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The Holidays in 1960s Lowell

July 3, 2025 by DickH Posted in Uncategorized Leave a Comment

The Holidays in 1960s Lowell

By Leo Racicot

Every year, as Valentine’s Day approached, our teachers would get us excited with mention of a possible party (if we were good) and we set about with our parents buying Valentine cards to handout to our classmates on the day itself. The nuns made us buy a card for each student in the class, so that no one would be left out. In the 1960s, these cards weren’t elaborate ones. Usually flat items that didn’t open like regular greeting cards, they had some quick, cute saying or wish on the front. Parties included soda and candies. I see stores still sell the miniature, colored hearts, also with little sayings on top: BE MINE, XOXOX, SWEET HEART. My favorite candy was also the most fun to eat — candy necklaces and bracelets that you ate your way through, one candy at a time.

Saint Patrick’s Day (March 17th) for Saint Patrick’s school and parish was a big deal. A huge citywide celebration was held downtown at Lowell Memorial Auditorium. We students of the whole school prepared Irish songs for our number in the program. The auditorium, in those days, had a large seating area just above and behind the stage. Students were seated there, dressed in white shirts, green bow ties for the boys, green ribbons for the girls. The whole night was very exciting. When I was a kid, I had adenoid problems and always breathed not through my nose but through my mouth. After the show, my family would say, “We saw you! You did great!” Puzzled, I asked how they spotted me in among all the other kids and they said, “You were the one with your mouth open the whole time.” The most thrilling act of the night was, for sure, the Irish dancers performing the Irish jig. Hearing them stomp out their clog movements on the wooden auditorium stage sent shivers up everyone’s spine.

Easter time, for parochial school students, meant EasterSeal drives. EasterSeals was a national nonprofit charitable organization. Students were handed out packets of these to sell. Prizes went to the top sellers. I never could sell many and my mother, feeling bad, would try to sell some for me to her friends. Ditto Aunt Marie who’d take and pitch them to her boss and co-workers. Of course, there was always “The Shining Star” who somehow managed to sell eight or nine hundred books of stamps and walk off with the trophy. This reminds me of other stamps-selling drives of that time: Holy Childhood stamps and Christmas seal drives at Christmastime. And have I mentioned the very popular S&H Green Stamps of the 1960s? These were stamps that, when collected, added up to money that the consumer could then redeem for items such as pen-and-pencil sets, household knick-knacks, appliances, that sort of thing. Aunt Marie was very much into it and one of my sister’s and my chores was to sit with Marie at her kitchen table, wetting and pasting the Green stamps into the booklets. It took a lot of stamps to buy a toaster!

Whether you were making your First Holy Communion or not, May was always a special time in Lowell Catholic homes. You always knew or knew of someone making their First Communion, Confirmation or participating in May Altar processions in honor of The Blessed Mother. It was a season of all-white outfits, white veils, lilacs everywhere in people’s yards and gardens. Something I’ll never forget — my godmother, Theresa Geoffroy, offered, as her gift to me on my First Communion, to pay for my whole outfit — white suit, white tie, white shoes even. My mother and aunt refused to allow her to do this, saying it was too expensive and they’d like to buy it for me themselves. Well, Godmother Geoffroy got so mad, she never spoke to any of us and I never saw her again. I still remember my mother, walking with me up to the photographer, George’s of Lowell, on Textile Avenue, to have my picture taken with Jesus. This left a lasting impression on me, and I was always a very holy child, believing the Church’s teachings completely. I think most families in those days had a son who wanted to become a priest or whom they wished would become one, and I spent hours in my room playing Mass — I’d use a glass covered in a cloth for the chalice, a colorful washcloth for the pall, a piece of cardboard for the paten, flattened out pieces of bread for hosts. I’d throw a sheet over my shoulders for a chasuble, and prayed my way through my junior missalette. In 1975, after college, I entered Missionhurst Seminary, taking my studies at Catholic University, Washington D.C. Two of the guys I entered with, Hugh Wade and Jack Spainhour, stayed and became lifelong career priests. I decided the priesthood wasn’t for me and stole away, quite suddenly, in the middle of one night.

Every Memorial Day began with Marie taking the family to Saint Joseph’s Cemetery in Chelmsford, to place flowers and a little American flag on Papa’s grave. Papa had served with the horse cavalry in India in World War II. I treasure many photos he took over there, of natives in their native towns. There are a few of Papa riding high atop a jungle elephant. After, we’d head downtown to get a good spot with others to watch the Memorial Day Parade. I can’t find the words to say how much I looked forward all year to parades: the marching, the color guards, the cheerleaders shaking their pom-poms, raising high their batons. And The colors! Bright orange. Bright yellow. Bright purple. Bright red. The brightness of the day. The ground beneath us shivered and shook from the music vibrations, our hearts shivered and shook along with it. Lowell’s love for putting on parades and citywide displays is now a thing of the long ago. I haven’t seen or heard of one here in decades. Maybe too costly to organize?

Fourth of July carnivals on South Common were a staple of summer celebrations. Our mother would walk us from our house in The Acre all the way up Thorndike Street, along with dozens of other carnival goers walking the same way, bumper-to-bumper traffic to our right. Everybody was heading in the same direction. Independence Day excitement filled the air. Festivities offered something for everyone: best-looking baby contests, pie-eating contests, tug-of-war competitions, antique cars, games and more games. And after, the great fireworks display could be viewed from many vantage points in the city. In years when we didn’t go to the carnival, all we had to do was go out in our yard and look up at the sky.

Next in the holiday calendar came Halloween. The race to find the best costume started in September. When Diane and I were young, Marie, who lived in The Highlands, would drive us around that neighborhood, where the best candy and handouts could be had. Those plastic masks were so suffocating and sweaty (If I close my eyes, I can still smell them) but well worth it once we hit the candy streets. Trick-or-Treating was safe in those days, not the perilous venture it became in years-to-come. And the loot and booty we took in, all by just opening our bags wide: every kind of candy you can imagine, sometimes even money!

Every Thanksgiving was spent at our grandmother’s house until she passed away in the year of The Bicentennial, 1976. Then, all family gatherings came to an end when a grief-stricken Marie moved unexpectedly out to Las Vegas. I looked forward every Thanksgiving to her picking our mother, Diane and me up in her Rambler (she always bought Ramblers) to bring us over to her and Nana’s place. Marie loved holidays and always had the whole house decorated top-to-bottom. My favorite part of this holiday, other than eating turkey dinner (still my favorite meal) was helping Marie with the cooking. She let me help her with most all the preparations and I learned to feel cozy in a kitchen and around a stove, which held me in good stead in later years when I got to know Julia Child and M.F.K. Fisher in their homes. One year, though, I wasn’t paying attention and nearly took off the middle finger of my left hand with a sharp blade while slicing celery. The blood was everywhere, and Marie took a long time getting the bleeding to stop. It was scary. I still have the scar. Of course, what holiday get-together would be complete without the traditional family argument? All the old sorrows, betrayals and disappointments would be resurrected before dessert was over. I think most readers can relate to this unavoidable part of holiday gatherings, if they’re being honest.

1960s Lowell at Christmastime was a child’s delight. All downtown was lit up like, well, like Christmas! City Hall was covered completely in lights, front and sides. Bon Marche Department Store, too, was a magical wonderland of sounds and sights, its windows a mecca for families day-and-night all the way through to December 25th, and beyond to Little Christmas, January 6th. A favorite fun trip was piling in the car and driving all around Lowell and its suburbs to see what homeowners had done to decorate their homes and properties. In those times, every other house was a feast for the eyes. The dazzling lights display put up by Saint Francis Seminary out on River Road in Andover was a popular destination for locals. And the Poor Clares’ convent, also in Andover, had the most unforgettable collection of santons, delightful terracotta Nativity figurines that originated in Provence, many of which were made in shades of color I’d never seen before. The whole presentation by the sisters was something out of a dream. My most memorable Christmas was the morning I woke to find a brand, new bicycle in the living room beside the Christmas tree. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how Santa got an English racer down the chimney. I thought, truly, Santa Claus must be magic.

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