Of all their accomplishments, none brought greater joy to my great uncle and great aunt, Phillip and Benita (McGinnis) McCormick, than their two adopted children, Phillip Eugene and Benita Jane, known as Bud and Jane.
My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, told my sisters and me many stories about her cousins, as they lived only a few blocks from her in Chicago, Illinois. She was quite the tomboy and played mostly with her cousin Buddy.
Jane preferred to stay out of the mischief that my mother and Bud always seemed to make. It would not be until many years later that Jane and my mother grew close as they discovered in each other common values and experiences as daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers.
At Jane's funeral in 2011, her daughter, Suzanne, shared this poem from her mother's leather scrapbook. Jane had penned it at the tender age of 16. The Chicago Tribune had published it, no doubt making Jane's own creative mother, Benita, quite proud.
Wistful and wise, the poem is subtly humorous and self-effacing, so characteristic of Jane's personality. It reminds me of one of her favorite childhood authors, A.A Milne, who wrote the Winnie-the-Pooh books.
I saw them with unseeing eyes.
We're young for such a little while.
What a wistful poem. I'm sure Benita was proud of her! Thank you, Linda, for sharing–a lingering, melancholy nuance, but not to be forgotten.
Glad you enjoyed it, Jacqi. My Mac has been more or less down for a couple of months, making it hard to blog or read posts. I thought of you today, when someone at work asked if I knew of the Tullys of Chicago. I'm looking forward to reading your research on them and learning about your trip to the "auld sod." Who knows? We still may find a connection. Warm regards.