An Acre Childhood: Sketches from Memory

By Leo Racicot

I’d like to be able to boast that I was born and lived my whole life in The Acre section of Lowell, like my sister, Diane. But that would be a lie. When I was born, my parents were living in The Highlands on Pine Street, not too far away from my mother’s sister, Marie, and their mother, our grandmother. My baptism was held at Saint Margaret’s Church on Stevens Street. I have no memories of living on Pine Street other than a memory of my mother trying to toilet train me, which I can’t talk about here. We didn’t live in The Highlands long; my father decided that living so close to his in-laws wasn’t such a good idea so what did he up and do but move us to 5 Willie Street, right next door to his own family (his parents, brothers, sister, and their families) at #7. I can boast that. other than about fourteen years living in other cities and states, I’ve lived in this house my entire life.

It was Sean Dillon who told me this part of Lowell was known as “God’s Holy Acre”, an apt nickname for it, especially when I, my sister and our friends were growing up here in the ‘1960s. It was simpler, cleaner, and there was an indefinable sweetness to its days, its nights. If I could re-live any time in my life, I’d choose my coming-of age years here.

I grew up around a variety of nationalities: Greek, Irish, French, Syrian. Growing up around such rich diversity informed my lifelong ease with people from different backgrounds. The Acre taught me that people are people, and I pride myself on being  able to break bread with anyone from the high-falutin’ to the hoi polloi. I’ve never been able to understand blind hatred. After all, we here on this planet are all in the same boat, aren’t we?

Our small band of grade school classmates consisted of David Bowles, Anthony Kalil. David McKean and myself. David Bowles called us “The Four Musketeers”. I hung around most of the time with Anthony. We were both Syrian and were so silly together. I remember we were collapsed in belly laughs on the floor of his Adams Street apartment one whole afternoon over the names of the then-queen of Hawai’i, Liliuokalani and the novelist, Pearl Buck whose middle name was Sydenstricker. Those names, so new to our ears, tickled our funny bones. The craziest thing we ever did was this: Titus “Buddy” Plomaritis, the most popular boy in freshman year of high school, dyed his brown hair blonde and became even more popular. Like his dad before him, Buddy was a star of the LHS football team. Anthony and I decided we’d dye our hair and become popular, too. Off we went downtown to Woolworth’s to buy the peroxide, hurried back to his basement where we went to work on making ourselves popular. Anthony’s hair was dark brown, almost black, so the peroxide he applied didn’t take. I wasn’t so lucky. I wound up looking like Connie Stevens from tv’s Route 66. I had to go to school the following Monday looking not like I’d spent lots of time at the beach in the sun but too much time at the beauty parlor. So embarrassing. I tried everything I could think of to rid myself of the dye job. I even found a shoe polish-type comb that supposedly brushed the blond streaks out. When that didn’t work, I had to live with the mess for weeks till it slowly, very slowly, faded away. Anthony and I did not become Titus Plomaritis.

We loved, when on Adams Street, to head across the way to George and Mabel Mansur’s variety store. We loved the summertime smell of brine we found there. a huge, wooden-slatted barrel held dozens of the biggest, most delicious pickles we’d ever tasted. What fun it was  fishing them out of the barrel, handing George (or Mabel) a nickel, biting into the sour juiciness of them,  letting the juice run off our chins and onto our hands and arms. Sometimes, we’d be joined outside on the curb by Anthony’s neighbors, the Alberti family. It seemed like there were hundreds of Albertis. Every Alberti kid had the same Alberti face so you were never sure which Alberti you were talking to.

David, David, Anthony and I puzzled that whole year over why our 7th grade teacher, Sister Agnes Mary, kept having the class read the same short story,  Pearl Buck’s The Big Wave, over and over again. Poor Sister Agnes hadn’t the first clue how to handle wild, hormone-saturated 7th graders. David Villandry once tied the shoelaces of her nun shoes together so that when Sister walked, she fell flat on her face. He also painted the fingernails and toenails of the Blessed Mother statue aloft in a high corner of the class wall with bright, red nail polish, her lips with bright, red lipstick. Sister Agnes was visibly horrified. “Sacrilege!”, she screeched.  I witnessed how vicious some of the nuns of those days could be when Sister Agnes ordered Kathleen Fervoli to lift the formica top of her desk up and get out a certain book. Once Kathleen’s head was fully inside the desk, Sister Agnes took and slammed the hard, heavy lid on her head repeatedly. Kathleen was an upstart but no kid deserved that, not even an upstart. This incident was outdone by tiny Sister Rose of Franco American School picking the boys up by the ears and lifting them full up off the floor. Ouch.

Greek establishments called coffeehouses dotted The Acre landscape. These watering holes, an  ancient custom brought to Lowell from the old country, were havens for men (they were a Men Only gathering spot) where old Greek men would congregate, drink strong coffee, smoke strong cigars and kibbitz, all day long, if they wanted. There was one on Broadway Street (where now stands Pikalo Empanadas). Another stood further down Broadway near where George the Tailor’s shop operated for many, many years (George was one of Anna Krikoris’ brothers but — more on Anna later on in this chronicle.) I remember even more coffeehouses on Market Street in the area around the Tournas peanut shops, all now long gone, a part of Lowell’s rich cultural past.

My father’s buddies were often around the house, helping him make repairs, advising him on how best to helm a new project. Even then, they were mythic figures to me, even their names were mythic: Buster Obie, as wide as he was tall. He had a voice like a broken electric can opener and would end everything he said with the word, “Huh”. “How ya doin’, huh??” What ya gonna do this weekend, huh??”  He smelled like an old stogie at all times, even if he didn’t have one in his mouth or hand. There was Mr. Garrity. I once had the insolence to ask him, “Do you have a first name or what??” My dad gave me a good whack, saying, “His first name’s Mister!”    Arthur Leclair was one of Papa’s cousins. He had very wet, very red lips. I imagined it was because he liked and was always chomping from a bag of fresh buttered popcorn, his favorite snack. There was Old Alfano  (who, though teeth clenched around an ornate, old pipe, said whatever was on his mind, regardless of the consequences),

A memory too scary to conjure: Papa and I drove to a bridge (I forget which Lowell bridge but I can see it in my mind’s eye). I was about 4 or 5.  Papa and I went there to toss Diane’s pacifier in the river because Papa felt she was getting too old for a pacifier. He left the car and was greeted by some of his friends who were fishing on the bridge. I somehow got playing with the car mechanisms; I wanted to drive like Papa did. Of-a-sudden, the car started moving very slowly over the bridge. Thinking this great fun, I stood up on the seat and jumped

up-and-down with glee. In the rearview mirror. I could see Papa and his friends chasing after the car, their mouths and hands gesturing madly. I fell back down onto the seat and the next thing I knew, Papa was in the car with me and shut it off. I didn’t realize the severity of what I’d done but I guessed it was pretty bad when we got home and Papa took his belt off. He was big on belt discipline and, even scarier than the actual spanking was seeing him slide the belt out f his pant loops. I’d run like hell. But, as the song goes, “You can run but you cannot hide…”

Other ‘regulars” in our neighborhood were Bessie, the crossing guard lady at the corner of Fletcher and  Cross Streets, just outside the Marine Club (now, the Firefighters Club). Her special needs daughter, Connie, was often with her, helping with hand signals and saying, “Stop!” to the school children who looked like they weren’t going to. There was Peter Christ, also special needs. It was my early exposure to Connie and Peter Christ that opened my world view to the fact that some people are different and need an extra dollop of compassion and patience in this world. Later in Life, I worked with many multi-handicapped groups and individuals, at Bay State Rehabilitative and Nursing Care Facility, in North Billerica, AMIC, inside the old Rogers Hall on Rte.38, and for the Sheas and their son, Richard, in Cambridge.

Sophie Zaharakis lived on Cross Street. She had a very handsome son, Jimmy, popular (maybe too popular) with the girls. Sophie was always on the lookout for Jimmy, afraid he’d get a girl, or maybe a few girls, pregnant. She’d scour the streets of The Acre shouting his name out loud, even when he was well into his 20s and 30s. I don’t think she ever caught him. He’d go home when he was good-and-ready.

Our mother, after a long day of cooking and housework, liked to sit and relax on the front steps. Friends and neighbors would stop by for a chat and a smoke, some bumming a Lucky Strike off her. I remember Virginia Chateauneuf and her husband, Alcide, Doris Pratt, Ellen Wilkerson, Jane “Jenny” Tournas, who married into the Tournas family whose shops on Market Street made the best baklava I’ve ever tasted. Ma held court over her front stoop salon for years; most of her hen party members are gone but I still hear from their grown-up kids, remembering fondly what fun our mother and those times were.

The best part of the stoop-sitting twilights was listening for the Mister Softee ice cream truck and its familiar theme song announcing its arrival in the area. Ma and/or her friends would spring for treats for Diane and me. I’d go for the vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. The messier the melting cone, the better, though it meant taking a bath when we came in. On nights when the Mister Softee man didn’t show up, we kids could hit any number of stores for our nighttime treats: Vicki’s Variety, Paul Cloutier’s Pharmacy and Acre News, all within safe walking distance from the house.

To make extra income, our mother rented out the upstairs apartment. I remember Claire Wallace and her kids, Danny and Nicole. Claire was very attractive, looked and sounded like Maureen Stapleton the actress, only with red hair instead of brown. Claire had more hair than her head could hold. Danny and I used to stage wrestling matches like the ones we saw on television, precursors to the WWF. Danny died very young. Rita Couturier, like the old woman in the shoe, had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.  Like Sophie Zaharakis, she was forever scouring the streets looking for them, Rita lived in our house the longest.

The tenants I was most fond of were both elderly Greek couples: the Anastopoulos couple was John and Mary. Old Man Anastopoulos used to walk every day two or three times around the perimeter of North Common. He lived to be very old. Little Mary was sweet and used to bring our mother goods she’d knitted, pastries she’d baked. I’ll never forget when their grandson, Rodney, a boy a little older than I was, visited. Rodney was fatally attractive to me, always dressed in the best clothes, even when playing in the yard. He was from New York City which struck me as being so sophisticated, so worldly. He never paid me the least little bit of attention but whenever he was around, it made me realize I was different.

The second couple was the Kaklamanos. I liked them both so much: he was Jimmy, a stalwart, accepting sort, nothing phased or flustered him. His wife was Efthalia (Thalia, for short)   Mrs. K.’s apartment and the back hall smelled of homemade Greek pastries. She kept a bunch of canaries and liked to let them out of their cages in the mornings so they could fly around the kitchen. One day, when she did this, she forgot to close the window and out the lot of them flew.   Mrs K’s complexion reminded me of good, fresh bread. Perfectly formed hair braids encircled her kind face. After she and Jimmy moved, I’d see her all the time watering the garden of her home in North Common Village. She always took the time to say ‘hello’ and chat with me a while.

It was at this time that Diane asked (begged) our mother to let her and her gal pal, Carol, live upstairs. Carol was a hoot; funny as hell, kind-hearted to a fault. I liked her a great deal. The circumstances of her death remain sketchy; she was living back in her mother’s home when she made a call to 911. It was later discovered that someone (the police never could determine who) had called back and cancelled the call. Carol’s belongings, including a motorized wheelchair and costly jewelry, were missing. I still cover myself on cold nights with an intricate quilt she made years ago. Carol was so very creative, loved to paint, crochet, sew, make beautiful things.

The Deschenes lived to the left of us, in the last home on Fletcher Street. Lovely people. Good, good neighbors. Theresa, “Terry”, the mom, had a breezy, plucky June Allyson look and demeanor. Dad, Andy, a soft-spoken genial man, reminded me of comedian George Gobel, (with glasses). They had four kids: Butch (Andy Jr.) who was in the Navy and was proud of parading around in his uniform. I got a charge out of seeing him in his crisp Navy whites, and used to think if I had to go in the service, I’d definitely choose that branch. Sue, the next oldest, was as serious a person as I’ve ever known, a permanent frown frozen on her face. In later years, when I was working at O’Leary Library, Sue was studying to be a nurse and came in often for course reserves. She was still frowning. Jerry, the third Deschenes, taught me how to shoot a bow-and-arrow (rubber-tipped, of course), and how to play a better game of marbles. Roger was the youngest Deschenes. Being the youngest, he was off doing things with kids more his age. I was scared of the Deschenes’ German Shepherd watchdog, Queenie, Their gentle, loping, drooling Saint. Bernard, Clarence, was more my style. He loved being petted, couldn’t get enough petting from all the neighborhood denizens.

I never figured out where Helena came from. She was a Greek lady, strong Greek accent. Her blond locks were always covered with a colorful kerchief. She hid behind stark white-framed sunglasses and looked to me like a European movie star who’d just stepped off the boat from Ischia or Crete. Melina Mercouri??  Whenever Ma, Diane and I walked up Cross Street, up would pop Helena who’d whisper into Ma’s ear the latest street gossip. Helena knew I liked school so, when September rolled around, would tease me, chiming out, “Ding Dong, Leo!  School Bells! Get out those books! Ding Dong!”

Anthony’s grandmother, Mrs. Epsey and his Elias cousins also lived on Cross Street. We’d stop by a lot. His grandmother took it into her head that my name was ‘Louie’.  No matter how many times Anthony corrected her, nothing changed her mind,  “Hi Louie!”, she’d always greet me. I’ve known a city bus driver couple for over forty years, Ellen and Valerie, They, too, call me ‘Lou’. I used to tell them, “My name’s Leo” but gave up after the first twenty years.

Next door to the Elias/Epsey house was the Betses house, occupied by four Greek sisters. One of the sisters married, the other three never did. They were a familiar neighborhood sight. Always perfectly turned out, perfectly coiffed, perfectly mannered and lady-like, they graced the Acre with their presence. Well into their 80s and 90s, they were still referred to as “the Betses girls”. They struck me as something out of a Henry James novel. I took comfort from the fact that they were in the world.

Cloudburst

Diane and I were having a sleepover at Aunt Marie’s and Nana’s and had just settled down to bed when the phone rang. It was our mother from home crying her eyes out; through her bedroom screen window, she’d overheard her two sisters-in-law in the driveway badmouthing her about how their brother, our dad,  should never have married outside his nationality. The N word was used. Marie, furious, herded Diane and me into her Rambler and headed for Willie Street. After depositing us in the house, we watched her storm across the driveway, pound loudly on the door which opened and closed behind her. To this day, we don’t know what she said to the Racicots but they never spoke to us again nor we, to them. It became very uncomfortable living all those years within a stone’s throw of our angry, silent relatives, as it must have been for them. Years on, when our Uncle Eddie had a stroke and was no longer feeling himself, I’d run into him cutting through the housing projects or downtown and we’d chat amiably. But things were never to be the same. Our cousin, his son, Eddie Jr., left for Vietnam and we never got to know him or any of our other cousins. From time-to-time, we’d hear from mutual friends and neighbors how they and the clan were doing, but having the chance to know our father’s side of the family taken away was a lifelong loss…

When our uncle had a stroke and decided it was time to sell 7 Willie, I was so sad; the complex (two houses, horse stables, carriage house in the back had been The Racicot Family Homestead for over 100 years. The writer, Edmund White, a dear friend, for whom everything and everyone had to be grand or, if they were not, would make them so, took to calling the place “Willie Manor”. “How are things at Willie Manor?!”, he’d exclaim whenever we got together. The couple next door to Uncle Eddie, at #11, Anna and Bill Krikoris, bought his home. Anna (Thessoula) reminded me of a Greek warrior with her sturdy, handsome head, sturdy bearing. Bill was the “teddy bear’ of the two, easygoing to-a-fault; nothing rattled him. I first got to know them when they hired me as their son, Greg’s math tutor. When Anna tried to pay me for my help, Greg took umbrage and said, “Not money, Ma! Just give him breakfast.”  Anna, an excellent cook by any standards (her Greek cheesecake was out of this world) made me two of the most delicious eggs I’d ever eaten, Greek-style, Greek bread toasted with slabs of homemade butter and honey on the side. The Krikoris’ maintained 7 Willie and its longtime backyard rose garden for many years until cancer took Bill then, not too many years later, Anna. I miss them all the time and sometimes peek out my kitchen window hoping to catch a glimpse of their ghosts. I will remember their kind hearts, their hospitality, as long as memory serves.

I know I am chasing ghosts here, ghosts of the places and people I knew long ago. They are lost in time.

But they are not lost to me.

Anna Krikoris

Aunt Marie

Canary flying out a window

David McKean, graduation day, May 1968

George Mansur variety store, Adams Street

Helena always reminded me of the actress Maria Mercouri

My mother always had these for her Lucky Strike summertime stoop-sitting salons

My sister Diane with Anthony Kalil, June 1968

Our mother, Edna

Queen Liliuokalani

Small boy standing in a car, trying to drive

“The Big Wave” by Pearl Buck

Uncle Eddie (Papa’s brother)