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Papa

September 11, 2025 by DickH Posted in Uncategorized Leave a Comment

Papa

By Leo Racicot

My father, Leo-Joseph Albert Racicot, was the son of Eliza (Dupuis) and Alphonse Racicot. A quick dip in the genealogy pond a couple of years ago told me Alphonse’s grandfather, Bon’homme (Bunnum for short), who hailed from Languedoc, migrated to Quebec, Canada sometime in the middle of the 19th century, made a family there then brought them including his grandson, Alphonse, to Lowell’s Little Canada where Alphonse met, courted and married Eliza. They thrived here in America and bought two homes in The Acre section of Lowell, at #5 and #7 Willie Street. My father was one of six children: Albert, Ray, Edmond (Eddie or “Fat”), Omer and Marguerite (Aunt Margaret). The family decided to make their home at #7 Willie.

When he came of age, Papa (I called him Papa) left home to strike out on his own. He took room and board with the Dean family of Pawtucketville because they, like him, loved and kept horses at their farm. He loved his years there and became close, lifelong friends with the Dean children, Edward (Teddy) and Anne. Years later, I became friendly with Anne who’d married and was Anne Dean Welcome. When I knew her, she was working for the National Park Service as a ranger and would relate to me much-longed for stories of Papa when he was a kid: evenings and weekend afternoons, she, her brother and Papa used to take the horses out on long rides in the countryside.

When the United States entered World War II in 1941, Papa signed up for the Army. He met my mother when he was stationed at Fort Devens and she was working at the Abbot Worsted in nearby Forge Village. Papa, being as good-looking as he was, was a well-known ladies man. When he asked Ma out for a date, knowing his reputation, she became wary of going out with him and stood him up. Well, that only served to draw Papa in all the more; he became more interested in her and they began seeing each other exclusively. When he was called overseas, she vowed to wait for him and when he returned, they married in 1945 as the war was coming to an end. In the war, Papa, recognized for his prowess with horses and horse-riding was assigned to the horse cavalry, serving much of his stint in India. I guess I inherited my passion for taking photographs from him; in the attic, I found many images he’d taken of India’s towns and villages and the friends he made there. One shows him with his pal, Susheel, with whom he exchanged letters in the years after the war. Many photos are of the Indian countryside, and show Papa astride an elephant. He used to say to Ma, “I brought India home with me.” He, too, took lots of photos of his beloved horses, donkeys and mules. Finding these pictures helped me find myself in relation to him, in a small way.

I loved the big house at #5 Willie where we lived when we moved from Pine Street in The Highlands. Family rumor had it that either his siblings and parents gave him and Ma the house as a wedding gift or had owed him money and gave them the house to close out the loan. Either way, it was a grand home to grow up in.

Papa worked for the city’s Public Works Department and once-in-a-while would take me along with him for the day. In fact, the main building on Broadway which now houses the Lowell Senior Center, was where I spent most of my visits. The structure still reads: City Stables 1877. Passing by it now almost daily, I am reminded of our times together when it was a dusty, dark, almost menacing interior full of rusty nails on the floor, old jalopies and ‘airy diggers’ (cranes). When Papa was promoted to be his boss, Mr. George Legrand’s chauffeur, my visits stopped because Papa said, “I’m always out on the road.”

Papa didn’t have an easy time when he started out; in order to blend in better in what was the city’s then-predominantly WASP/Irish population, he anglicized his name Racicot to Roscoe. Long-established residents didn’t embrace French-Canadians (Canucks) readily into their fold.

I am so thankful for the memories I have of Papa, few as they are. I remember him in his and Ma’s bedroom teaching me how to pray The Our Father, he repeating each part then having me repeat it back. To this day, when I hear that prayer being said, my mind returns to that afternoon.

I remember his lessons in wintertime teaching me how to ice fish, see him weilding a saw to cut a hole in the frozen lake (this was out at Lakeview), showing me how to drop the line down. It wasn’t fun waiting/sitting/standing in the cold air for a fish to take the bait but what kept me warm was being with my Papa. Most of all, as I have written about before, I remember every Friday night, Papa popping up a gigantic brown paper bag of popcorn in the kitchen, plunking it down between himself and me in the front seat of the big, green Plymouth and heading to the Lowell or Chelmsford Drive-In to see the latest war picture or Western. Heaven. I loved the movies but loved more being alone with my dad. it was our special time together; Ma and Diane weren’t allowed; they had their “girls day out” on Saturdays. Even at that age, I was mesmerized by Papa’s face, his piercing green eyes, his rosy, healthy cheeks, the sum robustness of him. I’d catch myself staring up at him, instead of at the movie. At home, at the kitchen table, I’d find myself unable to stop staring at him; he, lost deep inside a seeming trance, in a brown study, as we used to say, not noticing my focus on him. He was my own personal movie star. And maybe, just maybe he knew he was, was used to others admiring his beauty.

He got very sick, very fast. In early summer of 1960, he was misdiagnosed with a stomach ulcer and was treated for such. By the time the doctors realized it was cancer, it was too late. The transformation from what he was to what he became is too terrifying to write about; overnight, the strapping Papa I knew turned into a weak, old man.

One memory I can never forget — I walked into his room to ask if he’d read to me. He said, “no”, he didn’t feel up to that. But I persisted with what were too many “Please??” Of-a-sudden, he rose up and out of his bed like a ghost from out of a grave and was chasing me with his cane, screaming at me, swearing at me. I ran into the living room but he was right behind me. He raised the cane high over his head and it would have come right down on mine but in raising it as high as he did, it hit and shattered the bare bulb of the living room light. It made me cry. The explosion and seeing my fear dissipated his rage and he retreated, sadly, back to his room. That’s the last time I saw him. He died soon after in November, 1960, at the age of 45.