Reflections on the Water

November 12, 2026 by DickH Posted in Uncategorized Leave a Comment

Reflections on the Water

By Leo Racicot

When I was a kid, I thought every city had as many canals as my hometown, Lowell, did. Canals seemed to be everywhere, crisscrossing the majority of the city; in summertime, brief, cooling interludes between long stretches of hot pavement. I didn’t think this was odd because, well, canals were part of the town. It never occurred to me that most places didn’t have waterways practically everywhere you walked. No wonder Lowell earned the nickname The Venice of America. Of course, originally, canals, whether in Lowell, Venice or Amsterdam were sewers, depositories for a city’s waste. A friend who visited Venice recently was appalled by the stench wafting off Venice’s waterways as he and his wife’s gondola made its way along The Grand Canal. “P. U. That city smells!” They never expected one of the world’s most popular travel destinations to smell like the farm.

I can’t say I never smelled anything foul about Lowelll’s canals. But I accepted them and their stench as part of my city, Stinky or not, I found there was something romantic about canals. The sight of them brings a welcome calm to the urban noises surrounding you. The gentle edges of them lap against moss-covered stones, almost hypnotically. When out on walks with Buddy, he liked to pause to gaze into the depths of the canal that runs through Ecumenical Plaza between Saint Patrick’s and Holy Trinity Churches, watch for the occasional fish head popping up through the green surface, watch the flock of ducks swimming by. I loved these moments with Buddy for — he was walking me, not the other way around and was my guide. I loved the interesting places he’d take me. At the canal, we would linger in peace. The seamless teal of canals gave a lightsome lift to the red brick heaviness of the old mill city, a heaviness I find melancholy on rain-heavy days. The relaxation properties of canals are many: the controlled water flow, the ways in which the mere sight of them can improve mood, outlook. They also offer reflection and respite on long walks, a means of entering a peaceful zone in the brain, what scientists call blue mind. It was a disappointment if you were strolling along only to find the city had drained your favorite canal. Back in the day, Lowell would empty all canals each weekend, this, to inspect them for leaks, fissures, remove unwanted debris (usually grocery store shopping carts people had thrown in them, plastic bottles, plastic bags, dead automobile batteries and car parts). Sadly, a canal would prove irresistible to those wanting to commit suicide. I remember wondering what kind of a place Lowell was, hearing about the number of students who’d fling themselves off the roof of the university’s Fox Hall, overwhelmed by their studies and life, the number of bodies found in city waterways. An acquaintance of mine from the 1970s who went by the nickname, The Cowboy, one whole summer took to saying he was “Done Trying”, despaired of ever coming back to himself. On a lonesome winter Saturday, he threw himself into The Western Canal running between Suffolk and Dutton Streets. My sister, Diane’s, dear classmate and friend, Helena Murgia, purposely drove her car into the dark night waters at an early age. Her body was never found.

I took my Franco American sixth graders on one of Lowell’s popular canal tours. They got a kick out of weaving in and out of the waterways around Dutton Street. Of course, they loved getting wet in spite of the slickers the city provided; in their post-tour theme papers, every single one of them mentioned getting sprayed as their favorite part of the trip. Kids!

I remember a special night when my housemate and friend, Pete Starrett and I on impulse went on a Kerouacian ramble through the rocks and white water falls under ULowell’s University Avenue Bridge. We had no fear of falling as we navigated the slippery stones, delighted in hearing our voices bounce off the rusty iron girders of the tired, creaky old bridge. It was easy to fall a little bit in love with Peter, as everybody who knew him in those days did. He was so open to the adventures to be had, tall stick of dynamite that he was. As with Buddy, I’d follow Pete anywhere, knowing an exciting escapade lay ahead.

These days, whenever I see a flash of water cutting through concrete, in a television travelogue or in a tv show or movie, my mind rushes back to those mossy depths, the tug of a beloved dog’s leash, the ghosts of a city that taught me where to find a sliver of peace amid the urban grit. The canals are still here, slicing through the old New England town just as they always have, holding the weight of my past in their brackish currents. They remain my hometown’s heartbeat, proof that even unattractive places hold an enduring beauty if only you know where to look.

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