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Time of the End of the Season Part Two

Time of the End of the Season Part Two: Bubblz—LA–Broken Arrow

By Bob Hodge

Bob Hodge grew up in Lowell and went on to graduate from Lowell High (1973) and University of Lowell (1990). He was (and still is) one the greatest runners to come out of this region. He’s also a writer whose 2020 memoir, Tale of the Times: A Runner’s Story, is available at lala books in downtown Lowell and in Kindle format from Amazon. The following is another excerpt from his novel-in-progress. The first segment appeared on this site on January 16, 2026.

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Bub’s was a party girl so when I told her I needed to run ten miles she thought I was joking. “Listen, you can drop me here along this beach bike path I think it follows along the road and I will meet you ten miles from here in one hour.” I left all my stuff with her money too and I ran in nothing but my shorts and shoes. Bub’s didn’t let me down she was parked on the side of the road with a couple of cold Pepsi Cola’s.

Bub’s put on her bikini in the car and we walked to the ocean for a swim and then a long walk on the beach. “You must be some kind of athlete knocking off ten miles like that no sweat.” “I want to be Bub’s I am on a mission to find that out and visiting runners around the country who have been there to the Olympics and such.”

I stayed with Bub’s and her roommate Suzy and we had a great time talking, listening to some far-out surfer music and playing around with a nice Gibson a gift from a former boyfriend. In the mornings they both headed off to work while I slept in until the sun got warm and then went for runs on Mt Tamalpais in the forest and in the evening on the beach.

I wanted to hang there forever but summer was ending and it was almost cross-country season time to get serious. My funds were running low the pile of Travelers checks growing thin horror of horror’s I might have to get a job.

Bub’s dropped me off at the station next stop City of Angels.

I awoke at the cabin remembering last night how I got excited with the writing I was back in LA that summer of Willy about to meet my mentor Jack and the words came in a torrent. I would read them later as was my custom. Awake coffee and a nibble, putter around cleaning then sit and read the local news, poetry a novel. 

Okay I’m ready let’s look this over.

I arrived in the LA bus station at midnight after we were delayed due to mechanical issues. I had no desire to stay in LA I was passing through and would catch the next bus to San Diego but first I had to kill about twelve hours. I changed into my running gear in the Men’s room and checked my bag with a clerk who gave me a claim check.

I hit the hard-dark streets of the city at night. It took me a while to get my body going it now being around three o’clock in the morning. I figured to go straight out and back but that wasn’t possible. I was lost until I saw a road sign on the freeway down below me as I ran over a bridge.

I ran down the entrance ramp onto the freeway breakdown lane and almost immediately a California State Trooper pulled over ahead of me. “Son, what are you running out here for are you nuts?” “Sorry sir, I’m lost.” “Let me see some ID.” “Uh, I left at the bus station where I checked my bag.”

“Get in.” And so, I went for a little ride in the police car lights flashing and everythang like I was a major criminal. Once they looked over my ID and listened to my story they calmed down and even gave me a ride to Griffith Park where I promptly fell asleep under a tree after eating some donuts and coffee.

When I awoke I made my way back to the bus station and called Jack from a pay phone. He said he had arranged for someone to pick me up and bring me to his house where I planned to stay for a month and train with his guidance. We had a lot to talk over when I finally got there.

Jack was now in his thirties and married with a young child. He was a coach and a teacher at a Junior College and was continuing to compete at the highest level. He had just run in the World Cross Country Championships in March helping the US Team to a third-place finish.

I was a huge fan of his and had corresponded with him by letter and he had agreed to meet with me and possibly coach me if I came out there but he wanted to meet me in person and discuss things first.

I arrived in San Diego in mid afternoon and Scotty a member of Jacks cross country and track teams picked me up. Scotty was the same age as me and he was nonplussed by my adventures I guess he lived a sheltered life.

When we got to Jack’s place we were welcomed into the kitchen of the well-kept little cottage where Jack his wife Jenn and their young son Tyler were preparing for lunch. I was in awe meeting one of my idols he was wearing a beat-up t shirt was unshaven and had a few grey hairs but looked fit as a stallion.

Jenn wore a t-shirt, running shorts and some little sandals and was a stunner my jaw just dropped and I was embarrassed when Jack noticed and said “That’s okay Willy, everyone has that reaction when they meet my Jenn. You will love her even more when you get to know her a little.” Jenn just smiled and said “You hungry Willy?”

We talked about my running routine over the last six weeks for a bit and I handed over my running log. “Pretty impressive Willy, very consistent even with all the hoboing around.” “You run any races?”

“Only the mountain race with Pablo who I believe you know.”

“Ya man, Pablo and I were teammates on World Cross and afterward him and I traveled in Italy and France and ran two more races. I’m happy to hear he is still fit and doing well.” “Jack, Pablo has five kids and another on the way.” “Wow, way ahead of me.”

“If you could hang with Pablo on Pat’s Peak that is a good sign you have to be fit.”

Jack and I talked for hours. “One thing Willy, you need to get a job.” “I know Jack I don’t have much money left anyways.” Jack handed over a job application.” “Willy, you ever done laundry?”

I moved into a room above the garage finally living large my own place for at least a month. In the morning I filled out an application for a job in the college athletic department athletics department gym.

They were hiring a couple of people so I liked my odds of getting something at least part time, nothing glamorous, washing the team’s uniforms, cleaning the locker rooms, checking student ID at the door and that type of thing.

The pay was minimum wage about $4.00 an hour.

Jack gave me a tour of the small campus where I honed in on the library. I also registered for a course on human anatomy. The course would be in the evening school with mostly adult learners.

In the late afternoon I met Jack at the track with the rest of the team. I would not be training with them regularly as Jack didn’t want to upset the team dynamic with an outsider. I would do long runs with them on Sundays, the only exception.

The team headed out on one of their regular routes for a moderate run and Jack had me do a two-mile time trial on the track. “Willy, I know it has been a while since your last track workout so just feel it out and shoot for 70’s, I don’t want you getting out ahead of your skis.”

I went out and did the first quarter in sixty-five seconds “slow the fuck down” Jack yelled. Well being the little pin head I hit the half at two ten and shortly after something hit me on the back. Jack had thrown his watch at me and chased me down and pulled me from the track.

“Willy, I ain’t gonna say this again, you friggin wise up and follow my instructions or pack up and hit your hobo trail.” “Jesus Jack I’m sorry.” “Good, now start over and do it right.”

That night at dinner Jack was silent and I knew I had upset him. Jenn asked about my day and I helped clean up the dishes. I grabbed a couple of books from Jack’s running library which he had invited me to borrow from. A two-volume autobiography by Ron Hill caught my eye and I holed up in my little room reading immediately caught up in this incredibly moving and forthright story.

I got the job in the athletic department, started my class in anatomy and trained according to Jack’s precise instructions. Soon we would plan a fall racing schedule and I had a decision to make whether to make this my home base or head back to New England.

Life was good a solid routine just what every athlete needs but I felt a little lonely thinking about home and my recent dalliances with Penny, Mo, and Bubblz. I learned some things about Jack that were unsettling and I was trying to put those things aside telling myself that we all end up with a few skeletons in the closet.

Jack had swagger and the guys on the team started to open up on our Sunday runs together about Jack’s abusive manner. I was appalled but also as I had suspected Jack was having an affair with a co-ed which really had me angry “how could he do it, Jenn was everything any man could ever want.”

Jack didn’t even really try to hide it he somehow put himself above it all on some kind of pedestal. He was a great coach and my running was going very well but I knew I could not stay with him so I planned to leave when the semester ended in December.

In the next few months I would race a few local roads and cross-country races pretty low key and then run the Senior AAU Nationals in Durham NC. My ultimate goal would be the Junior International Cross-Country Trial in Gainesville in February a qualifier for Worlds in Auckland New Zealand in March.

My first race came in October a four miler over some dirt roads and trails where I would line up against my coach and mentor. It was a small field of locals mostly from the club Broken Arrow, a great group of guys most with native American roots. I had joined their club at Jack’s insistence and would compete on their team at Senior Nationals.

The first mile was a modest pace around five minutes and Jack and I were cantering. Jack said “Willy work the hills.” We ran together the entire way and I figured we would tie but going around a tight curve Jack ran me into a tree and got three steps on me as I tried to chase him down then changed my mind and jogged across the line in second.

I was initially upset with Jack but that night at dinner he looked at me and laughed, “Willy, you got to be prepared for moves like that, cross-country is a contact sport sometimes.”

After dinner I went to a get together a house party with the Broken Arrow guys. I had not been drinking beer at all after being a binge drinker through my brief college days and sometimes on the hobo trail. Tonight, I look forward to having a few and getting to know the guys a little better.

These guys had some hair-raising stories. Their lives were not easy and yet they were happy go lucky , unlike Jack’s college team. College for the Broken guys was not really on the radar. Most of them hadn’t graduated from high school no matter the schools here were low quality anyway. But they were smart and had to be to survive and not wind up in jail.

I bought a six pack of the cheapest beer I could find. Axel, one of the leaders of the club, an older guy who acted as kind of a manager for the team looked at me closely, “Willy I can’t believe you’re gonna drink that skunk piss.” “Watch me.”

The group treated me like one of their own and I suppose It was because we runners’ athletes who if nothing else in common always had our next fix to look forward to. We also had a solid team for nationals and I was looking forward to competing and traveling to NC.

I explained to Axel and a few of the guys how Jack had run me into the tree. Axel smiled and stroked his chin, the others shook their heads and I could tell that they were very hesitant to be forthright in their feelings about him. No one said a thing.

It was time to call it a night. I had walked the two miles over to the party but when I left I immediately began to run home to my room over the garage, drunk as a fart.

Older and wiser thought I, I finished up my longest run in many years on a hot evening sun setting I grabbed the garden hose and dowsed myself and drank in huge gulps then I went into the house grabbed two beers and the ice bag and towel and took up a seat on the porch in my rocker.

The writing was starting to come around and go someplace though I wasn’t sure where. I was knacker ed but it was a good tired. Maybe I could escape my dreams tonight and just get a restful sleep, though the dreams were feeding the writing, that and all the jumbled thoughts coming together while out running for two plus hours. You have lived a long-life Willy and there are some things that you just never completely overcome.

One weekend Jack took the team to the regional championships an overnighter. Jenn and I and little Sammy had dinner and then Jenn put Sammy to bed while I cleaned up. As I was about to leave Jenn said “Hey Willy, you want to watch a movie with me? I’ll make some popcorn.” “Sure Jenn, what movie did you get?” “Dances with Wolves” I borrowed it from the library.” “It’s a long one about three hours.”

I sat down on the couch with Jenn with the popcorn bowl between us and as the movie started I reached into the bowl and then Jenn’s hand was in mine. My heart is ready to explode all these years later remembering what happened next. I never did see that movie, I heard it was a good flick.

I was nineteen years old then not too good about covering up my feelings. When Jack got back he was ecstatic that his team had won the region. Each day I had to see Jenn usually wearing those little Ellie Mae shorts and a tank top and my arousal nearly made my heart explode.

I started to skip meals with them and eat at the cafeteria at school and then stay late until the library closed telling Jack and Jenn I needed to study for my final exam. My training progressed and I ran an 8:45 for two miles with one of Jack’s team pacing me through the mile.

I ran one cross country invitational hosted by Jack on his home course, as an unofficial entrant. I ran the five-mile course in 23:08 over a minute faster than the course record. Jack and I had a great working relationship but I knew all the drama going on behind the scene would eventually blow up in my face.

I couldn’t be around Jenn, I was in love with her.

I would go to the nationals with Broken Arrow at the end of November and then come back for a few more weeks until school ended.

After that I had no idea what I might do.

LA Woman:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMiAQPABgHA

Copley Square Winter

COPLEY SQUARE WINTER

Terry Downes

The wind blew low and mournful cold
Across the heating grate
The granite building shielding him
He prayed from cruelest fate.

Across the square the grand hotel
Drew rev’lers by the score,
Who passing barely noticed him
Collapsed at Reaper’s door.

His stomach ached for warming food
To help him wage the fight
To cheat the summons claiming him
For death’s roll call that night.

While under gleaming chandeliers
Guests ate and drank their fill
Of New Year’s lavish offerings,
Immune from winter’s chill.

Aroma drifted out the door
Towards him across the street
A friendless being, cold and sick,
Wrapped thin in tattered sheet.

From steeple near the hour boomed
Midnight’s count struck slow,
Every tolling counting down
A spirit ebbing low.

Until at dawn two trucks appeared
One carried food that day,
The second paused aside the grate
And hauled a corpse away.

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Terry Downes is an attorney and retired District Court Clerk/Magistrate who went on to found and direct the MCC Program on Homeland Security, and long served as an adjunct professor at Suffolk Univ. Law School and UMASS-Lowell. He lives in Lowell with his wife Atty. Annie O’Connor.

He explained that this poem tries to capture a haunting scene he witnessed one bitterly cold and windy December night in the mid-1990s while attending an event at the Boston Public Library in Copley Square. When he arrived, he noticed a group of homeless people under blankets on top of the heating grates behind the library. When he left the library several hours later, the individuals were still there. He included the poem in his 1996 chapbook When Winter Takes A Stroll: Reflections on Life & Baseball. Our present arctic weather made it seem relevant today.

Work Life part 1

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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Alexanders Market

Pauline Courcy

Sr. May Jeanne

Rehearsal for It’s a Charlie Brown Christmas

Jane Wall

Linda Hutchins

The Night Chefs

AMIC in the old Rogers Hall Building

The Statue of Liberty stairway

18-passenger Dodge Ram van

Seen & Heard, vol. 5

Welcome to this week’s edition of Seen and Heard, in which I catalog the most interesting things I’ve seen, heard and read over the previous seven days:

Movie: One Battle After Another – When this year’s Academy Award nominations were announced, Sinners, which I reviewed last week, broke a record for the most nominations by a single movie, but One Battle After Another was right behind it. I watched One Battle this week and thought it was terrific. It was funny, tense, and well-acted. The movie begins 15 years ago with a 1970s-style revolutionary group freeing immigrants from detention centers, blowing up powerlines, and robbing banks. But the group was compromised with some being killed by the authorities, others imprisoned, and a handful more evading capture. Fast forward to the present, and a fanatical paramilitary commander who pursued the group back then resumes his search. He mobilizes the government border protection force he commands to plunge into the interior of the country ostensibly to round up immigrants for deportation but that’s just a cover for carrying out the wishes of a wealthy and powerful group of white supremacists who have recruited the border control commander. Given current events, it felt like the screenplay was written last weekend but the movie was produced long before our current predicament. The movie features Leonardo Decaprio, Sean Penn, Benicio del Toro, Regina Hall, Teyana Taylor and Chase Infiniti (in her movie debut). I hope to see more of the Best Picture nominees before the awards are announced in mid-March, but for now, I feel this film is the front runner in that category.

Television: Grammy Awards on CBS – As I navigate today’s attention economy, I too often omit music from the consumption menu. I sought a cram course in the latest musical stars and hits by watching the Grammy Awards this week. I was not disappointed. Since there is always a Lowell connection, I’ll point out that the show’s host, Trevor Noah, did a live show at Lowell’s Tsongas Arena in October 2018. After six years, this was his final Grammy gig since the show will move from CBS to ABC/Hulu/Disney next year. As for the musicians, some I really liked, some were good, and others were OK, but mostly what I saw left me wanting more so in that way, the show was a success. I was especially happy to see a lot of Bad Bunny, the singer from Puerto Rico who will star in Sunday’s Super Bowl halftime show. I was not familiar with his music and still am not since his Super Bowl contract prohibited him from performing at the Grammys, but everything I saw of him increased my interest. He also made history by winning the Album of the Year award which was the first album entirely in Spanish to win that prize. 

Email Newsletter: MASSterList – MASSterList is a free daily email newsletter covering Massachusetts politics and state house news. It’s edited by Gintautas Dumcius, who has covered politics on Beacon Hill for more than 20 years. The headline in yesterday’s edition, “Epstein files ripple through Mass politics,” certainly caught my attention. The primary actor was Patriots owner Bob Kraft, but the exchanges in the files released last week were about Kraft, not with him. In the aftermath of Kraft’s 2019 Florida charges of paying for sex acts. Jeffrey Epstein emailed his former attorney, Jack Goldberger, to say he – Epstein – was urging Kraft to hire Goldberger to defend him in the case. Kraft ultimately did that and Goldberger got the charges against Kraft dismissed. Also of note in the same newsletter in the “events today” section was this: “Gov. Maura Healey hosts a delegation from Denmark to sign a new agreement to strengthen scientific, technological and commercial ties between Massachusetts and Denmark. Healey is joined by Denmark ambassador Jesper Møller Sørensen.” In the face of President Trump’s threats to invade and seize Greenland, an autonomous territory of Denmark, it’s good to see that our governor is doing her part to reinforce good relations between the Commonwealth and one of our oldest and most reliable allies. You can subscribe to the daily MASSterList email here. 

Newspaper Article: “For years, he never did interviews. Now Ernie Adams is telling stories from the first Patriots-Seahawks Super Bowl” by Ben Volin, Boston Globe – I’ve long been fascinated by Ernie Adams who served as “Football Research Director” for the New England Patriots from 2000 to 2021. Adams was a secretive figure, rarely seen or heard from in public, but he’s been more forthcoming since his retirement. He’s made several lengthy appearances on Julian Edelman’s podcast, “Games with Names” which I watch on YouTube. In one of them, Adams explained that he first met Bill Belichick in 1970 when both played offensive line for the Phillips Andover football team. Neither was a great player, but both were obsessed with the history and strategy of football which sparked a lifelong friendship. In this Globe article, Adams breaks down the famous “Malcolm Butler interception” that allowed the Patriots to win their fourth Super Bowl eleven years ago. Adams said Seattle’s decision to throw a pass on that play was dictated by the personnel the Patriots had placed on the field. Seattle had three wide receivers split out from the line, while the Patriots had their biggest players massed on the line. That gave the Patriots an extra linemen who would have tackled a Seattle runner in the backfield if a running play had been called. Seattle knew that and was obliged to risk a pass. Seattle also had a certain pass play they ran repeatedly in goal line situations and so the Patriots had thoroughly prepared to defend that play. Sure enough, Seattle called the exact same pass play and Butler made the interception. That wasn’t preordained – Butler might have dropped the ball or fallen down or failed to cover his man properly, but he didn’t and the Patriots hung on to win the game. The insight offered by Adams is a lesson in the importance of preparation, whether it’s in football or any other part of life. 

Newspaper Article: “In Hostile Times, Cherishing Traditions” by Michaela Towfighi in New York Times – Over the weekend, I noticed a large photo of traditional Cambodian dancers illustrating a story in the New York Times. Assuming it was about Lowell, I clicked on the story and was surprised to see it was from Portland, Maine. It features a woman who learned traditional dance in Cambodia who now seeks to preserve and pass along that skill to a generation of younger Cambodian-Americans “who can find TikTok more compelling than traditional art forms.” In the past year, however, that challenge has been surpassed by obstacles imposed by the federal government, namely, cuts to National Endowment for the Arts grants that helped fund the organization, and the recent surge of ICE agents into Maine targeting the state’s immigrant population. Weekly dance classes, for example, have moved to a more remote location that might provide a better degree of safety to the dance students and their families. While the article tries to be an upbeat story of persevering in the face of adversity, it still shows the extent of the fear and disruption to diverse communities caused by these policies and in doing so, gives more insight into the situation here in Lowell.