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Work Life part 1

Work Life Part 1

By Leo Racicot

My very first job was acquired via Community Teamwork. I was assigned to the School Department’s Title 1 offices which were located on the third floor of Pollard Memorial Library. I was hired as a cleaning boy/gofer. My job involved emptying trash buckets, vacuuming, dusting, going on coffee/donut runs over to City Hall for the staff. I was 15. I didn’t like this work much but I loved the staff. I still remember them and their faces. There was Earl Sharfman who, at that time, was Superintendent of Schools. He was all-business, even in what he considered regular chit-chats with us staffers. He was polite enough but he made me nervous and shy. Of course, in those days, I was nervous and shy with everyone so the fact that The Superintendent of Schools was stopping me in the halls really made me quake in my shoes.  His secretary was Pauline Courcy and we clicked instantly. Pauline was possessed of a lovely countenance. I won’t say she was movie star pretty but she had wonderful coloring (flawless complexion, bright blue eyes, bright blonde hair). Being around Pauline always made me feel good. I was depressed that summer, visibly worried about my mother who’d suffered a bad stroke that year and Pauline was a kind, caring presence, liked to take me aside, have me sit at her desk beside her and reassure me with simple Christian wisdom and making me laugh. One of our on-going gags was — as I say, I didn’t care much for my job and whenever I was having a less-than-satisfying day, would say to Pauline, “That’s it! I quit! I’m going to quit!”  She handed me a comic strip she’d cut out of The Lowell Sun –It was from Johnny Hart’s long-running strip about cavemen in prehistoric times, B.C.  It showed Jane, aka The Fat Broad, scoffing at Grog’s latest bellyaching, saying, “Even his threats are idle”  I hung on to that comic for years. Looking back, I guess I, with my straight As, thought the gofer job was beneath me, dreamed my future held a Rhodes Scholarship or that I’d become the next Pope. I kept that comic for many years among my treasures for Pauline had made me laugh at myself at a time when I needed laughter most. I lost track of her after I moved on from Title I, as happens with most co-workers who become great buddies while in the workplace then strangers when they part ways. I ran into Pauline in the Bridge Street Market Basket when I came back from Las Vegas, in 1998. She invited me to have lunch but I was sick-as-a-dog that day and asked for a raincheck. Once-in-a-great while, I’d see her name on Facebook (the Lowell groups) but I never saw Pauline again. About a month ago, she came to me in a dream. When I woke up, I Googled her, only to find she’d passed away in 2020.

To get back to the staff at Title I.  Henry Mroz was in charge of the Title I offices. I found him to be an amiable, good-natured guy — accessible, friendly, very approachable, unlike Earl Sharfman who, as I say, had a bit of a police sergeant vibe about him. Mr. Mroz would regularly sit me down, ask me how I was doing, tell me I was doing a good job, give me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. It was a real shock when later on, as School Committeeman, then Superintendent of Schools, he became a source of contention among his fellow municipal politicians. I thought I was reading about someone else when I saw all the vitriol surrounding his terms in office; he’d been nothing like that when I knew him. People can and do change, I know…Henry’s secretary was a woman named Fleurette “Flo” Sheehy. Flo was also parish organist for her church and could be a little bit smug about that and about being Henry’s administrative assistant. I didn’t warm to her as I did Pauline. She had a habit of not filtering her comments which I think she thought were kind. For example, she said to me more than once, “You have a load of energy, for such a heavyset kid. Do you ever think of losing weight? It’s probably baby fat and will go away as you grow.”

In the office next door were the desks of Dr. Harold Miner and his secretary, Rosalie Wicks. I liked them both though to this day, no one (except hopefully them) knew what their positions were with Title I. They might not even have worked for Title I programs at all. Dr. Miner was a very tall, sturdy fellow, with a ruddy complexion. He looked like a varsity football or basketball coach. Rosalie was tiny, pert, colorful in her manner of dress and in her facial coloring. She reminded me of an elf in a Christmas story. Whatever work it was Dr. Miner was doing there, Rosalie was his secretary. I was always glad when their trash buckets overflowed so I could go in and visit with them.

My next job was as a bagger for Alexander’s Market on Middlesex Street. Marie knew the manager and got me an “in”. I was alright as a bag boy but I found out grocery stores are bastions of masculinity and the guys ribbed me about a variety of things, especially my lack of interest in sports and girls. What really bothered me was that the front-of-store manager, Dave Barry, and his assistant manager, Jeff Weinstein were among the bullies. Dave wasn’t too bad but Jeff — forget it — he made fun of me every chance he got. My protector there, during these months of sweat-inducing torment, was Neil Patrick, the brother of one of my LHS classmates, John Patrick. Neil was always so kind to me, would talk with me as we bagged, and bravely stand up to the bullies breathing down my neck, saying, “Hey, guys, come on. Knock it off. Let Leo alone.”  Irony of ironies, I came across Weinstein on social media decades later. He, like myself, had become an avid follower of The Beat Generation and Jack Kerouac and wound up running his own Beats bookstore out in the western part of the state. We became virtual friends. The one aspect of the market job I positively hated and was no darn good at was whenever I was assigned to gather the carts customers had left in the parking lot. I just couldn’t get the hang of it and would always send the line of unwieldy wagon trains into a wall or get it stuck in the entranceway. To this day, whenever I see guys in market parking lots in the dead of winter shagging carriages, my heart goes out to them. I stuck with the bagger job for less-than-a-year and said, “Enough!”  Marie was not happy…

David McKean, Anthony Kalil and I liked our Saint Patrick’s School eighth grade teacher, Sister Mary Jeanne, so much that after high school classes let out, we used to stop by the school and visit with her. By that time, she’d been named principal. When David and I were studying to be teachers at Lowell State, we asked Sister Mary if she’d be open to the idea of us offering our free time to volunteer at the school as tutors. She gave a hearty thumbs up to our offer and we, along with our friend, Rachelann Morin, were set up in a small tutoring room beside the stage in the school hall. I was given advanced reading groups and David and Rachel, the history students. Some math students were thrown in for good measure. I liked what I was doing so much. I remember the sheer delight of students like Patrick Latham and Bernie Ramos when I first introduced them to the wonders of poetic rhyme. Every time a word rhymed with another, the group would giggle with glee. It wasn’t long before I put together a school chorus as well as a school newspaper. Sister Mary heartily approved. The music group staged a version of A Charlie Brown Christmas that went off without a hitch. To this day, alumni recall it fondly. The school newspaper was a hit and included interviews, Saint Patrick’s School and Church histories and photos. David, Rachel and I worked our butts off for years. Sister Mary was so impressed that she promised both David and me full-time teacher positions when we graduated. But — and this, for me, became life-altering — unbeknownst to me (because neither she nor David said a word to me about it), Sister Mary hired David as a full-time history instructor, Grade 6. I labored that whole summer under the belief that Sister Mary had reneged on her promise to us. David and I had many car conversations about how the fall was coming and we, neither of us, had found jobs. In one of these tete-a-tetes, I guess guilt washed over him and he confessed that Mary had hired him as a history teacher and he’d be starting that assignment in a week. I don’t need to detail here how hurt I was. I did find the courage to go to Sister Mary to complain. Looking back, it was one of the glaring betrayals of my life. David and I had been friends since second grade, and I considered Sister Mary to be a good friend and mentor. I’d become fond of the school faculty, especially Mary’s best pal, Sister Linda Hutchins, with whom I socialized for years. I retreated from David, Mary and Linda and many years passed before even an iota of reconnection was established. In fact, I never had an opportunity to make peace with Sister Linda. In her defense, Mary Jeanne felt bad enough that she arranged a part-time job on my behalf with Janet Boyle, the mother of one of our students, Danny Boyle. Janet ran Bay State Rehabilitation and Nursing Care Facility out on Boston Road in Billerica. As a favor to Mary Jeanne, Janet hired me to work with the multi-handicapped population. I still don’t know why or how but I found nothing about the special needs residents there off-putting or offensive. I saw many afflictions and aberrations that I’d never seen before. I had an instant compassion for these poor, beleaguered souls and embraced my work with an open heart. I was, of course, naturally upset with David and Sister Mary whose duplicitousness led to my finding myself changing soiled diapers, pushing wheelchairs and gurneys. I do lookback and see the “God is in the details” destiny of it; David embarked on what became a lifetime as a respected and highly thought of history teacher. My job at Bay State enabled me to find future work in the special needs field; I was to work in special needs care facilities off-and-on for the rest of my working days. One reason Ms. Shea, who was known only to hire young graduate students as companions for her son, Richard, took me on —  I’d had proven experience with that population. So, life (God) sees to it that we are put where it wants us. That’s my philosophy anyway. Though I was to teach again (at Franco American School in the ’80s), and continued to have my hand in some form of education, I honestly don’t think I would have enjoyed spending a lifetime in a classroom, as David did. For one thing — all that paperwork!

I wasn’t able to stay at Bay State long; one morning, I was playing, along with my co-worker, Mary Winters, the Alphabet Chant game for the amusement of an assembled group of kids. We were trying to make little Phillip Daigle, who never smiled, smile. In that ditty, you choose a letter of the alphabet and then make up sentences using that letter as your cue. Example: “M, my name is Mary. My husband’s name is Mike. We live in Massachusetts and we sell macaroni!” After the last word, we’d bounce a ball, in this case, a gigantic blue beach ball, throwing our leg over it and sending it on to the other player, in this case, me. I began, “L, my name is Leo. My wife’s name is Lou. We live in Louisiana and we sell licorice!”  I bounced the ball, hurled my leg over and — Jesus God — felt my kneecap go in seven, different directions. I fell flat on my behind and it was a second before I began screaming in pain; my knee was all the way over to the left (dislocated). Boss Kevin Dwyer rushed in just as I passed out from shock, called an ambulance and off I was taken to the hospital for repair.  One good thing – seeing what happened to me made Phillip Daigle laugh his head off. Mary later told me it took the staff hours to get him to stop.  Long story short, I was to be on crutches and a knee brace for six weeks, meaning I could no longer perform my job duties at Bay State so that was the end of that job. (Interesting aside: I’m sort of a pit-bull. Joe and I had been planning our first trip to NYC and I wasn’t about to let my injured leg keep me from it. Not only did I make the whole trip hobbling around the vast expanse that is Manhattan; we saw all the usual sights: the UN Building, plays, museums, museums. I climbed the many winding steps to the top of The Statue of Liberty, one crutch at a time. Maybe others, throughout life have viewed me as a Pansy Pants but — get outta my way; I have a steely resolve when someone tells me I can’t or shouldn’t do something.

Three, long years went by before I was to get another job. Depression kicked in and I took to bed. I did manage to read a lot of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past so, the time wasn’t entirely wasted.

A small ad appeared in The Lowell Sun Classifieds for a nightwatchman for a place with the politically incorrect name of AMIC (Association for Mentally Ill Children), a day and night care program for the profoundly afflicted. Curly-haired Assistant Director, Peter Cina, hired me right off the bat, very honestly admitting, “Frankly, Leo, nobody wants this job.”  “This job” involved having to stay awake the entire night (the graveyard shift — 7 to sunrise), keeping watch over the patients as they slept. I’d never drunk coffee before. This job introduced me to the necessary properties of black coffee, to help me make it through the shift. Boy, was that difficult. These clients I was afraid of; many were prone to violence or chronic attempts at escape. One girl, Lisa, had a habit of literally tearing her hair out of her head. God help you if she got her twitchy fingers tangled in yours, which she was always trying to do. She especially liked going after Jane Wall’s long, flowing red locks. Another patient, Steven, spent the entire day and night masturbating. His genital area was raw with sores and if we tried to stop him, which it was our job to do, he’d sink his rather sturdy incisors deep into our hand or wrist. Ouch. One girl regularly escaped the premises — we never could figure out how — and, stark naked, run to the corner 7–11 and ask the clerk for a Slurpee.  Coaxing her to come back into the building was a challenge for both police, paramedics and staff.  I don’t know how I lasted at AMIC for three months. It felt like three years. But I did meet some good friends there: Barbara Jean whose empathetic, maternal ways helped us all through our commiserations. And Jane Wall who became a really close pal for a lot of years. Jane was a beautiful girl, had long, red hair the color of Autumn. She had such a distinctive laugh that, as she tells the story, she was vacationing on a resort island far away from her native Massachusetts. Someone she knew from school was there, too, on a crowded beach. This person heard in the distance a laugh and said to her companion, “Oh, my God, that’s Jane Wall”. She walked over to investigate to find that it was. Jane and I developed a habit of sharing our sorrows with one another. At the time, she was seeing a married man and wallowing in the miseries and broken promises such dalliances bring. I was going through absolute hell (another story for another time) and in my nervous breakdown state thought nothing of hopping a train to show up at Jane’s Swampscott condo, for coffee and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. She held me up as only a true friend will do, and I hope if she ever thinks of me, she feels the same.

Next up, I took a job as a driver for Community Teamwork’s daycare and afterschool program. It took a while to steady my nerves enough to be able to manage the 18-passenger van as well as the cavalcade of kids assigned to it. My work involved picking them up in the morning, delivering them to their babysitters (providers) then heading out to the grounds of Tewksbury State Hospital to fetch the program’s lunches, delivering those to the various sites (mostly Lowell and Dracut area schools like The Greenhalge and The Eliot). By that time, it was time to return and retrieve the day care children and at the same time, the older kids (9 to 12 years old),  bring them to after school program locations, mostly at Lowell Boys and Girls Club which in those years had moved from Worthen and Dutton Streets to its present location on Middlesex. A lot of hustling and hassle was inherent in this work. I liked the kids (ranging in age from newborns to ages twelve and thirteen) and got to know some great, fun ones. Of course, sometimes, the noise level of students just released from long hours of having to sit still and be quiet in class could be deafening, jangle the nerves. School bus drivers will tell you sleepy headed children heading to school in the early morning seldom make a peep. These same kids on their way home in the afternoons explode like Krakatoa. I remember the Hale Sisters, and the Makela brothers, Heath and David fondly. In those days, I liked working with young ones, being around their energy, their enthusiasm, their daily, little triumphs, their daily soap opera sorrows. That part of the job I didn’t mind a bit. But I wasn’t the best of drivers. My partner-in-crime, my dear co-worker, Connie Carrigg, and I earned the nicknames, Mr. and Mrs. Crash. Nearly every two weeks or so, one or the other of us would steer the vehicle somewhere it was never meant to go. It got so that whenever we asked to see our boss, Grace Murphy, in the office, she’d look up over her half-spectacles and ask, What did you two do now??”  One time, not seeing it in my rear view mirror, I backed into a fire hydrant. You would not believe the horrifying sound of steel crashing into steel. The kids gave out with a collective scream that made my heart, which was already in my mouth, implode. Another memorable gaff:  I was attempting to drive the van up a steep driveway incline. The wheels on the left-hand side made the incline, the wheels on the right-hand side did not, such that we were teetering at a scary angle, on the verge of tipping over. I don’t remember who rescued us from that disaster, probably the Fire Department (good thing each van was equipped with a CB – remember CBs?). Grace’s reaction to that near-disaster was to quietly sigh, light up another cigarette.  Her job, managing a dozen drivers, providers, school sites, kitchen help and dozens of kids was literally a nightmare. And I came to more than understand her crusty reply when greeted with a cheery “Good Morning, Grace!” –“What’s good about it?”  We were a motley crew. I had the Dracut run and knew the vast expanses of that town like the back of my hand. I really enjoyed interacting with the various providers, many of whom I knew from my Saint Patrick’s days: wonderful families like The Leahys, The Lathams, The Mahados, Bob and Loretta Poitras and their brood. Debbie Matthews out on Richardson Ave and her raucous laugh, Sis Tuck near North Campus, Debbie Matthews &  Sandy Chaput who kept beautiful homes out on Passaconaway Drive. I especially liked meeting and getting to know Doris Bergeron, head cook, whose headquarters was hidden deep in the bowels of a castle-like structure on the Tewksbury State Hospital grounds. Doris, a rather large woman, dressed in her cook’s all-whites, a cook’s white toque upon her head, was surrounded by the biggest pots and pans I’d ever seen, enveloped in the steam pouring out of them. She put me in mind of the three cooks in Maurice Sendak’s delightful, In the Night Kitchen, All three are drawn to look like Oliver Hardy. Not that Doris looked like Hardy; she was possessed of a good face, good attitude which she needed in order to prepare the many meals for the many children in the CTI program. She and her own children, Robin and Bobby Jr. became good friends. All these vital ties were broken when I moved out to Las Vegas. Looking back, I don’t regret my time with CTI. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t high on my list of Favorite Jobs but it did have its unforgettable moments. (To be continued…)

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Alexanders Market

Pauline Courcy

Sr. May Jeanne

Rehearsal for It’s a Charlie Brown Christmas

Jane Wall

Linda Hutchins

The Night Chefs

AMIC in the old Rogers Hall Building

The Statue of Liberty stairway

18-passenger Dodge Ram van

Seen & Heard, vol. 5

Welcome to this week’s edition of Seen and Heard, in which I catalog the most interesting things I’ve seen, heard and read over the previous seven days:

Movie: One Battle After Another – When this year’s Academy Award nominations were announced, Sinners, which I reviewed last week, broke a record for the most nominations by a single movie, but One Battle After Another was right behind it. I watched One Battle this week and thought it was terrific. It was funny, tense, and well-acted. The movie begins 15 years ago with a 1970s-style revolutionary group freeing immigrants from detention centers, blowing up powerlines, and robbing banks. But the group was compromised with some being killed by the authorities, others imprisoned, and a handful more evading capture. Fast forward to the present, and a fanatical paramilitary commander who pursued the group back then resumes his search. He mobilizes the government border protection force he commands to plunge into the interior of the country ostensibly to round up immigrants for deportation but that’s just a cover for carrying out the wishes of a wealthy and powerful group of white supremacists who have recruited the border control commander. Given current events, it felt like the screenplay was written last weekend but the movie was produced long before our current predicament. The movie features Leonardo Decaprio, Sean Penn, Benicio del Toro, Regina Hall, Teyana Taylor and Chase Infiniti (in her movie debut). I hope to see more of the Best Picture nominees before the awards are announced in mid-March, but for now, I feel this film is the front runner in that category.

Television: Grammy Awards on CBS – As I navigate today’s attention economy, I too often omit music from the consumption menu. I sought a cram course in the latest musical stars and hits by watching the Grammy Awards this week. I was not disappointed. Since there is always a Lowell connection, I’ll point out that the show’s host, Trevor Noah, did a live show at Lowell’s Tsongas Arena in October 2018. After six years, this was his final Grammy gig since the show will move from CBS to ABC/Hulu/Disney next year. As for the musicians, some I really liked, some were good, and others were OK, but mostly what I saw left me wanting more so in that way, the show was a success. I was especially happy to see a lot of Bad Bunny, the singer from Puerto Rico who will star in Sunday’s Super Bowl halftime show. I was not familiar with his music and still am not since his Super Bowl contract prohibited him from performing at the Grammys, but everything I saw of him increased my interest. He also made history by winning the Album of the Year award which was the first album entirely in Spanish to win that prize. 

Email Newsletter: MASSterList – MASSterList is a free daily email newsletter covering Massachusetts politics and state house news. It’s edited by Gintautas Dumcius, who has covered politics on Beacon Hill for more than 20 years. The headline in yesterday’s edition, “Epstein files ripple through Mass politics,” certainly caught my attention. The primary actor was Patriots owner Bob Kraft, but the exchanges in the files released last week were about Kraft, not with him. In the aftermath of Kraft’s 2019 Florida charges of paying for sex acts. Jeffrey Epstein emailed his former attorney, Jack Goldberger, to say he – Epstein – was urging Kraft to hire Goldberger to defend him in the case. Kraft ultimately did that and Goldberger got the charges against Kraft dismissed. Also of note in the same newsletter in the “events today” section was this: “Gov. Maura Healey hosts a delegation from Denmark to sign a new agreement to strengthen scientific, technological and commercial ties between Massachusetts and Denmark. Healey is joined by Denmark ambassador Jesper Møller Sørensen.” In the face of President Trump’s threats to invade and seize Greenland, an autonomous territory of Denmark, it’s good to see that our governor is doing her part to reinforce good relations between the Commonwealth and one of our oldest and most reliable allies. You can subscribe to the daily MASSterList email here. 

Newspaper Article: “For years, he never did interviews. Now Ernie Adams is telling stories from the first Patriots-Seahawks Super Bowl” by Ben Volin, Boston Globe – I’ve long been fascinated by Ernie Adams who served as “Football Research Director” for the New England Patriots from 2000 to 2021. Adams was a secretive figure, rarely seen or heard from in public, but he’s been more forthcoming since his retirement. He’s made several lengthy appearances on Julian Edelman’s podcast, “Games with Names” which I watch on YouTube. In one of them, Adams explained that he first met Bill Belichick in 1970 when both played offensive line for the Phillips Andover football team. Neither was a great player, but both were obsessed with the history and strategy of football which sparked a lifelong friendship. In this Globe article, Adams breaks down the famous “Malcolm Butler interception” that allowed the Patriots to win their fourth Super Bowl eleven years ago. Adams said Seattle’s decision to throw a pass on that play was dictated by the personnel the Patriots had placed on the field. Seattle had three wide receivers split out from the line, while the Patriots had their biggest players massed on the line. That gave the Patriots an extra linemen who would have tackled a Seattle runner in the backfield if a running play had been called. Seattle knew that and was obliged to risk a pass. Seattle also had a certain pass play they ran repeatedly in goal line situations and so the Patriots had thoroughly prepared to defend that play. Sure enough, Seattle called the exact same pass play and Butler made the interception. That wasn’t preordained – Butler might have dropped the ball or fallen down or failed to cover his man properly, but he didn’t and the Patriots hung on to win the game. The insight offered by Adams is a lesson in the importance of preparation, whether it’s in football or any other part of life. 

Newspaper Article: “In Hostile Times, Cherishing Traditions” by Michaela Towfighi in New York Times – Over the weekend, I noticed a large photo of traditional Cambodian dancers illustrating a story in the New York Times. Assuming it was about Lowell, I clicked on the story and was surprised to see it was from Portland, Maine. It features a woman who learned traditional dance in Cambodia who now seeks to preserve and pass along that skill to a generation of younger Cambodian-Americans “who can find TikTok more compelling than traditional art forms.” In the past year, however, that challenge has been surpassed by obstacles imposed by the federal government, namely, cuts to National Endowment for the Arts grants that helped fund the organization, and the recent surge of ICE agents into Maine targeting the state’s immigrant population. Weekly dance classes, for example, have moved to a more remote location that might provide a better degree of safety to the dance students and their families. While the article tries to be an upbeat story of persevering in the face of adversity, it still shows the extent of the fear and disruption to diverse communities caused by these policies and in doing so, gives more insight into the situation here in Lowell.

Centennial Spending Objections

 Centennial Spending Objections  – (PIP #95)

By Louise Peloquin

No consensus among City Council members discussing centennial spending.

L’Etoile – Front page, January 23, 1926

OBJECTIONS TO THE $35,000 VOTE FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

__________

Councilor Campbell says it is beyond the city’s means.

__________

ONLY $15,000, SAYS MR. STEARNS

__________

     Miss Tanner’s original $34,000 project was rejected, declared Mr. Stearns, president of the Centennial committee. – A motion to transfer $8,700 from the Hapgood Wright centennial fund.

__________

     At a special City Council meeting last night, a $35,000 allotment from the 1926 budget to cover this year’s centennial celebration costs could not pass because certain councilors objected. The vote was postponed to the next special meeting. 

     Given that March 1, the date of Lowell’s founding, is so close, City Council President Gallagher suggested that action should be taken soon.

     Councilor Campbell expressed doubts about the sum of $35,000 and suggested that it would be better to immediately tap into the Hapgood Wright fund created to cover the March 1 ceremonies.

     President Gallagher then said that the city solicitor should draw up a suitable order for the transfer of $8,700 from the Wright fund for immediate use. Mr. Campbell then made a motion to that effect. The City Council voted to hold a special meeting on Tuesday, January 25.

     The late Hapgood Wright’s will expressly stipulates that the City Council, by a two-thirds vote, can dispose of this fund provided that the initial $1,000 bequest remain in the bank to accumulate interest for another 50 years in order to contribute to Lowell’s 150th anniversary celebration in 1976.

     When President Gallagher presented the $35,000 order, Councilor Cosgrove objected to a second reading without clarifying his objections. President Gallagher then asked the Council to hear Mr. Frank K. Stearns, president of the Centennial committee, to examine the possibility of overcoming the objections. Mr. Stearns presented the history of the centennial and of its preparation as well as the projects discussed by the centennial executive committee. According to Mr. Stearns, $35,000 would cover expenses for both the March ceremonies and the June pageant. So far, the directors have paid their own expenses without complaining, Mr. Stearns pointed out. He believes that a pageant with all of  Lowell’s ethnic groups would be much more appealing than an industrial exhibition. In addition, admission ticket sales for the pageant would largely cover expenses and even bring in profits to the city treasury.

     Councilor Campbell said that he objected to the present $35,000 order because it would be managed by the mayor rather than by the committee in charge of the festivities. Mr. Gallagher responded that the mayor controls all expenses and that money cannot be spent without his approval. Mr. Campbell declared that this was his principal objection.

     Councilor Campbell then indicated that Miss Virginia Tanner had estimated $34,000 for the June pageant expenses and had pointed out that seven pageant performances would bring in $81,000, a considerable profit for the city. Mr. Campbell does not believe that Lowell can incur such costs and suggested that the pageant be organized at a smaller scale. Mr. Stearns, who took the floor after Mr. Campbell, stated that the Centennial committee had already rejected Miss. Tanner’s project and that the pageant presently proposed would only cost about $15,000. Final decisions regarding the pageant have yet to be taken.

  __________

DESIRE TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE FESTIVITIES

__________

The Lowell Harvard Club proposes that president Lowell of Harvard University, descendant of the city founder, be centennial guest of honor.

__________

     At its annual meeting at the Whistler House last night, the Lowell Harvard Club voted to suggest that the Centennial committee invite president A. Lawrence Lowell of Harvard University as principal guest and speaker during the celebration of Lowell’s hundredth anniversary this year.

     President Lowell is the most famous descendent of Francis Cabot Lowell, founder of the city named after him. President Lowell is nationally known as an outstanding orator. (1)

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1) Translation by Louise Peloquin.

Portrait of a marriage by Marjorie Arons-Barron

The entry below is being cross posted from Marjorie Arons-Barron’s own blog.

Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin was published in 1982 and was recently discovered by a friend, who recommended it to me. It is a well-drawn portrait of the Solo-Miller family, an affluent New York family steeped in tradition and guided by a willful mother, Wendy, who demanded decorum and imposed rules for every aspect of family life.  She sees “the family” as the foundation for society. As Colwin portrays it, marriage is a dynastic institution, a set of obligations passed on from generation to generation. In this novel, the formality for younger generations is suffocating but generally adhered to.

The protagonist, a mother herself, is Polly, the vessel of her mother’s dicta, among them that “a good wife’s job was to create a haven in a heartless world” for others. Like her father (Henry Solo-Miller), her husband, Henry Demarest, is a wealthy, highly successful, driven lawyer, whose priority in life is his work. When he is not in his office or traveling on business, he is in his study at home reviewing cases. Polly sees her role in life as attending to his needs and the needs of other members of the family, always making things nice for everyone else and denying – often not even recognizing – her own emotional needs, including built-up rage at the decades-long repression.

Ultimately, Polly finds herself in a love affair with an artist.  Wracked by guilt at her  personal  failure, she nevertheless comes to understand herself better and manages to open up new lines of communication with her husband. She loves two men, and, for the first time in her life, she becomes free to experience passionate love and deep pain.

This novel still contains lessons regarding the complexity of marriages today, but I would call it a good novel, not a great novel.

The author does write elegant prose. She has a talent for capturing telling details about people and their distinguishing features. Some of her character portraits are both authentically unappealing and laced with gentle humor. Speaking of a new member of the family from Eastern Europe, she writes, “Her English was stiff but close to perfect. It was rather like listening to someone who had learned the language by reading The Origin of Species.” Or, of another character playing the piano at a family gathering, Colwin observes, “the expression on his face was that of an ingenious veterinarian who had quelled a room full of anxious schnauzers.”

As they eventually come to communicate somewhat more, Polly and husband Henry do demonstrate growth, but the overall narrative seems more like a family photo album than a great story well spun out. The author’s empathy for her characters is evident. Family Happiness may resonate most with women who came of age in the fifties, who played by the rules modeled by their parents but discovered truths about themselves as the Women’s Movement evolved.  I just didn’t feel the need to revisit the scene.

If you read it and loved it, please push back.