THE RAG MAN

By Rocky Provencher

My mother’s parents were English and French-Canadian. Both her parents were the first generation of each family to be born in the United States. My mother was born in Lowell. My father’s parents were both French-Canadian. My father was the in the first generation to be born in America, and he was also born in Lowell. My parents were married at Saint Jean Baptiste Church. I was born in Lowell too and baptized at that same church. For a while, we lived with my mother’s family on Cabot Street. Then, we lived near my father’s family on Middlesex St. in Notre Dame De Lourdes parish. And later moved to a third floor apartment on Merrimack St. in the block right next to Saint Jean Baptiste Church, where the Cabot Cash Market was on the corner. When I started school, we moved to the uptown end of cobble-stoned Market St., a six-family at number 629, not too far from the intersection of Market, Cabot, Salem and Adams Streets. I went to school at St. Patrick’s on Adams St. I always tell people that I am a French kid who grew up in a Greek neighborhood and went to an Irish school!

I want to tell you about a time when was 6 or 7 years old and had the normal curiosity about life around me and what I saw. One day, I asked my mother “Why do so many ladies in our neighborhood wear black clothes all the time?” And she told me that they were widows, their husband had gone to heaven and that was their way to remember and honor them. I never had any problem with any of my neighbors, and these same ladies would often offer me home-made pastries and candy for some slight courtesy that I had shown them. I had some friends in the area and played in our small backyard or in front of my building. Not many people had cars then. No one in our building had one. My mother would walk to work at St. Joseph’s Hospital, and my father was picked up early in the morning to work at the Boston Naval Shipyard, and then was dropped off early in the evening. A neighborhood woman would watch me before and after school until my mother picked me up.

I don’t remember the first time I saw the rag man come by, but, as you know, a child is often off in his or her own world, playing and thinking of only him/her self. Every now and then something happens to capture, grab a child’s attention, and then the child will notice. There was nothing special about this particular day, and I don’t even know why I was home, but this is the day and that time the rag man caught my attention!

I must have been playing on the porch out front, or out near the street, when I suddenly heard such a clatter! I clearly heard a strong voice call out: “Rags, rags, rags, rags!” I’ll never forget that sound and the tone of his voice! I moved to the sidewalk and walked down the street to find out what was happening. “Rags, rags, rags, rags!” That voice getting louder and louder! And there! I could not believe what I saw! There, right in front of me, was the biggest creature I had ever seen closeup! A gigantic brown horse, clopping up the street towards me, pulling a great wagon with enormous, wooden wheels! And a wizened old man was holding the reins and yelling: “Rags, rags, rags, rags!” “Rags, rags, rags, rags!” I was fascinated! Never had I seen or heard such a thing! “Rags, rags, rags, rags!”

The rag man pulled tight the reins and halted the horse, and waited. Then, many neighborhood women, including the Greek women in their black clothes, brought out bundles of cloth of many colors, each bundle holding its own story. They lined up and patiently waited their turn at the scale. At his signal, each woman slowly stepped forward to hand their bundle of colors to the old rag man. He kindly greeted each lady and then turned to place the bundle onto his scales,slowly and reverently. He peered at the scale, noting the weight, and then reached into his pouch to count out his coins, and discreetly passed them to his customer, once again uttering kind words. Some women accepted them graciously and others seemed to quibble a bit with the old rag man. It appeared that he did right by them for each lady left quietly. I did not understand the language that they all spoke. All the while, the horse stomped and neighed impatiently, but did not move from his spot!

As I was watching, some young boys approached the old rag man with their own bundle of cloth. The rag man eyed them suspiciously. And when he took their offered bundle, he hefted it, seemingly to judge its weight, and then raised the bundle up over his head and shook it out. A number of rocks and brick pieces that were hidden inside the bundle tumbled and bounced out onto the street! He shouted at the boys and threw the bundle to the ground! But the boys had already begun to run away laughing!

Soon, when his customers were gone, the old rag man mounted his wagon, picked up the reins and, looking about, snapped the reins as he hollered to urge his horse to move out. Then the horse, the cart, and the man began rumbling and clattering forward once again. The rag man wheeled his horse around and headed back down Market Street towards the downtown area!

“Rags, rags, rags, rags!” He called once again as together they rolled off to collect more bundles of color from old widows and outgrown clothes from housewives in the neighborhood.

This is the day I remember when I saw the old rag man, my first recollection of a routine as old as time.

I can still hear him calling out:

“Rags, rags, rags, rags!”
“Rags, rags, rags, rags!”

****

Rocky Provencher was born and raised in Lowell. He attended city schools from the Lowell Day Nursery through Lowell Technological Institute (now UMass Lowell). He spent his career working in Lowell’s mills and was a long time Lowell Folk Festival volunteer.