RichardHowe.com – Voices from Lowell & Beyond

Lowell Politics: July 5, 2026

The Lowell City Council met on June 30, 2026. Today I’ll comment on several issues they covered.

A joint motion by Mayor Erik Gitschier and Councilors Corey Robinson and Sean McDonough to “place the Lowell Fire Chief position back into civil service prior to filling this anticipated vacancy” was discussed at length before being defeated with four councilors in favor and seven against.

Two quick observations before getting into the substance of this issue: (1) several councilors spoke cryptically, as if they knew more than they were saying but withheld that information for some reason; and (2) this was another of the council’s recurring proxy fights about supporting or not supporting City Manager Tom Golden.

Back in 2015, the city council, at the request of then City Manager Kevin Murphy, voted to remove the position of fire chief from the civil service system. In its place, the city created a human resources application and selection process that, while fair and equitable, also gave the city manager more say in the selection of the next fire chief.

On Tuesday, the four councilors who voted for the motion – Robinson, McDonough, Sidney Liang, and Mayor Gitschier – argued that the civil service test and related criteria were appropriate measures of skill and suitability, that the city manager would still have some say in the selection, and the protections for the employee afforded by the civil service system were desirable.

At first, councilors who opposed the motion raised procedural issues: The annual civil service test had just been held last month before it was clear there would be an opening in Lowell so local candidates may not have competed. Would the city be forced to take someone from the list who was not from Lowell? If the person hired did not work out, wouldn’t the current system make it easier for the city manager to replace them if necessary? Changing the system would require the legislature to pass home rule legislation which, with the legislature out of session until January, might not be feasible or timely.

Councilor Dan Rourke then got to the heart of the matter by explaining why the system was changed back in 2015. As I understand the civil service process, to fill the office of fire chief, only those who hold the next lowest rank – deputy chief – are eligible to take the test, provided there is more than one deputy chief who signs up for the test. (I assume that if no deputy chiefs or if only one of them signed up for the test, those holding the next lowest rank – captain – would also be eligible.)

As Rourke explained it, the practice in Lowell prior to 2015 was that the deputy chiefs would discretely decide among themselves who would be chief, but then all would sign up to take the test, thereby blocking anyone else from competing. Then on the day of the test, only the deputy designated by their colleagues to be chief would appear for the test while the others did not show up. Since the civil service “multiple candidate” rule applied to registering to take the test, not actually taking it, the one deputy who did appear would get the highest score since theirs was the only score and the choice for the city’s next fire chief would already be made by the time it reached the city manger. Rourke added that this had happened “many times previously in Lowell” and that it allowed “a small group to decide who would be the next fire chief.”

When the roll call on the motion was taken, those who voted against moving the fire chief position into civil service were Councilors Sokhary Chau, John Descoteaux, Belinda Juran, Rita Mercier, Vesna Nuon, Dan Rourke and Kim Scott. As noted above, those voting for the motion were Mayor Gitschier and Councilors Liang, McDonough and Robinson.

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A motion by Councilor John Descoteaux to take the steps necessary to increase the number of “all alcohol” package store licenses in the city generated an interesting discussion. Descoteaux explained he was recently in a convenience store where another patron was buying a six-pack of beer. The patron told Descoteaux he would have preferred hard liquor, but this store could only sell beer. Descoteaux framed his motion as a way to increase convenience for residents like the one he encountered as well as something that would boost the economy since selling liquor is more lucrative for merchants.

Some councilors spoke approvingly of this as a way of helping small businesses, but others asked how you could ensure that the new licenses went to first time holders and not to entities that already held a dozen or more liquor licenses. Councilor McDonough raised the issue of the geographic distribution of the licenses. In his neighborhood – downtown – there are no liquor stores within reasonable walking distance of most residences. Others echoed that concern, saying many Lowell package stores might be clustered together with the rest spread widely across the city.

Mayor Gitschier was firm in his opposition to any increase citing two reasons: He said every time he visits a school, there seems to be a package store across the street which he said was not a good mix. He also said that in a city plagued by substance abuse, making it easier to buy liquor will not help the social pathologies accompanying that issue.

In the end, the council voted unanimously to refer the motion to the council’s economic development subcommittee to more deeply explore all these concerns and perhaps craft strategies for addressing them. I believe the motion was also referred to the city’s License Commission for a report.

One thing nobody seemed to mention is the seismic shift that’s occurring in America with alcohol consumption. The overarching trend is towards drinking less, particularly among younger people. Some of the reasons for that are prioritizing health and wellness, economic pressures, and changing generational attitudes.

I saw evidence of this firsthand last weekend. A friend from out of town was visiting Boston so we met up at Legal Sea Food for lunch. When I flipped over the menu, I immediately noticed that there were as many choices in the NA (non-alcoholic) beer section as there were in the traditional beer area. (For the record, I ordered an iced tea but really do enjoy Guiness NA).

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A motion by Councilor McDonough to modify the city ordinance that controls the cost of parking raised some interesting issues. Two years ago, after much study and deliberation, the council amended the parking rate ordinance to automatically increase fees by an amount equal to the increase in the Consumer Price Index. Because the cost of the garages continuously increases, so must the revenue coming into the system. By making the increases automatic and tied to an external measure (the CPI) councilors sought to avoid having to vote on increases each year.  McDonough’s Tuesday motion sought to undo that and require that “all parking rates . . . shall only increase by a majority vote of the city council.”

McDonough’s district includes downtown where many residents must pay for monthly parking in city garages either directly or through their condominium associations. He is the prime recipient of their ire at rate increases, but also for their distress at being deprived of the chance to have their opposition heard in an official setting. Perhaps the main reason the council made this change was to avoid the discomfort of voting for a fee increase at a council meeting packed with people pleading with you not to increase the fee. McDonough countered that by saying that even if the increase was ultimately imposed, if opponents at least had the chance to have their opposition heard they might be less upset than they are about automatic fees.

While McDonough’s point about preserving due process for residents when it comes to fee increases is valid, the unending need for new revenue for the parking fund is a reality. Another reality is that councilors want to stay as councilors and having to vote for repeated fee increases lessens the chance of that happening. Consequently, there could come a time when enough councilors abandoned their fiduciary duty to adequately fund the system in the face of short-term political pressure which would jeopardize city finances.

Which is not to say downtown residents have nothing to complain about. I’ve long thought they are being treated unfairly when it comes to the cost of parking. The city makes huge capital investments to construct parking garages downtown as an important component for economic development. Without the Hamilton Canal Parking Garage, it is doubtful that Draper would be locating its new facility in that district. Because the payoff of new downtown development benefits everyone in the city through higher tax revenues and more jobs, everyone in the city should contribute to the investments the city must make – like new parking garages – to yield that new growth.

However, repaying the bonds that financed the construction of the garages is solely the responsibility of the city’s relatively new parking enterprise fund which is funded solely by parking receipts. Additionally, while downtown residents are likely paying the full fee for their parking passes, others like businesses, students, and city employees often have discounted fees which shift more of the burden to residents.

Over the course of this 30-minute discussion it also became clear there is a disconnect between the parking department and the finance department on implementing the fee increase. This confusion was distressing to some councilors who openly wondered how the council can be sure that ordinances it passes to adjust fees are being consistently implemented. Consequently, the council referred this motion to its finance subcommittee for further investigation.

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This week in my Seen & Heard Column, a wrote about the “Three Franco Poets from Lowell” event at UMass Lowell last week; reviewed a couple of exhibits I saw at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston (“Framing Nature: Gardens and Imagination” and “Art of the Americas, 1700-1800”); and commented on an Op-Ed about the Biden Family’s reentry into the public eye.

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David Daniel, a prolific author and longtime contributor to richardhowe.com, passed away recently. Three of his close friends, Steve O’Connor, Jerry Bisantz and Jay Atkinson, remembered Dave in heartfelt essays which I combined into a single blog post which you should check out.

Remembering David Daniel

David Daniel, a longtime contributor to this blog, passed away on May 5, 2026, from pulmonary fibrosis. Raised in Weymouth, Massachusetts, Dave was a prolific writer with more than ten novels, more than 200 short stories, and countless essays, reviews and columns. Dave’s obituary recounts more of the fascinating life that he lived. Here, three of his closest friends – Steve O’Connor, Jerry Bisantz and Jay Atkinson – share their remembrances of him:

From left: Steve O’Connor, Kevin Cavanaugh, Jerry Bisantz, and Dave Daniel

David Daniel

By Steve O’Connor

In 2004, needing to get some credits toward recertification as an English teacher, I spotted a class called “Writing Mysteries,” taught by Professor Daniel, the Jack Kerouac Visiting Lecturer at UML. That certainly sounded better to me than classes such as “Teaching To the Standards,” or “Pedagogical Theory in the Technological Classroom.”

I remember taking my seat in the South Campus classroom as this guy in a Hawaiian shirt came in and dropped a pile of books on the desk. He led a discussion about the requirements of a mystery—what might be at its center, a murder, a kidnapping, revenge, a secret, blackmail, or money. We discussed the qualities of a good detective, and Dave pointed out that he or she generally operated according to a personal code of ethics which did not always strictly conform to the laws of the state or the sentences of a court.

Within fifteen minutes, I had decided that this guy was cool and that I could learn a lot from him. Maybe because I was a good bit older than the other students, Dave and I hit it off very quickly, and were soon grabbing a beer after class. As a teacher, I admired Dave’s style. Students would read from their work and we’d critique it kindly, but it was Dave’s opinion that everyone wanted. He was the guy who had published a detective series with St. Martin’s Press. In general, he might ask a few clarifying questions and offer some suggestions, but he was always able to come up with something that he liked about the piece. He was a very careful listener, and what he was listening for was always some reason to encourage the writer.

The semester ended, and by that time we had become pals. We began to exchange stories we’d written. He’d say, “I’m going to send you a story, and you send me something.” He gave my book of stories Northwest of Boston an editorial reading, and I did the same for his Beach Town.

Dave became a regular at our Sunday gatherings at my sister and brother-in-law’s house to watch the Patriots games. Kevin Cavanaugh, Jerry Bisantz, Dave Daniel and I watched most of the great Patriots games during Tom Brady’s twenty-year reign of terror over the NFL. My sister Ellen says that Dave never left without thanking her for her hospitality.

Dave had a clever and soft-spoken sense of humor. I remember attending his retirement party from Middlesex Academy, an alternative secondary school for students who for whatever reason had not made it in a traditional high school. In his farewell speech, he mentioned that in his first week at the school, a fight broke out in his class. He related how the principal had come down to see him and told him not to let it get him down. “What can you do?” she asked, “After all, you’re not Superman.”

Dave told the crowd, “You know, I’ve always felt badly about that because, well, I’ve never shared this with any of you, but…” He then unbuttoned his shirt and drew it apart to reveal the Superman logo on a field of blue.

Dave leaves a large gap for everyone who knew him, and a chasm for some. He leaves two other things of inestimable value. The first is an outstanding reputation as a man, and the second is a first-class body of work. We can no longer walk with him, have a coffee or a drink with him, (he enjoyed a Manhattan), or get his advice in a chat on the phone, but we do have the stories and novels where David Daniel will always live, and I know I will go there often to hear his voice.

When Dave became confined to his home under the loving care of Stephanie and Ally, I started sending him brief recordings I made of comical vignettes by Flann O’Brian, poems recited by Richard Burton, or one of Dave’s own stories. I recall a verse I sent him from a nineteenth century Australian poet:

Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone.
Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.

When I heard of Dave’s passing, I was immediately reminded of  Paul McCartney facing the press after the death of George Harrison. McCartney said, “He was a brave lad.” I knew that Dave would always show kindness in others’ troubles, but in his illness he showed unflinching courage in his own. He was a brave lad.

I never heard him bemoaning his fate or cursing his doctors. He was certainly willing to try any remedy, including the water from Lourdes my wife sent him. But when the final prognosis came, he accepted it. On the phone or when I visited him, though weak, he was cheerful, still a sharp conversationalist, and more concerned about you than he was about himself.

When I asked if he had had the energy to write anything, he mentioned in a sort of off-handed way that he was puttering around with his obituary. I don’t recall who it was who first came up with the title, one of his friends, Jay Atkinson, I think, but we sometimes referred to Dave as “the Zen Master.” Never was that title more apt than in his final year. Calm, clear-eyed, and wise—the Zen Master.

The last time I saw Dave, he was sitting on the couch at his home with his oxygen bottle burbled beside him. He was frighteningly thin. Crosby Stills and Nash were playing in the background, and it was evident that the end must be near. As I was leaving, he said, “I love you, man.” I said, “Love you, Dave,” but I didn’t think I’d said it well or clearly enough.

Later, I tried to do so in more definitive terms. The text thread is still on my phone: “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your reputation is absolutely sterling. Everyone loves you and has great respect for Dave the writer and Dave the human being. No one has a bad word for Dave Daniel, (and bejazus they’ll hear from me if they do!) But no–you’ve earned the respect and admiration of everyone who knows you.”

He responded, “As for your words that is (or wishes to be) Daniel, go forth and preach to all the lands, etc. (er…I think I’ve got the reference guide around here somewhere)… Whilst he shuffles through papers and divers old manuscripts for something which, of course, he’ll not find, let me just say, on the poor daft bugger’s part, a sincere thanks for being a good friend of himself.”

As I left David Daniel that final day, I heard Crosby, Stills and Nash harmonizing over the lines that could well be the epitaph for the doggedly optimistic and life-affirming man I was honored to call a friend:

Rejoice, rejoice,
We have no choice
But to carry on.

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David Daniel: A Life Well Lived

By Jerry Bisantz

I first met David in 2007. My good friend (and, believe it or not, fellow actor at the time) Steve O‘Connor introduced Dave to me after our performance in “Kerouac’s Last Call,” upstairs at The Old Court Tavern. He was very enthusiastic about our production, and I introduced him to Patrick Fenton, the playwright, and they talked for quite a while. His knowledge of Kerouac; what made him tick, the many books he had written really impressed me, but what impressed me the most about this tall, skinny guy was his “life force.”

Now, not just everyone has a “life force.” When you meet a person who possesses such a quality, you’d better make sure that, come hell or high water, you do your best to include that person in your life. Needless to say, I bought his book “The Marble Kite” and went on to read all of his books.

Flash forward to our amazing afternoons at Kevin and Ellen Cavanaugh’s house: me, Steve, Kevin, and Dave, enjoying the hell out of each other’s company, watching the Pats games… just four crazy guys enjoying each other’s presence. With Kevin’s Tequila Masterpieces, Ellen’s kind patience and a crazy dog that leaps and barks at shadows, so much was and expounded upon, the laughs were cheap, and sometimes the literary references went way beyond my comprehension, but I (a loyal Bills fan) always just felt so lucky to be able to hang with these guys.

Let me explain. I came here to Lowell 32 years ago. Just a dude from Buffalo, NY who liked to do theater. I have an Associate’s Degree in Applied Optics, I don’t have a lot of letters after my name; for theater producing, directing and acting, I always just learned by doing.

The opportunity for a guy like me to hang out and call the likes of Dave Daniel “friend” is something I never dreamed could happen. I mean, this dude was published, wrote so many books! Steve O’Connor, Jay Atkinson, Paul Marion, fer crying out loud, these guys are really someone I look up to, and here I am, watching football and sharing a friendship with their likes.

Dave was always willing to look at a draft of a play I was working on. His suggestions were always spot on and delivered in a kindly, informative way. In his later days, as he had the burden of carrying an oxygen tank around, I was amazed at how he would still show up, watch the games with us; never complained.

One thing I am proudest of is that Dave allowed me to transform a short story of his to a play format. Called “Hurricane Season,” the short story involved two old hit men, in a diner in Florida as a hurricane (Hurricane Hermione) is coming up the coast. Our jaded hit men have to kill an older man, a washed up actor who owes their boss tons of money. It just so happens that one of the hit men had seen this particular man years ago portray Willie Loman in Death of a Salesman. Needless to say, he is not excited that he has to end this man’s life. We did a staged reading of that play at La La Books in front of well over 60 people. I am so happy that David got to see and hear his words as they were performed.

In a way, that play said so much about the kind of man David Daniel was. As the old hit man expounds about Willie Loman’s plight, and the decision that the killer makes at the end of the play, well, it just lets you know how much Dave knew about the Human Condition. There was so much humanity in his words.

There was so much humanity in this man. David was a gentle soul with a twinkle in his eye, an encouraging smile, and a list of accomplishments that would be the envy of anyone.

I am proud to say that David Daniel was my friend. It’s an honor I will hold onto for the rest of my life.

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Tribute to Dave Daniel

By Jay Atkinson

For the past fifteen years, Dave Daniel and I would meet at Edson Cemetery in Lowell Mass on New Year’s Eve to drink a beer at Jack Kerouac’s grave. Oftentimes, the sky glowed with an otherworldly light while Dave and I chatted quietly, the only living souls in the vast expanse of the cemetery.

Locals knew Dave as a well published writer and an affable fellow. Tall, athletic and neatly dressed, Dave was a character straight out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. He had an Old-World quality that made everyone he met feel at ease. My late father would’ve called him a “gent,” which was a compliment.

Dave was an exemplary father, husband, US Army veteran, uncle, brother, and neighbor. I called him “Diamond Dave” and we were friends for many years. The name suited him.

A few days ago, I stood with my son Liam and several dozen mourners as Dave Daniel was laid to rest in a Westford, Mass. cemetery. A U.S. Army bugler played Taps, and another soldier presented Dave’s wife Stephanie with a folded American flag. After the ceremony, everyone returned to the First Parish Church United in Westford, Mass.

It was unlike any funeral I’ve ever attended.

80+ mourners spent the day celebrating Dave’s life. From the heartbroken Vietnam War veteran who was terribly ill and drove all the way to Westford to pay his last respects, to the coterie of Dave’s great-nieces and nephews who’d each prepared a recitation of why they loved their uncle so much.

Furthermore, I’d never heard of a funeral where people had been there for six hours and didn’t want to leave.

I’m the first of five children, and Dave was the older brother I never had. He’d published in New York and met famous editors and been wined and dined and all that. When I started selling books in Manhattan, Dave reminded me to keep working hard. To be kind to everyone I met and remember that mothing lasts forever. He was right.

One last story.

In the summer, Dave and I and my son Liam would often meet on the UMass Lowell campus. Liam graduated from UML with a 4.0 GPA and Dave had served as the Jack Kerouac Writer in Residence. We’d climb the hill to what I called “the President’s mansion.”

From there, we’d look over the shiny blue waters of the Merrimack River. I was always happy to be in the company of people I loved and had the profound feeling that everything would be all right.

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Jay Atkinson is a writer whose latest book is a Boston crime novel entitled STORROW DRIVE. (Livingston Press, University of West Alabama). Jay lives in Methuen and has taught writing at Boston University for seventeen years.

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Dave’s most recent book is Beach Town which is available from Loom Press.

Cats I Have Known

Cats I Have Known

By Leo Racicot

The jury’s still out on whether I like cats. I must, huh? Through no doing of my own, I inherited two. I’ve also over the years cat-sat for friends. Nobody forced me to do that although I must say there’s really nothing to it other than allowing the cat to stare at me the whole time, wondering who the heck I am and where their real mom or dad is. I somehow made it through these awkward stints wanting to give a helping hand to a friend on vacation or in the hospital but hoping against hope the feline wouldn’t turn on me. Because cats can and do; unforgettable is the story my friend, Lisa Kempskie, told me about the time her cat attacked her out-of-the-blue, viciously ripping the flesh of her legs to ribbons. That cautionary story about the unpredictability of felines has stuck with me whenever I’ve been nannying little Whiskers or feeding his Friskies to voracious Max. I simply don’t trust cats nor do I think you should either; the mythic mystery of them is that you never know what they’re going to do next. Neither do they…

In 1993, my beloved girl, Mio, needed to be put down. I was too broken up to even think about getting another dog. A co-worker, Marie Anne Drouin, suggested I consider taking in a feline.. She told me her neighbors, the Pelletiers, were giving away their kitten, Mickey, the reason being Mr. Pelletier had suffered a stroke. Mickey had a habit, as kittens do, of climbing all over Mr. Pelletier as if he was Mount Everest. Mr. Pelletier, paralyzed, had a hard time shaking Mickey off; a chronic problem. The Pelletiers liked Mick but had decided to give him away.  Diane and I drove over to their home in Pawtucketville to meet them and Mickey. Mickey was adorable. The visit offered the added bonus of finding out that Mr. Pelletier had known our late father. For many years, Diane and I hadn’t run into many people who had. Mr. Pelletier regaled us with tales of Papa, an extra treat when meeting Mickey. I took it as a sign that I should give the little guy a home. Well — “ball of energy” doesn’t begin to describe the physical rigor Mickey came equipped with. That boy literally flew. He could be very loving, would ask to be embraced and when I picked him up would for a minute or two lovingly nuzzle my neck, purring all the while. Just as suddenly, he’d turn into Count Dracula, sink his teeth deep into my neck and hiss. Vampire Cat! I’d always fall for this set-up — the kiss followed by the kill. I never did learn but I liked him a lot; he could be such a winning fellow, if trouble with a capital T. I thought of re-homing him but never could bring myself to do that. When my health took an unexpected turn, requiring me to seek out-of-town treatment, I left Mickey in the care of Rico and his mother who took very good care of him for the rest of his life. I never saw Mickey again. When he was thirteen, Mickey developed cancer of the mouth, untreatable. Rico very reluctantly had him put down.

Cut to 2020. My beloved dog, Buddy, passed away. Again, the inevitable heartbreak kept me from wanting or even thinking about acquiring another canine. Plus, I was getting on in years, didn’t think I was up to walking a new dog even though Diane begged me to let her find a replacement. Then one day she said, “Well, how about a cat?”  Ugh. I didn’t know if I wanted to go through that again; the vampire side of Mickey was still fresh in my mind. One of Diane’s cinema co-workers, Tina, announced on Facebook that her cat had had a litter. It all happened so fast. Diane was drawn to a picture of the female of the litter, her brother, Keanu, peeking out from behind her. Hallowe’en Day, 2021, Diane brought the female home. I fell in love with Maggie instantly; The country was still in the grip of Covid and The little gal came equipped with her own tiny mask, a raccoon-like area around her eyes reminded me of the masks Diane and I were wearing. Covid Cat! She also sported a tiny, white mustache just above her lip giving her the look of a feline Adolf Hitler. She was charming and came to have (and still has) many names; at first because of her long nose and blue eyes that were a bit crossed, I started out calling her Barbra Streisand. But that didn’t sit too well with Diane. Rico was home from Florida, met her and said, “Call her Chi-Chi“. We quickly nixed that idea in favor of Diane’s friend, Debbie’s suggestion, “Call her Maggie. Maggie May” (after the Rod Stewart song). So, Maggie it was. To this day, if I’m cross with her, I call her Margaret which has led to my friends referring to her as Thatcher and The Prime Minister. I thought it was such a hoot, and still do, when Edmund White referred to her in an email as “Mademoiselle Marguerite Racicot of the Lowell Racicots”. One gesture of Maggie’s that to this day cracks me up is a gesture she came with. She will look at something new (food, a toy), stare at it, sniff it then wave it away with her paw, as if saying, “Be gone with you! Unacceptable!” I knew where I stood with her the day she walked up to me, sat down, looked me over from head-to-toe, made that gesture and walked away. “Well”, I said, “I see how it is….”

Maggie can be a lot. I thought of her as mostly my sister’s cat but before she passed away, Diane asked me to promise to take care of Maggie. How could I possibly say ‘no’ to my sister’s dying wish?  So, here we are, Maggie and I, the only company each other has. I never thought I could love a cat but have come to think of her as a real blessing although believe me, there are days and there are days; she’s developed a habit of waking me up at 2 and 3 a.m., deciding she’s my personal Feline Alarm Clock. She does this by climbing all over me as if she’s scaling a mountain. Once I’m up and she’s fed, what does the little minx do but go back to sleep, leaving me to find something to do at that ungodly hour of the day. Not….Fun…

But when Maggie was a kitten, she could be charming, smart-as-a-whip; for example, she knew instinctively from Day One that ice cubes belong in water; we’d toss her one so she could play ice hockey and before it melted would pick it up in her mouth, walk it over to her water bowl and plop it in. She did the same with plush goldfish toys, would carry them over to the bowl, seemed to know fish belong in water. No matter how many times Diane and I would take the fish out, she’d fetch them and carry them back to the H2O. She also could — I kid you not — push a cd or DVD into the player when asked to.  Amazing. Early on, she loved music, had actual favorites; she liked Midori, the violinist, and would sit nestled between my legs listening attentively to Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concerts for hours. For some reason she found Nina Simone to be not her glass of tea. Poor Nina (whose music I love) would get the Unacceptable gesture any time I put her on the player.

Possibly, my own desire to have a dog caused me to make Maggie part dog; she follows me everywhere, at my command, and listens the way a dog will listen. I don’t know where I’d be or how I’d get through the days without her. She’s more than a bit Heaven-sent if Heaven did indeed want me to learn that “cats ain’t so bad….”

The first cat I knew was a black-and-white tom called Squiggy. Squiggy belonged to Joe and his family. Joe and I liked watching him prowl around the yard and garden, climb the over-abundant pear trees there, watch the rabbits in the rabbit hutch Joe’s babcia (grandmother) kept in back, licking his chops lasciviously. I found Joe’s playful approach with Squiggy reassuring but didn’t want to follow suit even though Joe encouraged me Squiggy was perfectly safe to play with. In those days, I was afraid of everything, my proverbial shadow. Not knowing felines, I kept a safe distance from Squiggy…

I liked my Cambridge Public Library co-worker, Bill Salem a great deal so when he asked if I’d mind his and his partner, Gene’s cat, Sweetheart in exchange for a stay in their South End townhouse, I jumped at the chance. Bill assured me Sweetheart more than lived up to her name, wouldn’t be any trouble. I was also at a time in my life when I needed a rest, an escape from what had become the daily grind of work and life. I had a great, two weeks with Sweetheart; she was such a honey of a girl. At first, she spent a lot of time staring at me, wondering “Who the heck is this dude??”. Eventually we became fast friends. She even liked giving kisses, something most felines aren’t known to do. It was difficult saying goodbye when Bill and Gene returned from their travels. I look back fondly on my time with Sweetheart, the quiet days I spent in her home.

Joe and his friend, Sam, had a cat, Cupcake. Another very loving, loveable girl. Sam, who’s always made his way house-sitting for friends and acquaintances, would tote Cupcake everywhere he lived; that gal sure got around. As cats do, she relished her window time no matter where they lived. I snapped a nice picture of her in one of her favorite windows at The Cornish Artists’ Colony in Plainfield. One day, Cupcake wandered off into a Vermont forest and never came home.

Whenever I’d sleep overnight at M.F.K. Fisher’s Last House, her two beautiful “torties”. Zazie & Neepa, thought nothing of jumping on my head in the middle of the night and perching there, purring. I never did know what attracted dogs and cats to my head. Maybe they think the shiny dome is an oversized egg, their mom’s belly, a giant pillow?  At any rate, I’d be too sleepy to shoo them away. I’d let them rest there for as long as they liked. It lulled me back to sleep.

GB (Grey Boy for short) is a stray who decided some years back that my house and the house on either side of me, are his sanctuary/nesting grounds. At first, I thought he was a girl; he was so very small, almost kittenish, pretty pearl grey fur. I liked him right away and began leaving food out for him as often as I could (as does my Southeast Asian neighbor (so, no mystery as to why he continues to like this block). On really hot days, he can be found resting under the shade of one or another of our bushes and trees. When long periods of time go by that I don’t have a GB sighting, I panic, thinking a possum, a hawk or the elements have gotten him. I’ve grown so fond of him. Though he’s still a little bit cautious around me, he perks up visibly at the sight of me, even if I don’t come bearing gifts and we’ve sat for long periods in my yard blinking at each other (blinking signals that a cat feels safe and relaxed in your presence). We’ve become good friends over the years. Clearly, he’s stronger than he looks; otherwise, how could he survive the rough, New England winters, the heavily-trafficked streets?  A real champ of a cat. I love him and would take him in but know that wouldn’t be good for him or me or for Maggie. And I’m too old to be refereeing cat fights. GB’s probably so used to being an outdoor cat, he wouldn’t be comfortable finding himself confined. Whenever he does make an appearance out-of-the-blue, it cheers me right up, lights up my day. I guess maybe I like cats more than I realize…

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Cupcake, at Cornish Artists Colony in Plainfield, 1983

G.B. (Grey Boy)

M.F.K. Fisher’s cat Zazie, 1986

Maggie, watercolor by Jane Wall, 2026

Maggie as a kitten

Mickey with Diane, 1994

Squiggy and his rabbit pals

Seen & Heard: Vol. 26

A weekly report on things I’ve read, heard and seen since last Wednesday. 

Literary Event: “Three Franco Poets from Lowell” This event was held on Monday, June 22, 2026, at UMass Lowell’s Coburn Hall as part of this year’s Lowell Franco American Festival Week. The three poets were Dr. Joseph H. Roy (1865-1931), Suzanne Beebe and Paul Marion. The event was moderated by Dr. Mercedes Baillargeon of the University’s Department of World Languages and Cultures who is also the director of the University’s Franco-American Digital Archive. About 30 people attended despite the storminess of the evening. The event began with a delicious buffet of classic French-Canadian dishes. The program began with Paul reading the English translation of one of Dr. Roy’s poems (which were translated by regular blog contributor Louise Peloquin) with Professor Baillargeon then reading the same poem in its original French. They cycled through several poems this way. Next, Suzanne Beebe read several of her poems which were mostly about her memories of her immigrant grandparents. Paul came next, reading several of his own poems, including one on his impressions of Paris from his first visit there and another on that enduring culinary mystery, Chinese Pie. A general discussion with audience questions followed. Each of the principals shared something that stuck with me: Professor Baillargeon observed that Dr. Roy’s poetry seemed heavily influenced by the style of the most prominent French poets and writers of that time, suggesting that the intellectual assembly line ran from France to Canada (and to those in the US who came from Canada); whereas the more recent poems by Paul and Suzanne were much like American poetry suggesting that the French influence demonstrated a century or more ago had given way to American influence. Suzanne observed that her parents spoke English in their home so she did not learn French from them. She did study it in school for many years but that’s not the same. However, she did grow up knowing her grandparents and experienced the culture and traditions through them, but she wonders whether her nieces and grand nieces who never had that exposure will feel a connection to Franco culture or will it have fully evolved out of them. Finally, Paul said that Paris was great but it was a trip through Normandy that made him feel connected. That’s where his ancestors were from before they went to Canada and the wide open fields and agricultural lifestyle brought to mind the rural environment his  ancestors left behind in Canada when they moved to the US. 

Museum Exhibit: “Framing Nature: Gardens and Imagination” at Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. This exhibit opened in mid-March and closed last Sunday. Text at the entrance explained that the exhibit used visual arts to show the importance of gardens throughout history and across the globe. There were garden-scene tapestries from Medieval Europe, Persia, and China, and ancient horticultural books. Two modern paintings depicted the Garden of Eden in new ways. Another room highlighted the affinity of artists for gardens. A lily pond painting by Monet and a watercolor by John Singer Sargent were highlights of this room. I especially liked a display called “the autobiography of a garden.” Here, the artist did twelve etchings of himself in his garden, one for each month of the year that collectively showed the annual garden cycle (i.e., perusing seed catalogs in January, tending seedlings in cold frames in April, and harvesting a crop in September). Each etching was then placed on a stoneware dinner plate with the twelve plates displayed on a wall. This was a contemplative, thought-provoking exhibit. Notwithstanding my mention of Monet and Sargent, there were not many paintings in the exhibit which on one level was a let down but it also forced the viewer to focus on other things which may have been the intent of the curators. 

Museum Exhibit: “Art of the Americas, 1700-1800”, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. The MFA just completed a revision of the first floor of its “American Wing”. Earlier this year, the museum made the difficult but wise decision to send back a substantial federal grant to avoid the white-washing censorship the federal government is imposing on museums across the country. While that money would undoubtedly have been helpful, forsaking it gave the MFA freedom to show and say whatever it thought appropriate with this redone exhibit being a manifestation of that. The text at the entrance explains that when most think of the 18th century in US history, it is about independence, but this exhibit is about interdependence, about how the many cultures of north, central and south America and the Caribbean depended on each other, sometimes for their mutual benefit, other times in harmful ways. The displays juxtapose things you would not think go together but after seeing them, reading about them, and thinking about them, you realize that they are connected. For example, Paul Revere’s famous etching of the Boston Massacre is displayed alongside an Ojibwe war club from the same period. Many of the old favorites remain. The exhibit is anchored by the enormous Washington at the Delaware painting (the one of him on a horse, not in the boat), but that’s mostly because the painting and its frame are so large that it wasn’t feasible to move it. This is a very good, thought-provoking exhibit that is a much-needed counterpoint to how history is being assaulted by the Federal government at other institutions. 

Op-Ed: “The Biden Verdict Is In. It Isn’t Pretty” by Carlos Lozada, New York Times, June 21, 2026. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been a fan of Lozada since his days as book critic at the Washington Post. Here, he cites Jill Biden’s memoir, Hunter Biden’s omnipresence on social media, and rumors of a Joe Biden memoir coming soon to essentially wish that they’d just go away. He then drafts an indictment of Biden’s presidency, saying that even his big achievements (ARPA, the Inflation Reduction Act, and Build Back Better) received little credit while his border policy and persistent inflation were big negatives. He also wonders if Biden, on two of his biggest issues – responding to the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the quest for a more equitable country after the George Floyd murder – really felt strongly about either. The basis of this question was that Biden, a lifelong Catholic, had long seemed ambivalent about abortion, and while in the Senate, he authored the crime bill that had huge disparities based on race. My own feeling is that Biden should never have run for a second term. Regardless of his age, his ability to communicate effectively was gone, and being a good communicator is an essential task of being president. By staying in the race, he deprived the Democrats of a competitive primary which would have put forth the strongest candidate with ample time to make their case to voters. By hanging around until his horrendous debate performance and then dropping out, Biden significantly increased the odds that Trump would be elected again with all the horridness that has entailed.