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Summertime in Lowell: 1960s

June 5, 2025 by DickH Posted in Uncategorized Leave a Comment

Summertime in Lowell, 1960s

By Leo Racicot

See Leo’s photo gallery at the end of this article.

Every year, when the month of June rolled around, our teachers would give us a Summer Reading List. This was a list of books to be read over the long vacation. Book reports on each were due when we returned to school in September. I loved Summer Reading Lists and still, every summer, put one together for myself. (I know. I know. Nerd alert!). One of the books I remember reading the summer following seventh grade before starting eighth grade was James Michener’s Hawaii. Sister Mary Jeanne and Sister William Julianne were astonished that I’d read this big, long book. No one was more astonished than I was; Michener was known for his multi-paged, multi-generational sagas and this one was almost a thousand pages long. But the plot lines and characters so captured me, I devoured the beast in a couple of weeks.

Of course, summers weren’t devoted only to reading. One of my favorite summer things to do was hang out with my best friend from Saint Patrick’s, Anthony Kalil. We’d ride bicycles all over town, stop by to visit his mother who worked at The Giant Store on Broadway Street. I remember one time, we got hungry and went into Olympos Bakery, also on Broadway, and got adventurous and bought bird nests as a treat (they looked so luscious) but when we bit into them, we both agreed they tasted like soap and tossed them into a nearby barrel. Sometimes, Anthony would have me stay for a sleepover. We’d hole up in his damp, dark basement and listen to LPs by comedians, Moms Mabley, Redd Foxx and Rusty Stevens. Howling over their “blue” jokes, we felt naughty and grown-up. We had to keep the noise down though in case his parents heard us. One time, in Anthony’s bedroom on a small black-and-white tv set, we watched the movie, I Saw What You Did and I Know Who You Are, the William Castle version with Joan Crawford. We left the lights off and scared ourselves to death. We threw the blankets over our heads and couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. Summer evenings, his folks let us play kickball in the road with other neighborhood kids “as long as you’re careful and come inside when it starts to get dark.” Wonderful summers with Anthony.

I never saw Anthony on Sundays because Sunday was family day for both of us. Our Aunt Marie (our mother’s sister) usually took us, along with our mother and her mother (our Nana) on local trips. In those days, Hampton Beach was a popular spot for families to spend a Sunday (probably still is). I didn’t care much for how early we had to get up in the morning to go there. Marie would always say, “If you kids want to go to the beach tomorrow, you have to be up early so we can get a good parking space.” It was a small price to pay for all the fun we had. We’d start off the day with an Early Bird Breakfast at Dunfey’s on the boardwalk. Gee, but no breakfast, at home, or anywhere else, tasted as good as those Dunfey’s breakfasts. I can still taste them if I close my eyes. I guess what was so tasty about them is that they were breakfasts eaten at the beach as the sun was coming up. After breakfast, we five would walk the boardwalk, browsing in the shops or paying to have our fortunes told. Marie liked to eat at a sub shop located underneath the street — a shady and cool place away from the heat of the day. As with the Dunfey breakfasts, I can still taste the great grinders we ate there (You don’t hear this slang word for torpedo sandwiches much anymore. For so many years, they’ve been called “subs”.) After a ride on the slides and the swings in the playground across the street and then a rest on the blanket, Marie and I would head down to the shoreline and walk the beach. Diane didn’t care much for doing this, would sometimes join us, sometimes not. But I loved being with my aunt; there was something of an Auntie Mame about her — she loved exploring and taking me to find and see new things in the world. She could be very strict, but I loved her and the role she took on after our father died of surrogate dad. I sometimes think that, without her disciplinary hand, my life might easily have gone astray, and I might have become a serial killer or President of the United States like Donald Trump ha-ha. Children who grow up lacking a guiding hand often do.

Looking back, I’m struck by what an amazing person Aunt Marie was. I know she felt bad for her sister, our mother, widowed young, left to raise two children on her own, stuck in the house without means of enjoyment, amusement, other than ourselves. In her forties, Marie decided, unbeknownst to us, to take driving lessons. I’ll never forget the day she showed up at our house in her brand, new Rambler, proudly telling us she’d gotten her driver’s license and had bought a car for family excursions. At the wheel, Marie was in her heaven, and nothing made her happier than loading the five of us (Nana was included in our trips, too) and heading off for what seemed like everywhere. As mentioned, she loved the beach (Hampton, never Salisbury). True, Salisbury had the great amusement park and the pink whale, Tilly, who, when we saw her, let us know we were getting close to both beaches. But Marie said the sand at Salisbury was “gritty”, “dirty” and had pieces of broken glass and cigarette butts in it. And this was true. She also, over the years, hit Crane’s Beach, in Ipswich, and a favorite, Wingaersheek, in Gloucester. Later on, when I got my own license, I’d take my beloved dog, Mio, there for a stroll along the water. I loved the seclusion of the place, the bare bones of it — no snack bars or clam joints, no tourists. Marie also liked to take us up to New Hampshire, to Nashua where we’d stop to eat at The Modern, a popular restaurant among Lowellians in those days. For a change from the ocean, she often took us to Silver Lake in Hollis where she’d cook on the grill: hamburgers, hot dogs, barbecued chicken, hard-boiled eggs. I liked lake water but as soon as you waded in, your feet and legs sank in a yucky, gunky muck of seaweed and other slimy, unidentifiable stuff. I didn’t like that. Another favorite day run was to Domenic’s, an Italian restaurant on Route 110 in Littleton. It had the best pizza and spaghetti. To this day, I’ve never tasted any that reminded me of its signature dishes. We had a good time trying other pizza places. Another was Adamo’s in Milford, NH, followed by a stop at the nearby White Elephant, an antiques shop. It had more pianos for sale than I’d seen in my life, other odd items, too. Looking back, it reminded me of a one-stop shopping Antiques Roadshow.

Marie loved putting on her galoshes, stomping around the damp floors of forests foraging for unusual plants: pussy willow in early Spring, jack o’lantern in the Fall. I can still see the look of pure joy on her face, coming upon a whole field of milkweed. On special days, she’d take me along with her to her workplace, Otis Elevator, where she worked as Wilbur Bailey’s secretary. I remember being fascinated by the office water bubbler, I’d never seen one before, At Hampton Beach, we’d see Wilbur Bailey in the parking lot, reading The Lowell Sunday Sun, wearing the same fancy suit and suspenders he wore at Otis, and I wondered if he always dressed that way, at the office, the beach or even at home. People in those days were big on dress-up; my father was always dressed-to-kill, and women hardly ever left the house without a stylish hat and gloves. My sister took after my dad; she loved nice clothes and always looked like a million bucks. I’m casual and plain, and you’d be hard pressed if you ever tried to get a necktie on me

Our mother, bless her soul, was shy and didn’t have a strict bone in her body. She did treat my sister and me one August to a week’s stay at Hampton. Just the three of us. We stayed at The Tides Hotel, not far from where the boardwalk began (I’m told the hotel is still in operation). What I won’t forget about that week — our mother made selfless sacrifices to give Diane and me that vacation. She used funds meant for her own needs to pay for us to enjoy ourselves. There was one day where I spent the whole day frolicking in the ocean — the water was bathtub-warm. I didn’t ever want to come out but around 6 o’clock, my mother told me to come in, dry myself off; it was suppertime. I also remember a wild day when it rained from morning-to-night so I stayed in the hotel room reading all of Samuel Levenson’s Everything But Money about his family’s struggles growing up without much. I learned from that book the lesson that has stuck with me my entire life, that there are riches to be had in this world that money cannot buy. At the hotel, our mother made friends with a couple of the other lady guests and arranged for one of them to watch Diane and me while she went with the other acquaintance to a double feature at the Hampton Beach Cinema to see Rosemary’s Baby and The Thomas Crown Affair, both of which were getting hot press so Ma was eager to see them. I was so happy for her; since our father died, she’d had no respite from caring for Diane and me, no time off. I remember when she and her new friend came home that night, they were so scared by what they’d seen in Rosemary’s Baby that they wouldn’t go to bed, stayed up and said to us, “Thank God you kids weren’t allowed to go.” To this day, whenever I see those two films advertised on television or brought back by revival theaters, my mind goes immediately back to the week Ma treated us to that special trip.

Another very special trip taken with our mother — her brother, our Uncle George, and his family invited us for a three-week stay at their White Plains home. This was in the summer of 1962; Diane was seven-and-a-half, I was nine. The excitement for me was so extreme, I could taste it. I vaguely remember the train ride to New York, the conductors in their perfect uniforms, the way they called out “All Aboard” and “Bayonne! Bayonne! Exit this way please!” and the train’s snack bar that had every kind of candy, more candy than I saw at Vicky’s Variety here in Lowell’s Acre. Some memories of my Aunt Estelle, Uncle George and our three cousins, Gloria, Susan and George Jr. (Georgie) — They kindly brought us to an amusement park, Freedomland, where we saw The Kingston Trio perform. The park had a scary reenactment of the Great Chicago Fire and the scariest roller coaster I’d ever been on. In the center of White Plains, which was then, as it was in the 1960s in towns and cities all over America, displaying signs of a changing America, we saw hippies, even the guys had long long hair and colorful bellbottoms, headbands, feathers on their necks and ankles. For a lot of years, I remembered a store in the center as having the name “Daddy O’s” but years later, I met a native of White Plains, Frank Suits, who told me he knew the place I was talking about but that it was called Daddy Michael’s, not Daddy O’s. In August — and I recall this day like it was yesterday — I was sitting on the living room floor in front of the TV when the program was interrupted for a special bulletin: actress Marilyn Monroe was dead. What struck me most when they were giving a review of her life is when they said Marilyn and her husband, Arthur Miller, had been married in White Plains. I felt so sad for Monroe but at the same time felt a chill run through me that I was right at that very moment in the same city she’d been married in. That memory and how I felt about that day has stayed with me all these years. Our cousin, Gloria, was older than us by a few years and so was out of the house seeing her friends for most of Diane’s and my stay. The second oldest girl, Susan, was home more often. I remember her as being a really quiet kid, shy, like me, so we got along. Their brother, Georgie, was a typical boy, rough-and-ready, very likeable, friendly. Within a couple of years after our visit, he was to pass away suddenly of a brain aneurysm, while out riding his bike. (Interesting aside: I tried off-and-on for years to find our cousins. I worked in libraries for 17 years and have a pretty good eye for research and finding people. But try as I might, I couldn’t locate Gloria or Susan; it’s much harder finding girls, especially if they’ve married. And both girls appeared to no longer live in White Plains. Then, one day, I remembered I’d seen a small article in Newsweek Magazine that mentioned Aunt Estelle and Florida. I knew she was now deceased but wondered if her daughters had maybe followed her to Florida. After some quick Google inquiries, I located Cousin Gloria. She was living in Cocoa Beach, working for NASA. I’d found her! She let Susan, now living in North Providence, Rhode Island, know, and they, along with Susan’s husband. Andy, came up for a wonderful lunch at Olive Garden with Diane and me. Sadly, within a couple of years, both my sister and Gloria passed away. I am so thankful, and I know Diane was, too, that we were blessed with being reunited with our long-lost cousins. Susan and Andy are loving, compassionate family.)

A popular spot for families to go on weekends in the 1960s was Lawrence, Massachusetts. Marie took us there a lot. After both Diane’s and my First Communions, we went to Bishop’s to celebrate (our mother’s side of the family was Syrian/Egyptian and we loved ordering Bishop’s Arabic Assortment). I don’t think we ever ordered anything else. When we wanted a change from Bishop’s, we’d go to Cedar Crest for Italian food. The best, though not as good as Domenic’s. My grandmother had a good friend, Melia Hassi (the “h” is silent) with whom she’d lost touch in the post Ellis Island landscape. She’d heard Melia had moved to Lawrence. So, on some visits, Marie would lead us on wild goose chases around the city, trying to find Nana’s dear friend. Sometimes, it felt like she and Nana thought this Melia was going to suddenly appear walking down some side street or standing waiting for Nana to come around the corner. We never did find this Mystery Friend, and I began to doubt whether there was a Melia Hassi at all. I wrote a little story about it for Sister Loretta Francis in sixth grade and received a gold star for it. Sister had written “Unusual!” underneath. Not every Sunday was spent with Marie and Nana. Our father’s brother, Uncle Ray, and his family, his wife, Mary Livingston, and his sons, had a big spread out in Dracut on Passaconaway Lake. Comedian Jack Benny’s wife was also named Mary Livingston and I used to wonder why or how my uncle could be married to Jack Benny’s wife. They’d put together a great cookout for us, that we had to share with their two German Shepherds who insisted on being included in the picnic. I have such good memories of sitting on deck chairs in Uncle Ray’s yard under the summer trees, gazing out at the summer lake, my cousins leaping for frisbees on the grass, the crickets singing in the background. Good times. We lost track of the boys after our aunt and uncle died. But every now-and-then, on my daily errands and travels, I run into folks who know or knew our cousins, or worked with them. So they’re still out there somewhere. And a couple of times a year, when someone I’m meeting for the first time hears my last name, I’m asked if I’m related to the Racicot Funeral Home in Lawrence. In her never ending attempt to make a man out of me, Marie signed me up for Boys Club summer day camp, held at Camp Lamson. Head of the Boys Club, Bill Freitas, was a nice man but for some reason, he wanted me to conquer the pool table. I was a total washout, kept sending the cue stick flying across the room. One memory that sticks from the outdoor activities: the camp had a circular trail and a horse. One-by-one, we boys would mount the horse which was then trained to take us slowly around the trail. When my turn came, I, of course, had to be given a boost up onto the beast. My dad had a passion for horses, had served in the horse cavalry in India in WWII, and when Diane and I were kids, Papa kept horses in the stables in the back of the house. So I thought, “What the heck! An opportunity to be like dad.” Besides, I couldn’t have refused to get on the horse; the other boys would have thought I was a sissy. Well, darned if the second I got on the horse, it took off from the trail, charging into the forest. My ears can still hear the camp counselor shouting, “Leo, the reins! Pull in on the reins!” My eyes still see myself looking back over my shoulder seeing the counselor and the boys chasing after me. Needless to say, I never got on a horse again. You can have your horses, Papa! (Interesting aside: the horse stables are still here at the family homestead but were converted into car garages a long time ago.) Canobie Lake Park was a favorite destination for families looking for summertime fun in the 1960s. It still is. Classic amusement park rides like The Teacups, The Caterpillar, The Bumper Cars had long lines for visitors waiting to jump on. I got a charge out of the Funhouse and Funhouse mirrors — the only place that could make me look thin and tall. I saw my first celebrity there. We were walking along, enjoying the sights and sounds when we spied comedian Frankie Fontaine (from The Jackie Gleason Show we watched every Saturday night). He was walking along with his wife and kids (I counted 11 kids!) Frankie had a grin just like his character, Crazy Guggenheim, orange feathery hair and was wearing a Hawaiian sports shirt. It was so neat seeing someone from the television in-the-flesh. These days, Lowell’s Fourth of July carnival and fireworks are held on Pawtucket Boulevard. But in the 1960s, festivities were held on South Common, off Thorndike Street. Our mother used to actually walk us kids from The Acre to South Common. Some years, our father’s sisters, Aunt Yvonne and Aunt Marguerite would come, too, as well as some of our mother’s friends, Lillian Bourassa and a blind lady, Irene Dawson, who held one or another of their arms for protection. I found her amazing. What kid doesn’t love a carnival and fireworks, cotton candy, shooting galleries, penny arcades and carnival barkers. I always looked forward to this mid-summer treat. The long walk back home wasn’t always fun, and a couple of times, Ma treated us to a taxi cab. There was the A&L, Diamond Taxi (also called “Yellow Cab”) and Broadway Cab. In those days, some cabs had two pop-up seats on the back seat floor of the cab. This allowed the driver to fit as many fares in his cab as he could. Diane and I loved snagging the pop-up seats but it could get tight in those cabs, especially on hot summer nights. Looking back, I guess I joined our parish’s Boy Scouts Troop 31, Flaming Arrow Patrol because some of my classmates and choir mates joined. There was my friend, Anthony Kalil, Sean Dillon, Jack Medeiros, Jimmy Sullivan and Scott Jackson. Our troop leader was Ray Bourque and his assistant was Bill Riley whose son was also a part of the troop. We met in the basement of Saint Patrick’s Rectory whose housekeeper was Elizabeth “Lizzie” May, a native of UK, who’d been friends with my mother when they worked together at Abbott Worsted in Forge Village years before. Connections! Ray involved the troop in lots of interesting projects and showed us the ins-and-outs of how to earn merit badges. He took us on camping trips to Dracut State Forest, sometimes overnights. I liked the vibe of scouts and looked forward to being with the guys — they seemed more good-natured, less thug-like than the gang at The Boys’ Club. I have to admit it was fun but spooky-fun sleeping in tents at night. We’d gather around do-it-yourself camp fires, toasting marshmallows and burning steaks. Some guys would share ghost stories or lead us in song and it was difficult falling asleep with owl sounds all around us. We also found out tents and tarps don’t always keep the rain out of s sleeping bag. Nothing’s as uncomfortable as a wet tent floor. But we thrived on the camaraderie and sense of adventure and togetherness, the Scout ethic. One time, we were picked to stage a viewing booth at a VFW History Fair. Ray Bourque chose our theme of “Washington Crossing the Delaware” and chose me to play George Washington (probably because my prominent nose looked most like portraits of Washington. This booth offered a “frieze” of the scene we were presenting so I had to not move or breathe for long periods of time. This standing still stance, of course, drew kids who tried to crack me up, make me laugh by saying silly things or tickling me. “Cootchie cootchie coo, George!” I had a good time in spite of the teasing and still look back fondly on my scouting days. In fact, one of the requirements of earning a merit badge in Hiking involved walking from Lowell to Dracut State Forest. Recently, I had to take a bus out that way and was amazed by the distance we had to walk. Ah, Youth! One time, Sean Dillon, Jackie Medeiros and myself were the only three making the walk. It took a while but we finally made it to the forest and then on to “The Rock”, a requisite point of destination in order to qualify for the merit badge. We vouched for the other that each had made it to and touched “The Rock”. The summer heat was making us frisky, silly and playful. Sean and I urged Jackie to head on home while we stayed behind. When Jack was out-of-view, Sean giggled and whispered something in my ear I couldn’t have known but was then glad I knew.

Summer vacation was a blast but by about late July/early August, we’d had it with all the sunshine and field trips and were ready to head back to school. (At least I know I was. I loved, loved school!)