Aunt Judy

Before the filles du roi...Desperate to escape her past, Jeanne, a poor widow, accompanies a rich woman to Quebec. The sea voyage is long, one of privation and danger. In 1640, the decision to emigrate takes raw courage, but the struggling colony of Quebec, so far a collection of rough soldiers and fur traders, needs French women if it is ever to take firm root in the wilderness.

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My Aunt, as she was in the 1930's

Hope you don't mind coming along with me for a little family history. And history it now is,  sorry to say. We're all inescapably riding Time's Arrow...

Below is an excerpt from my aunt's obituary. I am her namesake. On the day this blog is published, she would have begun her 98th year. The day following, I will be attending her memorial service. At this time, I will reconnect with members of the family--cousins, and their children and grandchildren. Some, I haven't seen in twenty years, others I have never met in the flesh, only via pictures. 

      

Juliet “Judy” W. (Liddle) Hennessy died Jan. 10, 2025, at home in Yellow Springs. She was 97 years old. She was born March 28, 1927, in Rockville Centre, New York, to Dr. Albert W. and Ruth P. Liddle and joined two sisters, Dorothy and Jean. At the time, her father taught English literature, including Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton and others at New York University. He was recruited by Arthur Morgan to come to Yellow Springs and teach at Antioch College.

Shortly after Judy’s birth, the young family moved to Yellow Springs in a 1925 Model T Ford, arriving and camping in a tent in Glen Helen near the Birch Creek Cascades for several weeks, until lodging was available. When Mrs. Lucy Morgan came to welcome the family to Yellow Springs and Antioch, she left her calling card in the tent flap, as they were out and about.

Somehow or other, I have come the oldest living member of my grandparents' descendants.

My Aunt had all her wits about her when she died, something you can't always say about such old people. When I was born, World War II was still in progress, both in Europe and in the Pacific. My Dad was in Burma. My Uncle Richard, married to sister Jean, was in Europe. Judy was not married yet, because her beaus were away at war. Judy worked at Wright Field (Wright Patterson)  in those days. 

                                          . 

L to R: Aunt Judy, my Mother, Dorothy, & Aunt Jean

The three sisters, Judy, her sister Jean, and my mother, Dorothy, were all still living in their parents' house, a big four square with an enormous maple which shaded the brick patio behind the kitchen. There was an astonishing garden, too, filled with roses, spring bulbs and many other flowers and also--long before our time--native plants, such as Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Ferns, Trillium, Dutchman's Britches, May apples, Trout Lilies and Dog-Tooth violets. Grandpa also grew grapes on arbors, raspberries, rhubarb as well as lettuce and huge, delicious tomatoes. There was a pear tree and cherry trees, too, all benefiting from horse manure from my mother's much loved mare. 

My earliest memories are of moonlight coming through the leaves on that old tree and making patterns on the crib sheet where I was dozing. From the room next door, a large bathroom, I could hear the women of the house talking and bathing. This was a safe place then, and it remains so in memory. 

Here are some B&W pictures from the late 40's and 50's. That's me, the flower girl at Judy's wedding, wondering what the heck the grown-ups are doing? I could tell it was some kind of adult in-joke, and somehow I felt a little embarrassed by this undignified, giggly moment. However, it was clearly the time of breaking into that delicious cake, so of course I was intrigued, especially if this odd behavior meant there's soon be cake for me! 

The groom is my Uncle Leo, a great guy she'd met at Antioch College where she was working, and where he was studying chemistry on the GI bill after tours of duty in the navy, where he served in both WW II and in Korea. He was a favorite uncle, with a legendarily dry wit, and a taste for jazz, both cool and hot. He and my father sometimes went stag to jazz clubs in Dayton. In those days Dayton was a big melting pot, still bustling with factories and employing hosts of workers. Leo became a brilliant chemist, and he had a successful career. 

Homecoming Court picture

At Ohio State, my aunt was on homecoming court as the independent representative, sponsored by the returning war veterans. She graduated with degrees in Sociology and Home Economics, but all she truly ever wanted to be was to be a wife and mother. She worked for some years, however, at Wright Field (Wright Patterson Airforce Base) in Springfield, and at Antioch College, until my cousins began arriving.

This picture is of my first bus trip--off to a department store for shopping and lunch. I remember being lectured by my mother about being a good girl and not causing any trouble, which probably accounts for my anxious expression. However, once I was away with Aunt Judy, there was no worry at all. We had lunch in a tea room at the department store, and I remember feeling rather grown-up. 

My Aunt was very special to me. One memory I have is of staying overnight with Judy and Leo when they lived in a tiny apartment. I have memories of sleeping overnight in a space that might have been a deep closet shelf, proceeded by many cautions not to fall off, but I remember this as a grand adventure. Judy and Leo always made things fun. 

Those happy days when our family lived together in that unique little college town eventually came to an end. My parents were the first to leave, heading to the Finger Lakes area in New York, near Syracuse, where my Dad worked in the then nascent industrial air-conditioning business.  Here's a picture of me, my 6 month old Cousin Kevin and my  Aunt in an upstairs bedroom when they came to visit us. 

~~Juliet Waldron

CEMETERY STREET

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The first house I remember well was on Cemetery Street. The high windows of our little 1850’s brick house had a view of the historic local cemetery, complete with the sunken stones of the early settlers and poor folks, as well as Victorian obelisks and rich-family crypts. It was all sheltered by a fine stand of tall hardwoods—maples, beech, sycamore, Kentucky bean trees, and oaks. I often stood up on the couch and peered out the window across the street to see a funeral in progress, the black cars, the black dresses, hats and sad, slumped demeanor of the mourners.  At certain times of year, people arrived and filled the place with flowers—Memorial Day, particularly. We often walked there, Mother and I, with whatever dog we had, sharing the peace with our silent underground neighbors.

Always having an active imagination, I drew many pictures of the cemetery, my notions about  the underground life of the dead, so thickly tucked away just across the street. My parents, of course, found that a little odd, but it seemed perfectly straightforward to me. All those husbands and wives that I’d seen, their gravestones sitting side by side, I figured, were still there, only now confined to a spot beneath the ground. I always drew little rooms, with tables with decorative flowers on top, and sofas and chairs, a picture on the wall and, sometimes, even a pet. I thought it must be a little lonely and boring for them to never be able to go outside anymore, to be staying forever in that underground haven, which was all I could make out of the much talked about “heaven.”  It made perfect sense, when I first heard about ghosts, that the dead might wish to come out and walk around in the cemetery. I spent a lot of night times looking out the front window around twilight, hoping to see one. After all, I took walks there, under those aged trees, listening to the birds and breezes, and it was always pleasant.

(Here's an Egyptian queen enjoying her own little room inside the pyramid, playing Backgammon for eternity.)

 

For the early part of my childhood, I lived in that rural Ohio town, with a close-knit family around, which made all holidays great fun, but Halloween was special in its own way. My younger cousin, Mike, and I were often dressed to compliment each other—one year we were cowboy and cowgirl, on another we were Raggedy Ann & Raggedy Andy. Once we were Spanish dancers, complete with hats with bobbles dangling beneath the brims. My cousin, now a big time politician, had in childhood a pronounced lisp. I remember him carefully explaining to someone who’d asked that we were “’Panish-tan-sers.”  Our costumes were hand-made by grandmas and loving aunts and we showed them off at what seemed to us an exciting costume parade for children which was held annually at the high school.

 

I also remember one night of trick-or-treating with some older children who lived up the road, away from the cemetery. They were the kind who weren’t entirely to be trusted with a smaller kid who wasn’t a family member.  That night's costume had been spur of the moment, so my mother had turned me into a ghost in an old sheet with a pillow case head. The head, as we ran door-to-door in the darkness, kept slipping, so I couldn’t see.  I was gamely trying to keep up with their longer legs in the darkness, but they only laughed and ran ahead. I remember falling and rolling head-over-heels down the steep grade next to the last house on the block, splintering the warm popcorn ball I’d just been given. Then I had to untangle myself from the sheet. After I escaped from that, though, I was surrounded by night. The  only porch light seemed about a mile away.  It was so scary to be left alone in the darkness that I abandoned my goodies and ran home as fast as I could. 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

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MY CHRISTMAS PAST--1949

I was born at the end of the baby bust, so when I was little, for a time, before all those glad-to-be-alive Dad’s arrived home from the war, just to be a kid was special. My cousin and I lived in a pleasant rural Ohio town, which had been home to both our families since before the Depression. Mike’s parents lived just four blocks from me. His parents had a Cadillac, a hand-me-down from his grandparents, who were sufficiently well-to-do to buy a new car every two years. These better fixed in-laws liked to “do things up right.”  At Christmas, this meant hiring a Santa Claus.

Now, I’ve heard more about this Santa since I’ve grown up, but when I was a kid, I actually suspected he just might be the real deal. For one thing, I was quite small the first time I saw him, no more than four.

The night before Christmas I was getting the whole “you better watch out, you better not cry,” bit from my parents. There were canned peas for dinner, and I remember forcing those rubbery pills down, and hoping not to gag.

In those days, children went to bed before their parents—long before. Right after dinner, there was a story, a wash-up, and then straight to bed. Tonight, however, right in the middle of the story, I heard sleigh bells.

My parents wondered aloud "Who can that be?" I wanted to go look out the window, but was told to sit still. Daddy would open the door.

When he did, in came the most perfect Miracle on 34^th Street kind of Santa.  He was chubby and had a long white beard—a real one--a round face, a bright red suit, black patent leather belt and tall boots. He was even carrying a sack. My father was grinning in a way which clearly meant I was being snookered, so after I croaked out a “Hello, Santa,” I gamely asked about his reindeer.

“Well, Darlin', they’re up on the roof—and you don’t have a proper chimney, Judy Lee, so just I knocked on the door.” Well, this seemed reasonable, because I knew our chimney ended up inside the scary big coal furnace in the cellar--obviously not a good place for anyone to land. From somewhere outside, I could hear sleigh bells, just every once in a while, as if the reindeer were tossing their heads.

 Suspicion somewhat allayed, I watched him take the seat my mother offered.  Dad picked me up and put me down on Santa’s knee. Santa was authentically cold all over, his clothes, his face, his beard, and he had a good vibe, smelling pleasantly, as men often did in those days, of whiskey. He was a polite, low-key Santa. His “ho-ho-ho” sounded as if he was actually chuckling about some private joke.

He asked me what I wanted most for Christmas, so I told him about the “drink-wet” baby doll I wanted. Outside the door, sleigh bells softly jingled. It was pretty amazing, to be sitting on Santa's knee there beside our lighted Christmas tree, with shiny packages piled beneath.

 Then he said “Merry Christmas, Judy Lee,” and said he’d be back later with my presents. As he left, there was a blast of cold and the sound of bells again. I still wanted to peep out the window, but my Dad caught my hand and said, “Hey, JL! What did you think of that?”

 “Was that really Santa?”

He and my mother looked at each other and tried not to smile.  So, even though “Seeing is believing,” I was left with a strong feeling that they had been trying to fool me. In a good way, of course, the way grown-ups did, pretending because they thought we children expected it.

 Although my Santa had been nice, jolly and convincingly bearded, I hadn’t seen him fly away.  I'd very much wanted to see the reindeer perform this feat, but it was pretty clear that I wasn’t supposed to watch him go. My cousin was even younger than I, so about all I learned from him the next day was that he too had had a visit from “Santa.” I decided this visitor might have been The Real Santa--but probably not. In retrospect, I believe the whole performance pleased my elders as much as it pleased me.  

"God Bless us, Every One..." 



~~Juliet Waldron

 Time travel with me~~

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