RichardHowe.com – Voices from Lowell & Beyond

New Book Shines Light on the Apple

“Overheard in the Orchard”

by Linda Hoffman & Ellen Harasimowicz

ISBN 978-0-9742474-0-3 [Copyright © 2025]

Linda Hoffman is an artist, writer, and orchardist in Harvard, MA, and photographer Ellen Harasimowicz is a “visual storyteller” in the Boston area. 

Thirteenth-century Persian poet Rumi writes, “Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come.” The poet Gary Snyder names “intensely focused trees” that were accepted in premodern China as elemental in the “realms of purity and selfless beauty and order.” These lofty perceptions are not out of place in our response to an extraordinary new book of “conversations and photographs.” The publication arises from time spent relating to one Golden Delicious apple tree living, growing, and producing among the family of trees at Old Frog Pond Farm in Harvard, Massachusetts.

This is imagination and illustration in bound pages. What can we know about a tree in our midst, any tree in its life, possibly pre-dating us and destined to outpace us? It takes humility to not only listen closely but to go beyond—to give shape to what might be expressed in transcendental form. The writer and image-maker take us to the interior life of a companion organism in the orchard.

We learn about the roots, literal roots of the Golden Delicious. We live through the seasons, the quiet, the buds, the fruit in fulfillment. There are so many memorable exchanges, the talking to and the giving voice to responses. These are set among exquisite black-and-white photographs recording the orchard world: branches spare and full, the plump insects and a bird’s nest with speckled eggs. Near the end is a surprise spread of color portraits of various apples on the farm.

We can read to learn things, we can look to appreciate details, we can savor, we can pause anywhere we choose. This is an invitation to take our time and let the encounter flow over us.

–Paul Marion

How to get this book:

The price is $45 plus $5 for shipping. Signed copies can be purchased online at www.lindahoffman.com or on the farm’s website www.oldfrogpondfarm.com

Books are available in Linda’s studio at Old Frog Pond Farm, 38 Eldridge Rd, Harvard, MA 01451 or by writing to lindahoffmanstudio@gmail.com or texting 978 660-0363. Linda will inscribe a personal note if requested.

Copies are also available at Five Stones Gallery, 32 Main St,  Concord, MA.

Bookstores I Have Known

Bookstores I Have Known

By Leo Racicot

College City Book Mart was the first bookstore I discovered and grew to love. It was located in what is now Francis Gatehouse Mills, on Broadway Street. The reason I’d found myself in that neck of the woods is: our Aunt Marie had told us the sad tale of how her friend, “Mr. Whitaker” had stood up from his desk at E.A. Wilson Oil Company across the street from Francis Gate, walked calmly over to the canal and jumped in. I wanted to see the place where someone had despaired of Life such that he’d leaped to his death. I was peering into the canal when I looked up and saw the small, unassuming College City Book Mart sign. I was about 13 or 14 and decided to see what I could see. A set of old steps led downstairs to a cave-like place, filled wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling with books. I’d never seen so many and thought I died and went to book paradise. Customers barely fit in the small space, so sardine-can size was it. But I came to spend hours and hours browsing its treasures. The man who ran it never asked you to move along if you lingered too long. Ideal. I want to say his first name was Gordon. I can still see his face. I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think the College Mart was affiliated in any way with Lowell State Teachers College up the street, although in later years, “Gordon” would run the college bookstores (both campuses). I heard he used his experience at College City Book Mart to get that position. Some of the first titles I remember buying there were: Fantastic Voyage by Isaac Asimov, A Light in the Forest by Conrad Richter, Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim, Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring and Good Morning, Miss Dove, a book about a beloved New England school teacher. In those days, I wanted to be a priest but wanting to be a teacher was my second choice for a vocation.

Harvey’s Bookland was downtown on Central Street. Like Book Mart, it was a somewhat shabby place, not the cleanest place. But that’s what I liked about it, its clutter, its dust, its mountains of books, no organization, its thousands of used books, vintage comics, perfect for browsing. I liked the smell of the used books, their pages musty with time and age. I’d spend hours there, especially Saturday afternoons, and Harvey and his wife were always willing to help buyers find a particular title, a much-desired collectible, a rare comic book. I bought so many comics there (my favorites were Archie and Jughead & Batman), I had as many in my little bedroom as Harvey had in his shop.

Whenever I was in Boston, I’d hop the Red Line and head out to Harvard Square, This was usually after spending long, luxurious hours in The Brattle Book Shop. The Brattle was located at 5 West Street, off Tremont Street, across from Boston Common but in 1980, a bad fire tore through and destroyed the beloved Boston institution. Redoubtable owner, George Gloss, immediately set about rebuilding his shop in the lot next door at 9 West where it continues to thrive at 9 West St. under the direction of George’s son, Ken.  I loved, and still visit, its outdoor book stalls, which remind me of the bouquinistes along The Seine in Paris. Among its offerings are bargain dollar and five dollar carts as well as many first editions, classics and publishing rarities. Magical moments happened there, as I think, happen in all bookstores. One Halloween, a very tall customer standing next to me was recommending the merits of the American writer, Henry Green. The man’s voice sounded so familiar. When I looked up, I realized I was talking to comedian, Red Skelton.

In Boston, chains like Borders Books and Music, Barnes and Noble, Waterstone’s (in the Back Bay) and Lauriat’s could always be counted on for finding the newest in titles and authors.  I’d leave one and head immediately for another.

As I say, a trip to Boston was never complete without a hop-over to Harvard Square and its many bookstores. Of course, there was The Harvard Coop. The third floor poster shop was my favorite floor. Finding posters (art and cultural) for your bedroom was a popular trend in the ’60s and ’70s. I remember tacking up WAR IS UNHEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS, also Magritte’s Empire of Lights, Picasso’s Old Guitarist and a huge photo of The Eiffel Tower.  M.C. Escher art posters were very popular. All these posters stayed on my bedroom wall till they became tattered and out-of-fashion.

I’ve always preferred used bookstores to new ones and in those days, Harvard Square was a used book lover’s delight; a used book store could be found practically around every corner. There was a slew of them. I liked best McIntyre and Moore and Louisa Solano’s Grolier Poetry Shop where visitors would know they’d always get a warm welcome from Louisa’s bedraggled mascot, Jessica. This dog looked like it hadn’t had a bath or seen the sun since the day she was born. But she had a frisky tail-wag and a lick of the hand for you and remembered you whenever you walked in, as did Louisa whose knowledge of poets, both local and international, was astounding. The last time I was in Cambridge, the shop was still standing, under new management, of course.

My all-time favorite shop in those days was Schoenhof’s on Mount Auburn Street. I was a foreign language major in college, and a legitimate tingle went up my spine every time I entered. Schoenhof’s boasted one of the largest collections of foreign language books, maps, guidebooks in the U.S. If they didn’t stock a title you were looking for, they’d do all they could to procure it for you. I loved being surrounded by all the different languages of the world and it was great fun picking up instructional books and tapes to try to teach myself a new language. I remember a frustrating October afternoon sitting on a bench at The Charles River with my professor/mentor/friend, Brother Bob Bousquet, who tried mightily but failed to instruct me in German and Dutch (Bob, like my grandmother, was mind-bogglingly multi-lingual). We finally decided my tongue and vocal cords lacked the guttural punch needed to take on these harsh-sounding languages. It bothers me to this day that I couldn’t get the hang of Dutch. I do remember “Hoe laat is het?”  “What time is it?” and the German curse, “Guter Gott im Himmel!”   Well, better than nothing, right! At Schoenhof’s, I found all the Canadian author, Marie-Claire Blais’ novels. (My professor, Madame Brovender steered me towards Blais for my Directed Studies, scoffing at my request to do them on Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince (too precious and twee”, she said. “You’ll get a toothache!”)

In Glen Ellen, California, where writer, M.F.K. Fisher lived, in my wanderings I stumbled upon a gem of a bookstore. The World of Jack London bookstore. After hours, it operated on the Honor System—take what you want and leave your dough in the little box outside. I was amazed; if you tried doing something like that around here or in a metropolitan shop. people would have walked off with the whole building. Some called Glen Ellen “a nowhere cow town” but for me, there was an enchantment about it that was hard to define. I imagine it’s a much different place now, some 30 years later but back in those days, magic waited around every corner.

When I found myself living in Las Vegas in the mid-nineties, I couldn’t for the life of me find work in any of its (surprisingly fine) libraries. My Aunt Helen suggested, “What about a bookstore? That’s kind of the same thing.”  Good Advice. I wound up working in three: two BookStars (BookStar was a subsidiary of Barnes and Noble out West), and a seasonal (holiday) stint at Borders Books and Music on Sahara Boulevard. I loved manning the Information Desk there, as well as being able to see all the newest titles come though the transom. Again, a bookstore, any bookstore, is my idea of Heaven so I was indescribably happy working there, if only for three or four months. The employee discount offered on all store items wasn’t bad either. I made friends among the staff who are still friends: Wendy, my boss, who was 25 at the time. I’d never had a supervisor who was that much younger than me. At first, I doubted being told what to do by a twenty-something was going to be easy, but she was so kind, so supportive of my performance. It’s so hard to believe she’s in her 50s now and a grandmother.

I ran into some hard times when the landlord of my Vegas rooming house kept my rent check, claimed he’d never received it and threw me out on my ass (The bank later confirmed he’d cashed it). I knew Bernie was a shady character but not that shady. Anyway, long story short — I could easily have become homeless if not for the instant, unblinking kindness of two Borders’ employees, a couple, Shane and Kari Jane, who took me into their home, no strings attached. They refused to take any money for rent and said I could stay with them until I was able to get on my feet. I came away from my Borders’ experience believing bookstores not only to be spiritual places of culture and uplift but also places where compassionate, book-loving people can always be found. I’ve always referred to libraries and bookstores as Sanctum Sanctorum of Civility and Decorum, When I’m down or whenever Life circumstances have left me lost, I know I can go to them and feel instantly better.

Harvey’s Bookland ad, 1960s

Brattle Book Shop

Harvard Coop

Louisa Solano in Grolier Bookstore

Schoenhof’s Foreign Books

The World of Jack London Books, Glen Ellen, California

Bookstar interior, Las Vegas, 1994

The Underpass

The Underpass

By Susan April

The Underpass was a fearful place. A literal underpass of the Boston & Maine railroad at the foot of Middlesex Street by the Lord Overpass. You had to be brave or crazy to take that shortcut. I was both. I never understood the spaghetti of on- and off-ramps and you-can’t-go-there pedestrian signs that made up the—we called it the Lord’s—Overpass. The City of Lowell built it for some reason and it wasn’t to improve the walkability of my school on Branch Street to anything downtown. So I had to navigate The Underpass to get my nine-year-old self to the Girls Club on Worthen Street after school. I had to keep learning how to cook, bake, knit and sew in a homeplace better than home, where people knew I was alive and cared that I walked through the door. My mother didn’t. She was sleeping. Always sleeping.

The Underpass was a dank, dark, wet ground and favorite hangout of derelicts, winos, and men in patched overalls who leered at me in my parochial school uniform. I carried my books in a green canvas bag slung over my shoulder and practiced how I would swing it to save my life if one of them rushed me. No one ever did. Sometimes I’d stop at the entrance, my eyes adjusting to the dark, and wait for another person, hopefully a well-dressed adult or teenager starting into The Underpass from the opposite side. An ally—just in case. Most times, I braved the trip alone.

The mud topped my shoes and I carried an old dishcloth to wipe them with on the other side. The other side was something else. I can’t form a clear picture, but it seemed to be an obstacle of vile odors from the Old Mother Hubbard pet food place coupled with hundreds of feral cats feasting on waste on the ground thrown for spoilage. I’d walk past with my eyes closed, but couldn’t figure how to close my nose. What was that place? A railroad siding? There’s a lot I’ve forgotten about the other side of The Underpass.

For example, how did I cross Fletcher or Thorndike Streets? Weren’t they part of the Lord’s. Did I dash across with my eyes closed? I seem to remember balancing on a railroad bridge over a canal. And a strong impression of walking under—how could it be under?—the Howdy Beefburger place which jutted out over the Pawtucket Canal. There was an orange metal beam that I’d reach up to and grab, lift my body, and presto—I was on Dutton Street.

From there the route was easy: cross Dutton, walk past the Giant Store, up a short block of Broadway and onto Worthen Street. There was an actual sidewalk made of brick which I would literally run along in a state of joy to push through the tall, black doors of the Girls Club to safety and home, my knitting project patiently waiting for me in a cubby with my name on it. My name.

For a few hours, I had purple and blue yarn. And peace. Then, at six o’clock when the Club would close I’d have to return. This time, no running, only a sad exit out those black doors. A slow foot-dragging harumph past the Whistler House, then falling apart, paint flaking, a window cracked. Past the Giant Store and its smell of popcorn. Past Howdy’s. This time crossing Fletcher Street and its grey granite cobbles. The same stone that made up half the side of a building. I never understood that half-stone building, but enjoyed running my hand along the granite, which held the warmth of the sun. Somewhere nearby, perhaps on Western Avenue, there was a hobby shop with men and boys racing slot cars. I peeked in a window once. There was an odd smell—do slot cars burn rubber?

On the return, I wouldn’t take The Underpass. If it was six going on six-thirty and getting dark, maybe already dark. I’d chicken out and take the long way home, which meant walking the length of Western Ave. over to School Street. Then the long, long climb up School to Westford and Cupples Square and home where mother would be up from her “nap,” attempting to make a dinner.

Refugees and our nation’s soul by Marjorie Arons-Barron

The entry below is being cross-posted from Marjorie Arons-Barron’s own blog.

After the Last Border by Jessica Goudreau should be required reading for people who fear or loathe strangers coming to the United States to avoid persecution, war and chaos in their home countries.  The author tells of two such women, weaving between their alternating stories the history of immigration and refugee resettlement in this country. Both of these women – Mu Naw from Myanmar and Hasna al-Salam from Syria (their names are changed to protect them and their loved ones left behind)  – are courageous, hard-working, and long-suffering. They confront insurmountable struggles to reach a place of safety for them and their children.  Eventually they both find that place in Austin, Texas, Mu Naw in 2007 and Hasna in 2016.

Goudreau met Mu Naw while the author and she were watching their young children in an Austin park. Despite a gaping language barrier, they managed to communicate with one another. Their growing friendship led to two years of interviews laying the groundwork for Goudreau’s commitment to tell Mu Naw’s story.

Goudreau had worked for a decade with refugees in Austin and got to know Hasna as well.  In humanizing their narratives, Goudreau captures the angst of having to flee one’s homeland, the dangers of flight and living in tented camps, the bureaucratic impediments and protracted vetting endured in the refugee resettlement process, the disorientation of being dropped in substandard housing, not speaking the language, having to find their ways to grocery stores to feed their children and not recognizing the products on the shelves. How to work the thermostat in an apartment, or even how to turn on the strange-looking stoves on which to cook their dinners?

We also learn about the resettlement workers and volunteers who help them fill out the necessary paperwork to get income assistance, find entry-level jobs, gain access to medical care and find schooling for their little ones. It is a lonely, terrifying existence, sustained largely by being able to communicate with their spouses, siblings and other loved ones back in the refugee camps waiting and hoping for family reunification.

Goudreau recalls the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 limiting an entire group based on their national origins. Later came many decades when people were admitted according to national quotas. She reminds us of our nation’s 1939 rejection of the Jewish-refugee-filled ship St. Louis, which led to the concentration camp deaths of hundreds of passengers seeking refuge in the United States. Years later came Harry Truman’s 1948 Displaced Persons Act. There followed the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the Convention on Genocide, the creation under Jimmy Carter of a special category of refugees from war and persecution. The liberalization of policy was often followed by more restrictions, and almost always we have shown a preference for educated whites from northern Europe.  There have been seismic debates around issues of  morality and foreign policy. She sees our responses to humanitarian crises as deeply reflective of the soul of our nation.

Goudreau is never so totally immersed in the background history that she wanders from the pathos of the stories of Mu Naw and Hasna el-Salam. If her goal is both to educate and create empathy, she does it smoothly and powerfully. From Cubans to Syrians, from Catholics and Jews to Muslims, from the plight of DACA young people to ending the Temporary Protected Status for Haitians and others for whom return to home countries is perilous, her book is brilliant, deeply moving and slated to become a non-fiction classic. The book was published in 2020, before the terrors and traumas by ICE under Donald Trump.

It’s important to remember that both Mu Naw and Hasna el-Salam came here legally. They had been extensively vetted and processed. Despite their playing by all the rules, they faced daunting new challenges upon their arrival. Trump may rightly decry the small proportion of criminals who have slipped through the system, but he has shown no compassion for law-abiding refugees. Goudreau’s writing evokes deep empathy for the Mu Naws and Hasna el-Salams who were forced to flee their homes and endure endless suffering in refugee camps till they could be transitioned here, part of Emma Lazarus’s “huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Apparently, the poet’s “golden door” of entry to the United States is the only golden object that has no value for Donald Trump. This book could shine a light for him, if only he read – and was capable of change.