RichardHowe.com – Voices from Lowell & Beyond

Why it’s us versus them by Marjorie Arons-Barron

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

Paper Girl: a Memoir of Home and Family in a Fractured America by journalist Beth Macy is a perfect complement to my just-reviewed Buckeye by Patrick Ryan. Think of Paper Girl as small-town Ohio, part 2, the contemporary, non-fiction version.

Macy grew up in Urbana, Ohio, graduating from high school in 1982. Though four generations of her family suffered from addiction, abuse, teen pregnancy and poverty-related struggles. Beth herself had been an unruly teenager, yet she still responsibly delivered newspapers on her bike, played in the high school marching band, finished high school, graduated from college and got a job writing for the Urbana Daily News, the same paper she had delivered to her neighborhood as a youngster.

Eventually, she moved elsewhere for jobs with bigger papers, returning home only rarely to visit her mother. Over several decades, she came to discover that “something was rotting beneath the surface” of her “postcard-cute” hometown.  She decided to return regularly to Urbana for two years to dig deeper and deeper into the shocking changes she observed. What she discovered became this powerful fact-based memoir that helps the reader understand more viscerally the huge divide that poisons America today.

Urbana could well be what Ryan’s fictional town of Bonhomie would become today. Interestingly, Urbana is just a little over an hour’s drive from J.D. Vance’s birthplace in Middletown, Ohio. Macy responded one way by documenting systemic failures. Vance (and Trump) respond to the same issues by opportunistically blaming liberals, immigrants, minorities and the deep state for the despair experienced by frustrated whites.

Under the pressure of globalization and the offshoring of jobs, the decline of unions, inroads of technology into job availability, Urbana’s middle class had been hollowed out.  There were huge wealth gaps between the few remaining factory owners and bankers and the growing tranche of poor, who had become mired in hopelessness and resentment.

Public schools are failing. Third graders are failing miserably at reading and math. Absenteeism is endemic. Parents distrustful of public schools’ wokism are homeschooling their kids, supplementing that often-flawed education with rigid Bible-based “character-building” courses. Classic books have been banned. College has become out of reach due to disinvestment by federal and state governments in both liberal arts and vocational education. Those few who managed to start higher ed have typically not finished but are still saddled by student debt. The American Dream of home ownership is a mirage.

Worse, since substantive local journalism (once “society’s glue”) went away, overshadowed by misinformation on the internet and social media, conspiracy theories have become widely regarded as truth. (Springfield, Ohio,  home of Trump’s fabricated Haitian dog-eating story, is less than 14 miles away.) Internet outrage, Macy writes, has become the reigning religion of America. Macy’s own sister (Cookie) and Beth became estranged. Cookie, stuck in a toxically abusive marriage, became increasingly imbued with Christian nationalism fueled in her own church,  and  comfortable with white supremacist rants. For reporter Macy, the despair and alienation are, in her own family, the lived experience.

Disclosures from the Epstein files about the sordid behavior of degenerate wealthy elites at wild parties with underage girls sadly gives oxygen to Qanon conspiracy beliefs widely held in Urbana.  Qanon obsessions are just a small slice of Macy’s memoir, which my friend Paul, who recommended the book, says should be required reading for any Democrat, or anyone else concerned about our toxic polarization.

Macy is short on prescriptions, except for urging readers trying to bridge he divide to find common ground on neutral topics (Sports? Recipes? Grandkids?) and build relationships from there. But she concedes that such approaches, while effective, are not easily scalable. (See my review of How Minds Change, by David McRaney.)

Though her memoir is rich with data, Macy weaves her own personal difficulties in and out of what could have become just another sociological tract. In the process, she humanizes the huge challenges we face as a nation.

In the wake of Donald Trump’s clearcut win in 2024,  Paper Girl could serve as a primer for those getting out of their bubbles and going into the ’26 mid-terms and the ’28 Presidential race beyond.

Lowell Politics: February 15, 2026

To help commemorate Lowell’s bicentennial, I’ve written a new book. Lowell: A Concise History tells the city’s story from the arrival of the first English explorers in the early 1600s up to the present day with a focus on immigration and industrialization. It’s a short volume for the casual reader but it also includes data about the city’s geography, population growth, forms of government and much else.

A print copy of the book may be purchased from Lulu Press, a print on demand company, at this link.

You may also download a full PDF version of the book for free at this link.

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The highlight of the Lowell City Council meeting of Tuesday, February 10, 2026, was City Manager Tom Golden’s “2025 in Review” presentation. The core of that was a 12-minute video that was well-produced with narration by a cohort of city department heads.

The opening line, from Chief Financial Officer Conor Baldwin, was “Good financial management is the cornerstone of effective government.” He then cited the highest bond rating and the biggest stabilization fund balance in decades as evidence of the city’s fiscal strength.

Moving on, the video observed that 2025 saw the full impact of the American Rescue Plan Act (ARPA), the Biden-era federal initiative that poured billions of dollars into American communities to help recover from the Covid pandemic. Lowell received more than $76 million in ARPA funding with $10 million spent on replacing the entire Lowell Fire Department fleet with all-new vehicles and nearly $1 million that was spent on festivals and support to small businesses. Millions more were committed to upgrading nearly a dozen city parks, and many expensive infrastructure and building repair tasks were also financed by ARPA.

In all, the city spent $23 million – not all ARPA funds – on infrastructure improvements, mostly in the form of street and sidewalk repaving. Also, with funding support from the Massachusetts School Building Authority, the city has undertaken eleven renovation projects at seven schools, mostly for HVAC and accessibility improvements.

The presentation then cited the importance of education: “As we look ahead, we’re aligning our education and workforce strategies with the future of our economy. Through our partnership with UMass Lowell, Middlesex Community College, and the Lowell Public Schools, we are building a pipeline from pre-K to Ph.D., one that connects students to opportunities in biotech, robotics, clean energy, and advanced manufacturing. This is how we prepare our residents not just for jobs, but for careers that will define the next generation of Lowell’s growth.”

In the economic development review, the highlight was the many new projects and housing developments underway in the city. Then there was this: “Perhaps no area saw more transformation than the Hamilton Canal Innovation District. Thanks to the tireless work of DPD and with the full support of the city council, we successfully renegotiated a development agreement in the HCID.” I take this as a reference to the Lupoli project although I’m not sure the verbiage used in this video accurately captures what really happened. For instance, here’s what I wrote about that “transformation” in my own Year in Review article last month:

“Hamilton Canal Innovation District – In March, the city council enacted a controversial amendment to a Land Disposition Agreement relative to the use of several HCID lots between the city and the Lupoli Companies. Originally, the Lupoli Companies had promised to construct a 12 to 14-story mixed-use building; a second building of 50,000 square feet on an adjacent lot; and a privately owned parking lot on a third parcel. However, in 2024, the Lupoli Companies returned to the council to request permission to scale back the high rise building to a smaller, wood frame residential apartment building. Although most of the discussion took place in executive session, enough was said in public to know several councilors opposed the requested modification and preferred declaring a default in performance. However, the city administration and most councilors concluded that the modified deal was the best the city could get so the council endorsed the amended plan.”

The video concluded with a mention of the global recognition granted to Lowell with its designation as a Front Runner city and closed with this: “Partnering with our nonprofit sector, our universities, and our residents, we will build a more resilient, inclusive, and sustainable Lowell. One that will serve as a model for cities across the country and across the world.”

Unless I missed it, there was no direct mention of the Lowell Innovation Network Corridor (LINC) project. That’s primarily a UMass Lowell initiative but it is also a partnership with many private sector entities, the Commonwealth, and the city. This video’s embrace of the city’s educational opportunities as a way of preparing the youth of Lowell for the jobs of tomorrow is terrific, but those bright, well-educated young people will go where the jobs are. If they are not in Lowell, they will move elsewhere. When it comes to a coherent strategy on how to create those jobs within the city limits, LINC seems to be the only game in town. That it was not mentioned in this presentation is baffling.

The presentation is available for viewing on the city’s YouTube channel at this link.

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I was amused by a recent Lowell Sun story by Melanie Gilbert that appeared on February 9, 2026. The headline, “Lowell tops state’s list of approved ADUs: 26 units approved in 2025; city ranks 4th in Mass,” says it all. (The top three communities were Plymouth, Lawrence and Nantucket.)

Recall that beginning in 2022, the Lowell City Council engaged in a multi-year legislative process regarding accessory dwelling units (ADUs) that moved from an initial embrace as an innovative way to address the high cost and inadequate amount of housing in the city, to a contentious rejection of a proposed local ordinance after politically powerful constituencies in the city condemned ADUs as a threat to the “character” of the city’s single family neighborhoods. Shortly after that a new state law that allowed ADUs as a matter of right superseded the city’s decision.

But for this Sun story, I would have guessed that not a single ADU had been built in Lowell since our neighborhoods have yet to descend into the chaos many predicted would result if ADUs were allowed in the city.

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In this week’s Seen & Heard column, I reviewed the Winter Olympics and the Super Bowl and promised to explain the “Lowell connection” to Bad Bunny’s halftime performance. Here is the story of Charles Herbert Allen.

Throughout the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, Puerto Rico and Cuba were Spanish colonies. However, by the late 1800s, the once-mighty Spanish Empire was disintegrating. Longtime residents of both islands were increasing their efforts to gain independence, often through armed conflict.

At the time, sugar was a lucrative crop in both locations, dominated largely by American companies. These business leaders viewed the burgeoning independence movements as both a threat to their investments and an opportunity to shed the remaining colonial control exercised by Spain. Because the McKinley Administration was deeply committed to advancing the interests of “Big Business,” it took up the cause of Cuban independence—though many historians argue this was a pretense for pursuing economic objectives.

When the US battleship Maine exploded and sank in Havana Harbor on February 15, 1898, the United States blamed Spain without evidence and invaded both Cuba and Puerto Rico. The war lasted only 90 days. Under the Treaty of Paris, signed on December 10, 1898:

• Spain relinquished all claims to Cuba, which became a US protectorate.
• Spain ceded Guam and Puerto Rico to the US, making them US territories.
• Sovereignty of the Philippines was transferred to the United States.

Charles Allen of Lowell, Massachusetts, was appointed the first US civil governor of Puerto Rico. Born in Lowell in 1848, Allen was the son of a lumber magnate whose company was in the lower Highlands, near the Pawtucket Canal and Clemente Park. After a stint in the family business, Allen entered politics, serving on the Lowell School Committee before becoming a state representative, a state senator, and eventually a US Congressman in 1885.

When William McKinley assumed the presidency, he selected another Massachusetts Congressman, John Long, as Secretary of the Navy. Theodore Roosevelt was chosen as Assistant Secretary. However, after the Maine exploded, Roosevelt impetuously issued orders to the US Pacific Fleet without coordinating with Long or the President. He was quietly eased out of the role and formed the “Rough Riders” volunteer regiment, eventually winning fame at the Battle of San Juan Hill.

Seeking a more cooperative replacement, Long selected his former colleague, Charles Allen, despite Allen having no naval or nautical experience. As soon as the war ended, President McKinley appointed Allen to the Puerto Rican post.

As governor of Puerto Rico, Allen raised taxes on residents and froze funding for schools and public buildings. He diverted those funds to US companies to improve the island’s railroads and port facilities, making it cheaper for American sugar producers to export their goods.

After one year, Allen resigned and moved to New York to become president of the American Sugar Refining Company, which eventually controlled more than 90% of sugar processing in the US. Today, we know that company as Domino Sugar.

Allen eventually retired to Lowell, where he purchased a stately brick house overlooking the Merrimack River. He spent his final years painting landscapes and still lifes. His home is now part of the UMass Lowell South Campus; still known as The Allen House, it features several of his paintings on display. Allen died in 1934 and is buried in Lowell Cemetery.

In her Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Cuba: An American History (2021), Ada Ferrer documents how US sugar companies forced farmers to devote their land almost exclusively to sugar. The same thing occurred in Puerto Rico. This deprived both islands of a diversified agricultural sector that could have generated more local wealth. The economic consequences of this monoculture are still felt in the poverty experienced on the islands today.

So, when Bad Bunny began his performance with a rhythmic walk through a sugarcane field, my mind went immediately to Charles Allen of Lowell and the enduring influence he left on Puerto Rico.

Small town America: Is it what we think it is? by Marjorie Arons-Barron

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

Buckeye by Patrick Ryan is a beautifully written novel about a fictional town in Ohio (Bonhomie), not far from Toledo.  If you’ve ever lived in a small town, it may feel like home to you. The span is immediate pre-World War II through the 1970’s, and the focus is on three generations of each of two families.  What a reader might assume to be a paean to America in a simpler time – a goal of “Make America Great Again?” – evolves to display all the underlying fissures and dysfunction that were glossed over or repressed in mid-20^th century America and became increasingly manifest as the years passed.

Both of the families have secrets, lies which damage them before and after their revelation. There was family dysfunction with grandparents modeling behavior with negative effects on their children. And those children who, as adults, individually seek to mitigate those effects on their own children or, in at least one case, replicate wrongs visited upon them. As members of wartime generations (post WWI, WWII and the Vietnam War), there are tragedies and losses. There are stigmas from physical disability and repressed homosexuality. The two families that Ryan focuses on are intriguingly revealed to have one secret that is shared between the two, a buried scandal that is key to driving the narrative.

Most importantly, perhaps, this story is told with empathy, each character made understandable and relatable in the most human ways.  The author, who spent eight years on this book,  explores the many ways that love expresses itself, the wounds that we inflict on each other, the growth of understanding, compassion and forgiveness.  Buckeye has an epic sweep to the narrative but is intimate in a most profound way, and all of this is set against a magnificent re-creation of what life looked like in small-town America in the 20^th century, details rendered in a most comprehensive and painterly way.  Buckeye is one of those special books that, when the last page is turned, you want to savor longer.

Work Life part 2

Work Life: Part 2

By Leo Racicot

When it became clear I was going to be trapped in Las Vegas indefinitely, I figured I’d try to get a job. With some library experience under my belt, I hoped to find work with one of the city’s libraries: a main library and 20 or more branch libraries scattered throughout the city. I didn’t know how wrong I was. At that time, getting a job in Las Vegas was centered around licensing and residency. Unless I wanted to hawk casino flyers along The Strip (and given the amount of discarded ones littering the sidewalks, many people did), I was at a loss as to where I could work; I knew nothing about being a croupier or gambling. (I don’t even know how to play poker or blackjack) and again, not having an established residency in the city made me persona non grata wherever I applied, even the town’s many branch libraries. It became frustrating on a daily basis to be turned down, turned away from jobs I was qualified for. I pounded the unbelievably hot pavement day-after-disappointing day. I remember one fellow, Mister Ko kept asking me to meet him for an interview “at the Denny’s on The Strip”, for work for his jewelry booth at the mall. I could never pin him down on which Denny’s he meant (there were several on the main drag) and gave up after more than a few tries. I learned you never knew what to expect in Vegas — liars/cons/thieves/unreliables. I became especially gung ho to work at the library branch on Flamingo Road, the most attractive of the Vegas libraries, with its pale pink sandstone tones and soft exterior lighting. But — my interviews there went nowhere.

Helen, knowing how much I like books, suggested I try a bookstore. I applied to the Borders Books and Music on Sahara Avenue for temporary holiday help. To my surprise and delight, Mr. Barry hired me and I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d finally gotten gainful employment, if only for a while. I liked the store’s atmosphere and my fellow workers. Though having to get used to my supervisor, Hilary, being a 22 year-old took some doing. She was nice enough, and respectful of me as an older worker, and we got along fine. I especially enjoyed my time on the Information Desk; it was similar to the role I’d played at O’Leary and pandered to my knack and my enthusiasm for research and helping patrons find what they were looking for. Unfortunately, it was at this time that Aunt Helen decided it would be best for me, now that I had a job, to find my own place, her major reason being that she and Cookie liked to take off all their clothes at home to keep cool in the sweltering heat and “we haven’t been able to do that with you in the house”.  I found a rooming situation some miles away, fostered by a shifty guy named Bernie, who kept house for four other guys and me. I mention this only because an emergency situation arose in which two of my Borders’ co-workers played an instrumental role. A few months after moving in, on August 31st, 1997 — I remember the exact date because that was the day one of our housemates, Paul, walked in and announced that Princess Diana had been killed in a car crash in Paris — Bernie called me to his office and asked me where my rent was. I told him I’d put it in the rent box, as I usually did but he said he hadn’t received it. I didn’t understand why but he showed no sympathy and said he couldn’t wait for me to get my next paycheck at the bookstore. He literally threw me out, not even allowing me to gather up my clothes and other belongings.  Helen wasn’t willing to let me come back to her house and I found myself homeless, or very nearly so. I’d just been hired as a hotel concierge by Desert Creek Ranch and Inn in the depths of Death Valley. but finding myself without a home base or my dress clothes made it impossible for me to report for my first day. It was a couple, Shane and Kari Jane, two co-workers who, hearing my plight, kindly said I could crash at their place until I could get myself on my feet. Had you asked me which of my co-workers would come to my rescue, and in such an unconditional way, Shane and Kari Jane would have been the last on my list. My life has been filled with unexpected guardian angels. Fortuitously, Joe was vacationing in Vegas, visiting me, and came to the rescue, with meals and money. It was a traumatic time; I was in a city I didn’t like and that didn’t like me. The heat was getting to me, the unsavory nature of the place itself, Bernie’s betrayal (the bank later confirmed he’d cashed my “missing” rent check). I wasn’t exactly the last of the high rollers and wasn’t interested in the city’s two main attractions: gambling and showgirls. Plus my temporary Borders holiday gig was coming to an end. I was at my wit’s end when the manager, Mr. Barry, said a friend of his who managed a nearby Bookstar (a West Coast subsidiary of Barnes and Noble) was hiring. As for somewhere new to live, I came across an ad for a rooming house on Edna Avenue. Edna was my mother’s name so I took it to be a sign that she was with me and steering me towards this place. In one and the same day, Bookstar hired me and the landlords of Edna Ave, Dick and Jenny, kind-hearted Mormons, rented me a room. Thank You, Jesus!       My stint at not one but two Bookstar locations didn’t last. Vegas is a very transient city —people, situations come and go. The manager who’d hired me left and moved back to Chicago. The new manager wanted to start fresh, with a whole new crew. I, along with all other staff, were summarily laid off.     I had to find new employment, in order to keep my living quarters on Edna Ave. I had grown to like it there, and liked my fellow roomies. I became especially close to an older man, a true Vegas character named Dancer. Dancer had been a gold miner, a rodeo champ, a carnival roustabout. He took me under-his-wing. Hearing how difficult a time I’d had since moving to Las Vegas, he offered wisdom and suggestions as to “how to survive in Sin City”. We watched many movies together, drinking soda, munching on popcorn and Dancer’s favorite candy, jellybeans. I’d never seen a person nurse one, single jelly bean for so long; he’d keep a piece in his mouth for hours, working it until it was smaller than a dime. His years of being out in the harsh Nevadan desert had left his skin, face-to-foot, with a leathery texture. He favored wearing jeans and a jean vest, sometimes a denim motor oil cap. I’ve tried over the years to locate him and if, indeed, I did, he’s close to 100 years old now, still living independently in Las Vegas. Unforgettable guy. Guy Tarantino was another housemate at Edna Avenue. Guy claimed to be a first cousin of the director, Quentin Tarantino. I liked Guy tremendously though he was forever trying to drag me out on all-nighters on The Strip, turn me into a Vegas player. But, I just didn’t have it in me. We did have some fun times, Guy even coaxing me up onto a karaoke stage. He joked, “Now you can say you performed on a Las Vegas stage!”     A young guy we called “Dutch Mike” seemed harmless enough. Dutch was very generous; every Sunday, he’d treat the house to a couple of dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. On an impromptu room check, Dick and Diane found an arsenal of guns in his closet. Dutch explained them away as being “my hobby” but it was scary. In Las Vegas, you never knew who you knew or what they might be planning. He let each of us hold an Uzzi.  I’d never been that close to a firearm. It was surprisingly light.

But to get back to my work woes — employment pickings were slim. I got a job at the YMCA, handing towels out to members. B-O-R-I-N-G but hey, it was money. The head of the fitness area was a cool guy named Joe Was. We bonded instantly when he asked where I was from. When I said, “Lowell, Mass”, he said, “No way!  I’m from Lawrence”.  My boss was a former Vegas showgirl, Laraine Burrell. She was pretty, and boy, didn’t she know it. Another Vegas character, of-a-sudden, she’d break into her old casino song-and-dance routine, do kicks and pirouettes. Us workers had to think fast and duck or we’d get a leg in the face.  Laraine was moonlighting at the Y, studying nights to earn her law degree. Other “Y” workers I remember — Noli, a Filipino who’d come to Vegas, lost his shirt and found himself stuck there (not an uncommon story), Lois Whitaker who said when she and her husband found better jobs, they’d take me with them and didn’t, and a winsome girl from Hawaii nicknamed “Sweet Leilani”, a good-natured, helpful kid.

As strapped as I was for stability in this very unstable city, I got tired of handing one towel after another out to slick, sweaty customers, and I quit.  My sister’s partner, Rico’s brother, Dean, who also happened to be living in Vegas, got me a job with Rainbow Cinemas. It was too far from Edna Avenue for me to walk. Aunt Helen (with whom I’d made some measure of peace) told me I could use Aunt Marie’s car to get to Rainbow. I accepted. This seemed to be the only way to keep myself going in that hell hole of a place. I was very depressed, missed the East Coast, especially the change in seasons and had lost a lot of weight (I was down to 128 lbs). I liked cinema work — perks for employees offered free movies!  One woman named Sylvia was so kind to me, especially when, after only a couple of weeks of working there, Marie’s car bought the farm and couldn’t be resurrected. For a day or two, I walked miles to-and-from work until Sylvia, seeing I was on the verge of collapse, offered to pick me up and take me home on workdays. But –(and no kindness ever goes unpunished), a week or two into this free ride, poor Sylvia’s car conked out, also never to be resurrected. There was no way for me or her to keep our jobs.

This was the last straw in my star-crossed years in Vegas; I’d only moved out there to lend a helping hand to Helen and my cousin. I demanded Helen pay for a return flight to Massachusetts. I’d had it up to here…I remember saying to her, “This place is killing me!”

Back home in New England, I stayed with Diane and Rico for a time. Then, it was back to the employment drawing board.

There was an ad in the classified section of The Boston Phoenix. It read: “Room in Harvard Square in exchange for work with disturbed youth.” I saw it again when looking for a job. This same ad had been running verbatim for years and years and I was curious as to how this person was still “a youth”. Mostly out of desperation, I called the number listed from a pay phone. A feeble female voice answered and I asked if she could tell me more about the job. She explained that the work involved caring for her autistic son (whom she still didn’t explain was no longer “a youth”) and asked my age. When I said I was 45, she said, “Oh, no, that won’t do. I have only area grad students here, most in their early 20s.” As she added “I’m sorry”, I could hear her pulling the phone away from her ear, to hang up. I shouted, “No!  Please! Wait!  I heard her bringing the phone back and she said, “Yes??”  I explained that I’d had a lot of experience working with special needs populations, not only in work settings but also personally and told her I’d just come back from three years looking after my handicapped cousin. “Well, she said, “Why don’t you come in for an interview?”    I should have let her hang up…

I’ve already written about my consecutive stints with The Sheas (as a companion/cook) and with Cambridge Public Libraries. Those nine years would fill a whole book.

In 2007, the economic climate led to my being laid off from both jobs and I came back to Lowell, tail between my legs, to once again lick the fresh wounds of unemployment. Again, Diane and Rico let me work out my depression with them. I finally found work dog-sitting for my friend, Sally. Sally was to join her partner, Mitch, who did entertainment lighting for entertainers like Michael Jackson, in L.A. and whose two Boston terriers, Reuben “Ruby” and Shecky needed a sitter for the couple’s time away. Ruby was an always a loveable “licker” and liked me. Shecky hated my guts and that became so obvious, Sally decided it would be too problematic for me to handle both dogs on my own so she boarded him, leaving me with the very passionate Ruby, whom I became very fond of. Ruby had a green ball he was overly fond of. It was rare to find him without it in his mouth; he carried that ball everywhere. At night, he’d sleep with it clenched between his teeth. His Linus “security blanket”. Sally and Mitch owned a large, cozy loft on The Riverway. Looking back, I realize my stay there, surrounded by the Scheherezade decor and by the ever-entertaining Ruby helped heal me of my miseries.

In around 2010 or thereabouts, I was contacted on Facebook by the writer, Edmund White. To this day, I’m not sure what compelled him to contact me. I guess it was a combination of his noticing on social media my work-related posts on Facebook about having been a caregiver and sometime editor/proofreader and had been friends with M.F.K. Fisher. He also found it “cool” that actress Bette Davis, a favorite of his, hailed from my hometown of Lowell, and that I’d majored in French language and literature in college.     Edmund had suffered a series of strokes and was recovering at his New York City home. In March of 2012, he wrote to ask if I might be willing to come act as his caregiver/typist/all-around-man.  The pay offered was more than generous and the chance to be around a well-known author was tempting. I said “yes”. We agreed I’d come in April of that year. But he changed his mind, said someone would be helping him in the month of April and could I please come in May? I said, “Okay”. But May came and Ed changed his mind again, said his sister, Margi, would be staying with him for a couple of months and — “Can we make it July?”   I began thinking this was all some kind of joke but didn’t want to offend the great Edmund White whose work I had always admired. Besides, I hadn’t found work here in the area so I agreed to the switch.     In July, I rode the bus down and literally walked the distance from New York’s Port Authority on 42nd and 8th Avenue to Ed’s place on 22nd Street, suitcase in hand. Had I known how many blocks had to be traversed, I would have taken a taxi cab. Outside a flower shop on 8th Avenue, my nerves started to collapse. It took me a while before I called to stay, “I’m here”.   Ed buzzed me in and I took the elevator up to the second floor. There, standing in the doorway was quite the largest man I’d ever seen. Ed’s face had a great, beaming, welcoming smile, his great girth filling the entire doorway. I’m big but Ed, whom I noticed was my height exactly, was bigger. His instant friendliness dispelled my fear as he ushered me into his home. Truth be told, his boyfriend, Michael, was not as cordial. He looked me over head-to-toe. A look of disdain came over his face. He hurried to a room and slammed the door. Ed apologized for him, explained that he (Michael) was stressed, that he was going down to Chapel Hill, to help a friend move up to Boston. But I intuited that Michael’s behavior had little to do with stress. In gay culture, if a guy is fat, homely and shy, trust me — he doesn’t count for much. Michael seemed horrified that I, who looked nothing like my Facebook photos, had shown up in his home. He did cede his room, a beautiful, book-filled room, to me for the duration of my stay. That night, I could hear Ed reading Michael The Riot Act. “He’s come all this way TO HELP US!!  Be nice!”   In the morning, at the breakfast table, the air had cleared. Before departing for the bus station, Michael gave me one of the warmest hugs and kisses I’d ever received.

Ed was a charming host, a superlative fellow. I don’t think I was the best employee he’d ever found but he must have liked me; he was to invite me back half-a-dozen more times. We became friends and these stays with him were more like vacations than work. He squired me all around Manhattan: to Lincoln Center where we saw Balanchine’s Jewels, to an East Village bar where we were present at the debut of now-acclaimed poet/novelist, Ocean Vuong, to a performance of Uncle Vanya at City Center with Cate Blanchett. Ed was generous, at times, ridiculously so. He was endlessly witty, endlessly erudite, endlessly kind. I loved working with him on his books, my favorite being his memoir, Inside a Peal: My Paris Years. When asked to re-arrange his extensive home library, it was a hoot attempting to navigate my way through the many tiers of books each shelf held, on the verge of collapse they were. Avalanche!   Of course, Ed had his quirks and tics. Don’t we all?

He could be blustery, unreasonable, temperamental. He was, after all, Edmund White. He passed in 2025 and I miss him, miss his emails, miss his quixotic phone calls. He had a habit of calling out-of-the-blue, chiming excitedly, “Quick!, write this down!” and would dictate some memory he’d resurrected, an anecdote he wanted preserved. Ed’s company, whether in person or on the page, made of life something sparkling, something special.

Saying I had a checkered work life is an understatement. I look back and wish I’d had more steady employment but am grateful for the wealth of stories my peripatetic job history has left me with.

___________________

5066 Edna Ave

Aunt Helen

Bookstar

Cousin Cookie

Dean – Las Vegas – 1997

Edmund White – 2014

Flamingo Library

Laraine Burrell

Ruby with his orange ball