joan Schiavon, with her parents, Alice  (McGinnis)
and Ralph Schiavon, Chicago, Illinois

Joie - Joan Schiavon - had not forgotten him at all.  She was thrilled to see this handsome stranger again and could not believe he had taken the trouble to find her.  She had been impressed by his politeness and charmed by his Spanish accent.  He seemed different from the other young men she had met until now, and she liked the way he related to others, from the respect he showed the older woman who had accompanied him to the store a few days before to the kind way he talked to the waitress at the lunch counter.  And his eyes - how they seemed to see right through her. She wondered if he could read her mind right now.  The thought made her blush even more.

Before either of them knew it, it was time for Joan to go back to work.  My father noticed she had hardly touched her food.   He asked if he could see her again.

"Oh, no," she shook her head, quickly coming back to reality.  "You have to ask my parents."

My father was confused.  "How old are you?" he asked.

"25 - but you have to see my parents first."  She smiled back at him, slid off the stool, and went back to work.

As it turned out, Joan - asked her mother, then her father, for their permission to go out with Gilbert Huesca.  Being protective Irish-Italian parents, they must have asked her a million questions but finally gave their approval as my grandmother recalled the polite man in the store who had asked about her daughter.

Gil and Joan's first date was to the movies to see River of No Return, a romantic Western starring Robert Mitchum and Marilyn Monroe.  Though the fictional movie turned out to be far less stellar that its illustrious cast, its title would mark the beginning of a real life love story between two people whose lives would be changed forever.

And all this because my father had gone looking for a greeting card and came away with a priceless find in the lady he would soon ask to become his wife.   For that I will be forever thankful.

* This restaurant may have been a place called "Flukies," located at 8211 South Cottage Grove Avenue.

 Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

Did you know Gilbert or Joan (Schiavon) Huesca or any of the people mentioned in this story?  Are you a member of the Huesca or Waples families?  If so, share your memories and comments below.

Life with the Waples Family

Gilbert Cayetano Huesca (1915 - 2009)

Frank Waples  (1901 - 1993)
Fern (Lawton) Waples (1899 - 1961)

My darling father, Gilbert Huesca, at
the home of Frank and Fern Waples,
Chicago, Illinois.  Circa 1952 - 1954.

Some time around 1950, my father, Gilbert Cayetano Huesca, set out to find a new room to rent in Chicago.  He had lived for several years with his good friends, Louis and Theresa Algarin, since arriving in the United States, and he had started his own business, Lakeshore Printing, on Lakeshore Drive in Chicago. 

We don't know why he decided to move.  Did the large Algarin family need the space for other children or grandchildren? Or did my father want to be closer to work?  At that time, he did not have a car and had to rely on public transportation, so this would have been a good reason to move.   In any case, the Algarins were sad to see him go, but my father's friendship with them remained strong and endured through two generations.  

When he saw a sign in a two story home on Chicago's South Side advertising a room for rent, my father called the number on the sign and arranged with the lady of the house, Fern (Lawton) Waples, to view the room.   When he arrived, he was impressed by the meticulous  cleanliness of the room and the rest of the house, which was quite large.  

Frank and Fern Waples, dear friends of my father's, at
their home in Downer's Grove, Illinois, Memorial Day, 1957

Being fastidiously clean, my father minced no words but asked Mrs. Waples whether her house was always this tidy or had she cleaned up because she knew he was coming?   She was not put off by the remark but proved herself equally picky when it came to renters.  "Young man," she said, "I should be insulted, but instead I can see that we think alike.  The room is yours if you want it."

Frank and Fern Waples were about fifteen years older than my father, but they treated him like a son, much as the Algarins had.  

Frank had worked in various positions, from land appraiser to railway worker to insurance agent.  He was an affable man who seemed happiest when he was surrounded by family and friends. He and my father spent hours talking about everything under the sun.  He loved nothing better than hosting a large circle of family and friends at the Waples home for summer picnics and celebrations.  It was Frank who taught my father the art of the barbecue.

Gilbert Huesca, age 36, Chicago Illinois, January 20, 1952

Fern was a private school teacher.  She was charming and direct.  She noticed how much my father missed his family and friends in Mexico and took him under her wing, helping him with his English and coaching him on American culture and customs. She was always encouraging him to meet new people and experience new things.  My father recalled that Fern was a stylish dresser who rarely went anywhere without her trademark pearl necklace and earrings. She loved a good sale and was the person you went to when you wanted to know where to find that "something special."  This special knack of hers would one day change my father's life.

From what he told us, the big house was usually bustling with young people - the grown-up Waples children and their friends.  The family's relaxed nature and constant activity made him feel right at home.  When he wasn't playing chess with Frank or testing Fern's baking, he was taking one of their daughters to the museum or the movies. 

I was only 6 years old when my father told me that Mrs. Waples, as we knew her, died.  It was the first time I knew someone who had passed away.  I recall my parents driving with my two sisters and me to the funeral home for the wake.   (I couldn't figure out why they called it that when we knew she would never wake up.)

The sky was overcast, and a light rain was falling.  My father parked a short distance away from the funeral home. He and my mother took turns watching us while the other went inside to pay respects. They were very quiet all the way home.

Frank retired some time after that.  He moved to San Marcos in Southern California and marred a second time to a lovely lady named Katie.  They later moved to Arizona, where he died in 1993.

Still, the memories of those happy times with the Waples family would remain with my father all of his life, always sure to bring a smile to his face and a story to his lips.  

Copyright ©  2012  Linda Huesca Tully

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