Richard Howe | Work Life part 1

Work Life part 1

February 5, 2026 by DickH Posted in Uncategorized Leave a Comment

Work Life Part 1

By Leo Racicot

My very first job was acquired via Community Teamwork. I was assigned to the School Department’s Title 1 offices which were located on the third floor of Pollard Memorial Library. I was hired as a cleaning boy/gofer. My job involved emptying trash buckets, vacuuming, dusting, going on coffee/donut runs over to City Hall for the staff. I was 15. I didn’t like this work much but I loved the staff. I still remember them and their faces. There was Earl Sharfman who, at that time, was Superintendent of Schools. He was all-business, even in what he considered regular chit-chats with us staffers. He was polite enough but he made me nervous and shy. Of course, in those days, I was nervous and shy with everyone so the fact that The Superintendent of Schools was stopping me in the halls really made me quake in my shoes. His secretary was Pauline Courcy and we clicked instantly. Pauline was possessed of a lovely countenance. I won’t say she was movie star pretty but she had wonderful coloring (flawless complexion, bright blue eyes, bright blonde hair). Being around Pauline always made me feel good. I was depressed that summer, visibly worried about my mother who’d suffered a bad stroke that year and Pauline was a kind, caring presence, liked to take me aside, have me sit at her desk beside her and reassure me with simple Christian wisdom and making me laugh. One of our on-going gags was — as I say, I didn’t care much for my job and whenever I was having a less-than-satisfying day, would say to Pauline, “That’s it! I quit! I’m going to quit!” She handed me a comic strip she’d cut out of The Lowell Sun –It was from Johnny Hart’s long-running strip about cavemen in prehistoric times, B.C. It showed Jane, aka The Fat Broad, scoffing at Grog’s latest bellyaching, saying, “Even his threats are idle” I hung on to that comic for years. Looking back, I guess I, with my straight As, thought the gofer job was beneath me, dreamed my future held a Rhodes Scholarship or that I’d become the next Pope. I kept that comic for many years among my treasures for Pauline had made me laugh at myself at a time when I needed laughter most. I lost track of her after I moved on from Title I, as happens with most co-workers who become great buddies while in the workplace then strangers when they part ways. I ran into Pauline in the Bridge Street Market Basket when I came back from Las Vegas, in 1998. She invited me to have lunch but I was sick-as-a-dog that day and asked for a raincheck. Once-in-a-great while, I’d see her name on Facebook (the Lowell groups) but I never saw Pauline again. About a month ago, she came to me in a dream. When I woke up, I Googled her, only to find she’d passed away in 2020.

To get back to the staff at Title I. Henry Mroz was in charge of the Title I offices. I found him to be an amiable, good-natured guy — accessible, friendly, very approachable, unlike Earl Sharfman who, as I say, had a bit of a police sergeant vibe about him. Mr. Mroz would regularly sit me down, ask me how I was doing, tell me I was doing a good job, give me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. It was a real shock when later on, as School Committeeman, then Superintendent of Schools, he became a source of contention among his fellow municipal politicians. I thought I was reading about someone else when I saw all the vitriol surrounding his terms in office; he’d been nothing like that when I knew him. People can and do change, I know…Henry’s secretary was a woman named Fleurette “Flo” Sheehy. Flo was also parish organist for her church and could be a little bit smug about that and about being Henry’s administrative assistant. I didn’t warm to her as I did Pauline. She had a habit of not filtering her comments which I think she thought were kind. For example, she said to me more than once, “You have a load of energy, for such a heavyset kid. Do you ever think of losing weight? It’s probably baby fat and will go away as you grow.”

In the office next door were the desks of Dr. Harold Miner and his secretary, Rosalie Wicks. I liked them both though to this day, no one (except hopefully them) knew what their positions were with Title I. They might not even have worked for Title I programs at all. Dr. Miner was a very tall, sturdy fellow, with a ruddy complexion. He looked like a varsity football or basketball coach. Rosalie was tiny, pert, colorful in her manner of dress and in her facial coloring. She reminded me of an elf in a Christmas story. Whatever work it was Dr. Miner was doing there, Rosalie was his secretary. I was always glad when their trash buckets overflowed so I could go in and visit with them.

My next job was as a bagger for Alexander’s Market on Middlesex Street. Marie knew the manager and got me an “in”. I was alright as a bag boy but I found out grocery stores are bastions of masculinity and the guys ribbed me about a variety of things, especially my lack of interest in sports and girls. What really bothered me was that the front-of-store manager, Dave Barry, and his assistant manager, Jeff Weinstein were among the bullies. Dave wasn’t too bad but Jeff — forget it — he made fun of me every chance he got. My protector there, during these months of sweat-inducing torment, was Neil Patrick, the brother of one of my LHS classmates, John Patrick. Neil was always so kind to me, would talk with me as we bagged, and bravely stand up to the bullies breathing down my neck, saying, “Hey, guys, come on. Knock it off. Let Leo alone.” Irony of ironies, I came across Weinstein on social media decades later. He, like myself, had become an avid follower of The Beat Generation and Jack Kerouac and wound up running his own Beats bookstore out in the western part of the state. We became virtual friends. The one aspect of the market job I positively hated and was no darn good at was whenever I was assigned to gather the carts customers had left in the parking lot. I just couldn’t get the hang of it and would always send the line of unwieldy wagon trains into a wall or get it stuck in the entranceway. To this day, whenever I see guys in market parking lots in the dead of winter shagging carriages, my heart goes out to them. I stuck with the bagger job for less-than-a-year and said, “Enough!” Marie was not happy…

David McKean, Anthony Kalil and I liked our Saint Patrick’s School eighth grade teacher, Sister Mary Jeanne, so much that after high school classes let out, we used to stop by the school and visit with her. By that time, she’d been named principal. When David and I were studying to be teachers at Lowell State, we asked Sister Mary if she’d be open to the idea of us offering our free time to volunteer at the school as tutors. She gave a hearty thumbs up to our offer and we, along with our friend, Rachelann Morin, were set up in a small tutoring room beside the stage in the school hall. I was given advanced reading groups and David and Rachel, the history students. Some math students were thrown in for good measure. I liked what I was doing so much. I remember the sheer delight of students like Patrick Latham and Bernie Ramos when I first introduced them to the wonders of poetic rhyme. Every time a word rhymed with another, the group would giggle with glee. It wasn’t long before I put together a school chorus as well as a school newspaper. Sister Mary heartily approved. The music group staged a version of A Charlie Brown Christmas that went off without a hitch. To this day, alumni recall it fondly. The school newspaper was a hit and included interviews, Saint Patrick’s School and Church histories and photos. David, Rachel and I worked our butts off for years. Sister Mary was so impressed that she promised both David and me full-time teacher positions when we graduated. But — and this, for me, became life-altering — unbeknownst to me (because neither she nor David said a word to me about it), Sister Mary hired David as a full-time history instructor, Grade 6. I labored that whole summer under the belief that Sister Mary had reneged on her promise to us. David and I had many car conversations about how the fall was coming and we, neither of us, had found jobs. In one of these tete-a-tetes, I guess guilt washed over him and he confessed that Mary had hired him as a history teacher and he’d be starting that assignment in a week. I don’t need to detail here how hurt I was. I did find the courage to go to Sister Mary to complain. Looking back, it was one of the glaring betrayals of my life. David and I had been friends since second grade, and I considered Sister Mary to be a good friend and mentor. I’d become fond of the school faculty, especially Mary’s best pal, Sister Linda Hutchins, with whom I socialized for years. I retreated from David, Mary and Linda and many years passed before even an iota of reconnection was established. In fact, I never had an opportunity to make peace with Sister Linda. In her defense, Mary Jeanne felt bad enough that she arranged a part-time job on my behalf with Janet Boyle, the mother of one of our students, Danny Boyle. Janet ran Bay State Rehabilitation and Nursing Care Facility out on Boston Road in Billerica. As a favor to Mary Jeanne, Janet hired me to work with the multi-handicapped population. I still don’t know why or how but I found nothing about the special needs residents there off-putting or offensive. I saw many afflictions and aberrations that I’d never seen before. I had an instant compassion for these poor, beleaguered souls and embraced my work with an open heart. I was, of course, naturally upset with David and Sister Mary whose duplicitousness led to my finding myself changing soiled diapers, pushing wheelchairs and gurneys. I do lookback and see the “God is in the details” destiny of it; David embarked on what became a lifetime as a respected and highly thought of history teacher. My job at Bay State enabled me to find future work in the special needs field; I was to work in special needs care facilities off-and-on for the rest of my working days. One reason Ms. Shea, who was known only to hire young graduate students as companions for her son, Richard, took me on — I’d had proven experience with that population. So, life (God) sees to it that we are put where it wants us. That’s my philosophy anyway. Though I was to teach again (at Franco American School in the ’80s), and continued to have my hand in some form of education, I honestly don’t think I would have enjoyed spending a lifetime in a classroom, as David did. For one thing — all that paperwork!

I wasn’t able to stay at Bay State long; one morning, I was playing, along with my co-worker, Mary Winters, the Alphabet Chant game for the amusement of an assembled group of kids. We were trying to make little Phillip Daigle, who never smiled, smile. In that ditty, you choose a letter of the alphabet and then make up sentences using that letter as your cue. Example: “M, my name is Mary. My husband’s name is Mike. We live in Massachusetts and we sell macaroni!” After the last word, we’d bounce a ball, in this case, a gigantic blue beach ball, throwing our leg over it and sending it on to the other player, in this case, me. I began, “L, my name is Leo. My wife’s name is Lou. We live in Louisiana and we sell licorice!” I bounced the ball, hurled my leg over and — Jesus God — felt my kneecap go in seven, different directions. I fell flat on my behind and it was a second before I began screaming in pain; my knee was all the way over to the left (dislocated). Boss Kevin Dwyer rushed in just as I passed out from shock, called an ambulance and off I was taken to the hospital for repair. One good thing – seeing what happened to me made Phillip Daigle laugh his head off. Mary later told me it took the staff hours to get him to stop. Long story short, I was to be on crutches and a knee brace for six weeks, meaning I could no longer perform my job duties at Bay State so that was the end of that job. (Interesting aside: I’m sort of a pit-bull. Joe and I had been planning our first trip to NYC and I wasn’t about to let my injured leg keep me from it. Not only did I make the whole trip hobbling around the vast expanse that is Manhattan; we saw all the usual sights: the UN Building, plays, museums, museums. I climbed the many winding steps to the top of The Statue of Liberty, one crutch at a time. Maybe others, throughout life have viewed me as a Pansy Pants but — get outta my way; I have a steely resolve when someone tells me I can’t or shouldn’t do something.

Three, long years went by before I was to get another job. Depression kicked in and I took to bed. I did manage to read a lot of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past so, the time wasn’t entirely wasted.

A small ad appeared in The Lowell Sun Classifieds for a nightwatchman for a place with the politically incorrect name of AMIC (Association for Mentally Ill Children), a day and night care program for the profoundly afflicted. Curly-haired Assistant Director, Peter Cina, hired me right off the bat, very honestly admitting, “Frankly, Leo, nobody wants this job.” “This job” involved having to stay awake the entire night (the graveyard shift — 7 to sunrise), keeping watch over the patients as they slept. I’d never drunk coffee before. This job introduced me to the necessary properties of black coffee, to help me make it through the shift. Boy, was that difficult. These clients I was afraid of; many were prone to violence or chronic attempts at escape. One girl, Lisa, had a habit of literally tearing her hair out of her head. God help you if she got her twitchy fingers tangled in yours, which she was always trying to do. She especially liked going after Jane Wall’s long, flowing red locks. Another patient, Steven, spent the entire day and night masturbating. His genital area was raw with sores and if we tried to stop him, which it was our job to do, he’d sink his rather sturdy incisors deep into our hand or wrist. Ouch. One girl regularly escaped the premises — we never could figure out how — and, stark naked, run to the corner 7–11 and ask the clerk for a Slurpee. Coaxing her to come back into the building was a challenge for both police, paramedics and staff. I don’t know how I lasted at AMIC for three months. It felt like three years. But I did meet some good friends there: Barbara Jean whose empathetic, maternal ways helped us all through our commiserations. And Jane Wall who became a really close pal for a lot of years. Jane was a beautiful girl, had long, red hair the color of Autumn. She had such a distinctive laugh that, as she tells the story, she was vacationing on a resort island far away from her native Massachusetts. Someone she knew from school was there, too, on a crowded beach. This person heard in the distance a laugh and said to her companion, “Oh, my God, that’s Jane Wall”. She walked over to investigate to find that it was. Jane and I developed a habit of sharing our sorrows with one another. At the time, she was seeing a married man and wallowing in the miseries and broken promises such dalliances bring. I was going through absolute hell (another story for another time) and in my nervous breakdown state thought nothing of hopping a train to show up at Jane’s Swampscott condo, for coffee and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. She held me up as only a true friend will do, and I hope if she ever thinks of me, she feels the same.

Next up, I took a job as a driver for Community Teamwork’s daycare and afterschool program. It took a while to steady my nerves enough to be able to manage the 18-passenger van as well as the cavalcade of kids assigned to it. My work involved picking them up in the morning, delivering them to their babysitters (providers) then heading out to the grounds of Tewksbury State Hospital to fetch the program’s lunches, delivering those to the various sites (mostly Lowell and Dracut area schools like The Greenhalge and The Eliot). By that time, it was time to return and retrieve the day care children and at the same time, the older kids (9 to 12 years old), bring them to after school program locations, mostly at Lowell Boys and Girls Club which in those years had moved from Worthen and Dutton Streets to its present location on Middlesex. A lot of hustling and hassle was inherent in this work. I liked the kids (ranging in age from newborns to ages twelve and thirteen) and got to know some great, fun ones. Of course, sometimes, the noise level of students just released from long hours of having to sit still and be quiet in class could be deafening, jangle the nerves. School bus drivers will tell you sleepy headed children heading to school in the early morning seldom make a peep. These same kids on their way home in the afternoons explode like Krakatoa. I remember the Hale Sisters, and the Makela brothers, Heath and David fondly. In those days, I liked working with young ones, being around their energy, their enthusiasm, their daily, little triumphs, their daily soap opera sorrows. That part of the job I didn’t mind a bit. But I wasn’t the best of drivers. My partner-in-crime, my dear co-worker, Connie Carrigg, and I earned the nicknames, Mr. and Mrs. Crash. Nearly every two weeks or so, one or the other of us would steer the vehicle somewhere it was never meant to go. It got so that whenever we asked to see our boss, Grace Murphy, in the office, she’d look up over her half-spectacles and ask, What did you two do now??” One time, not seeing it in my rear view mirror, I backed into a fire hydrant. You would not believe the horrifying sound of steel crashing into steel. The kids gave out with a collective scream that made my heart, which was already in my mouth, implode. Another memorable gaff: I was attempting to drive the van up a steep driveway incline. The wheels on the left-hand side made the incline, the wheels on the right-hand side did not, such that we were teetering at a scary angle, on the verge of tipping over. I don’t remember who rescued us from that disaster, probably the Fire Department (good thing each van was equipped with a CB – remember CBs?). Grace’s reaction to that near-disaster was to quietly sigh, light up another cigarette. Her job, managing a dozen drivers, providers, school sites, kitchen help and dozens of kids was literally a nightmare. And I came to more than understand her crusty reply when greeted with a cheery “Good Morning, Grace!” –“What’s good about it?” We were a motley crew. I had the Dracut run and knew the vast expanses of that town like the back of my hand. I really enjoyed interacting with the various providers, many of whom I knew from my Saint Patrick’s days: wonderful families like The Leahys, The Lathams, The Mahados, Bob and Loretta Poitras and their brood. Debbie Matthews out on Richardson Ave and her raucous laugh, Sis Tuck near North Campus, Debbie Matthews & Sandy Chaput who kept beautiful homes out on Passaconaway Drive. I especially liked meeting and getting to know Doris Bergeron, head cook, whose headquarters was hidden deep in the bowels of a castle-like structure on the Tewksbury State Hospital grounds. Doris, a rather large woman, dressed in her cook’s all-whites, a cook’s white toque upon her head, was surrounded by the biggest pots and pans I’d ever seen, enveloped in the steam pouring out of them. She put me in mind of the three cooks in Maurice Sendak’s delightful, In the Night Kitchen, All three are drawn to look like Oliver Hardy. Not that Doris looked like Hardy; she was possessed of a good face, good attitude which she needed in order to prepare the many meals for the many children in the CTI program. She and her own children, Robin and Bobby Jr. became good friends. All these vital ties were broken when I moved out to Las Vegas. Looking back, I don’t regret my time with CTI. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t high on my list of Favorite Jobs but it did have its unforgettable moments. (To be continued…)

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