RichardHowe.com – Voices from Lowell & Beyond

Holiday Mosaic, Downtown Lowell

This article, slightly revised, appeared first in Merrimack Valley Magazine in December 2021 when Covid had become part of daily life. Invited to write a piece about holiday time in the area, I dialed back to my childhood and later college years when downtown Lowell was a magnet for people celebrating the season. —PM (12/22)

“Oh, Babe, What Would You Say?” A Holiday Mosaic

By Paul Marion

I have a short poem, “A Hundred Nights of Winter,” describing a loaded street scene of life-sized crèche figures in front of Lowell City Hall being hauled away in an orange dump truck of the public works department. The late Lowell artist Vassilios “Bill” Giavis made a painting depicting the poem and asked me to write the lines on the right side of the sheet of paper. People still talk about the painting, which became popular in prints that he sold at the Brush Gallery downtown.

Nativity figures, Lowell, Mass. by Vassilios Giavis

That manger set removal happened in 1982, a brutal winter which prevented city workers from dismantling the manger until early March. We were all ready to get out—not as dramatic as the current extended lockdown ordered to protect our health. We’ve been in a virus crouch for about 200 days now, with winter in sight. Imagine if the virus had hit us last November and soaked in while we were freezing and really stuck indoors.

A Hundred Nights of Winter

It’s been so cold and bad
that it took until last week
to dismantle the public manger.
From my office window, through flurries,
I saw an orange dump truck
pull away in traffic
with Joseph, Mary, shepherds, and angels
standing crowded in the back
like a bunch of refugees.
After a hundred nights of winter,
I’m ready to get out.

The thing is, that tough winter is not typical of my recollections of winter holidays in the Merrimack Valley. Born in Lowell, I grew up close by in Dracut (only place in the U.S. with that name, which comes from Draycot Foliat in England, dating from 1086 or earlier). When I was a kid, Lowell was downtown Dracut, which had no shopping hub to speak of except the affordable Beaver Brook Mills department store in the Collinsville section of town. My family is a Lowell creation anyway, with roots on both sides going back to 1880, when ancestors quit Quebec. Plus, my mother, Doris, always sold fashionable women’s clothes in Cherry & Webb at the corner of Merrimack and John streets.

We had our seasonal rituals at year’s end, one of which was a visit to the manger I would write about many years later. Those figures were probably the same plaster Joseph and Mary that I took in as a youngster in the ‘50s and early ’60s. Back then, Lowell, like other old factory cities (Haverhill, Lawrence), was the commercial magnet for surrounding town residents. Poet Robert Creeley, who grew up in Acton, recalls his folks taking him to Lowell to buy new school shoes in the 1930s. Up until the early 1980s, Lowell had Cherry’s, Bon Marché and Pollard’s department stores, clothes shops like McQuade’s, Lemkins, and Martin’s, Prince’s Bookstore, Lull & Hartford sporting goods, Birke’s for basics direct from the Garment District in New York (the owners were Holocaust survivors), Record Lane and Garnick’s for music and TVs, 5 & 10-Cent stores with everything from sewing materials to green parakeets, and many restaurants.

For me, the priorities were toys and sports equipment. The top floor of Bon Marché (later Jordan’s with the prized blueberry muffin recipe) transformed into Toyland in mid-November, not as big as the whole floor-sized Enchanted Village at Jordan Marsh in Boston, but more than adequate for the needs of kids from Billerica, Chelmsford, Tewksbury, and other border towns. Santa was up there, too, taking notes. Bon Marché stocked the toys local kids learned about from TV ads, the Sears catalog, and Christmastime broadcasts of the Uncle Gus kids’ show on slightly snowy Channel 9, WMUR, out of Manchester, N.H. If I was lucky, my parents would take me through the toy display at Bon Marché a couple of times between Thanksgiving and December 25. When my mother got word of my wish list, she might put the gift on “lay-away” with a deposit and pay it off over a few weeks. I pronounced the store name “Bomma-shay,” clueless that the French term means “inexpensive” or simply, “cheap.” My mother would have said, “a good buy.”

In college in the mid-‘70s, with my mother’s help, I got a part-time job running the manual elevator in Cherry’s. (There was a Mr. Cherry, but I never met a Mr. Webb.) All the stores downtown had Monday and Thursday night hours. The action picked up big-time for the holidays. This is before the mall era, before Burlington and Methuen shopping meccas drained much of the retail life out of Lowell—a pattern that would spread to similar cities. I remember the excitement in the heart of what we’d now call a “festival marketplace,” all the shops and stores with windows decorated, lights and garland, even small Christmas trees displayed.

Nineteen-seventy-two was a blessed year if you were eighteen years old like me. Not only did the Vietnam War draft get suspended just when I had a low number in the Selective Service Lottery, but also the legal drinking age dropped to eighteen and we got the right to vote, the first eighteen-year-olds so favored. This of course pumped up downtown life as young people flooded into A.G. Pollard’s brick-and-fern saloon on Middle Street: tall beers, giant crocks of cheddar cheese plus crackers, and all the peanuts you could eat, tossing the shells on the floor, so radical. The Old Worthen a few streets away drew crowds also with small beers at 25 cents and no free nuts but a distinctive vibe propelled by the belt-run ceiling fans from the old days.

One of our family rituals when I was small involved driving around Greater Lowell to see the houses lit up like birthday cakes—bright colors, gold stars, electric candles. Not every year, but several times, my father, Marcel, drove my mother, two brothers, and me to Boston on a late, darkening Saturday afternoon so we could marvel at the Boston Common lighting display. People came from all around to walk amidst the shining trees. If there was snow on the ground, all the better. Side visits to the S.S. Pierce specialty goods store filled with wines, jams, and canned delicacies and Shreve, Crump and Low jewelers (window looking only) completed the big-city tour. We’d get ice cream at Brigham’s no matter how cold the weather. This was a large deal. I knew classmates at Dracut High who had never been to Boston.

My ten-years-older brother, Richard, made things from the time he was a kid. Growing up in St. Louis parish in Lowell before we moved to Dracut, he’d walk home from school and rescue “good” items on trash day to create installations at home. He was an art guy who took the train to Mass Art in Boston and got a teaching degree. He married around the time that Lowell was rediscovering its history, and he and Florence were fixtures at all the Victorian Christmas events that were trending in the ‘70s in the lead-up to Lowell being crowned a national park. It was the age of Dickens in the city, top hats and long dresses. When he was younger, he collected mountain laurel and sprigs of red berries in Colburn’s Woods near our Dracut home to make wreaths that he sold to family friends. He showed me how to make Mexican God’s Eye tree ornaments (Ojo de Dios) with colored yarn and crossed sticks we picked up in the yard.

People would be backed up ten deep to get into my elevator car—Going up. Going down. My freshly dry-cleaned light gold uniform suit jacket and required necktie. In my pocket an official elevator operator’s license (we got tested once a year). Coats, dresses, juniors, undergarments upstairs; bargains in the basement. The main floor featured hats, shoes, gloves, jewelry, and the magnificent cosmetics counter topped with many small mirrors and offering a plethora of powders, lipsticks, and lotions. The elevator crew from my time produced a future mayor of Lowell and a roadie for The Cars of Boston’s rock scene.

My first Christmas season in the store yielded a massive crush on a sparkling blonde Girl Officers’ colonel from Lowell High School, Leslie, who worked in cosmetics. She was clearly out of my league, but she gave me a chance. I missed the moment after a concert date to see John Sebastian without the Lovin’ Spoonful at Merrimack College in North Andover and a dazzling time at the store holiday party at the Speare House (Camelot-themed on Lowell’s riverbank) where we danced to “Oh, Babe, What Would You Say?”—a throw-back song by Hurricane Smith in the winter of 1972 sung in the style of a 1940s crooner. The DJ played it several times, excellent for a peppy slow dance, along with “Dancing in the Moonlight” by King Harvest and “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder (pick up the dance pace). Leslie wore a red-wine silk outfit with jacket and flared pants. She was gliding that night. Turns out I was not in the advanced math group for relationships. Leslie moved on to higher education in the Midwest. (I had to look up the song and was amazed to learn that Norman “Hurricane” Smith had been a jazz performer before going into record-making. He engineered 100 Beatles songs up through the Rubber Soul album. John Lennon nicknamed him “Normal” Smith. Who knew?)

Churches put on their best for the season, from Advent to the Nativity for Catholics. I was not worldly as a boy, so the Protestant church services and different holiday observances for Jewish families existed beyond my cultural horizon. Lowell had three synagogues and a related thick social tapestry. I regret what I missed, but didn’t know enough even into my late teens to appreciate the diversity of the community. When I got my driver’s license, it was great fun to stay up and go to Christmas Midnight Mass with a pile of friends. Even the few Methodists would squeeze into the back seat because we had well-dressed young women in there for the group date. We lived a parish-bound life in many respects, attending Catholic elementary school and the home church in Dracut, Ste. Thérèse, a French-Canadian spillover from St. Louis de France parish in the contiguous Centralville neighborhood of Lowell. Hundreds of returned WWII veterans used their G.I. Bill low-cost mortgage benefit to buy starter homes over the line in Dracut in the early ‘50s. I chose public high school in Dracut, but even there the group was homogeneous, the Harris family being the only African Americans in the school. Not much beyond Christian believers visible.

The Marion family realized the good fortune of having a turkey at Thanksgiving, a ham with canned pineapple for Christmas, and a roast for New Year’s. On the inside of one cabinet door above our kitchen counter my father always tacked up a calendar for the year—and behind the calendar he had scotch-taped a newspaper clipping of a ragged-looking boy about five years old looking out a tenement window. Dad said he never wanted to forget the suffering in the world, the misery that is often out of our sight. In the holiday season, he donated money to help needy families and contributed to the Jimmy Fund, the Red Sox charity for kids with cancer. He had studied to be a priest but left before the serious seminary training. The bishop should sell all the gold items in the church and use the money to help poor children, he said.

When I think about past holidays, the family gatherings, the celebrations, the comings together on sidewalks downtown, the gifts given and received, the Christmas music (no other holiday matches this song catalog), the feeling I get is one of community, being with familiar people or strangers in an open exchange. Joyeux Noel, Happy Hanukkah, Merry New Year’s, the greetings, the upbeat expressions, the sense of sharing that takes hold. We’re in a time of caution and distances and will be for a while. The cherished rituals will likely change, but not enough to be unrecognizable. It will be important to draw on our warm memories of less anxious days. No person, no power, can suppress the good will we want to express.

Paul Marion (c) 2021

Recollections of Noël

Recollections of Noël

By Louise Peloquin

When the priest at Notre Dame de Lourdes church * put on violet vestments on the first Sunday of Advent, Noël was on the horizon.

My family attended French Mass which always included traditional hymns from Québec and France. Our Advent favorite was:

“Venez Divin Messie
Nous rendre espoir et nous sauver.
Vous êtes notre vie,
Venez, venez, venez!”

(Come Divine Messiah
To give us hope and save us.
You are our life,
Come, come, come!)

The glorious sound of bellowing organ chords filled the church as we sang along with the choir. One of my altar boy cousins had the honor of lighting the first purple candle on the Advent wreath. Plumes of pungent incense tickled our noses and added to the irresistible suspense. “Noël s’en vient!” (Christmas is coming!). It was the time to prepare our hearts and homes for “le Divin Messie”. My cousins and I lived in a two-family home in the Highlands. The sixteen-year age difference between the eldest and the youngest never inhibited fun.

The family home on Harvard St in the Highlands

Our Advent occupations included getting ready for “la Messe de Minuit” (Midnight Mass). Every willing youngster could have a role in the Nativity pageant. We all wanted to be part of the show, not only to don a special costume but also to stay up way past bedtime.

The most coveted roles – Marie, Joseph and the shepherds – were reserved for the best-behaved NDDL seventh and eighth graders. None of the young’uns protested. They knew seniority would come in due time and were quite satisfied to join the heavenly host of angels wearing sky blue satin gowns and silver garland halos designed by couturier mothers and nuns. I was once among the seraphs coiffed with a shirt hanger halo precariously tilted on my small head. It systematically slipped to my eyebrows but I nevertheless maintained a pious posture with hands crossed at the waist.

The army of angels could not remain upstairs for “la Messe de Minuit” because enthusiastic parishioners crowded the nave. So our big show consisted in trooping down the aisle to the tune of “Douce Nuit, Sainte Nuit” (Silent Night, Holy Night) then proceeding to the basement where the PA system aired the upstairs ceremony. Only Jesus’s parents and the two shepherds benefitted from church seating on three-legged stools inside the wooden crêche placed to the side of the altar. The sacristan made sure the evergreen garlands, poinsettia planters and large tinfoil star were a worthy decor to welcome “l’Enfant Jésus” (the Child Jesus).

During the pre-wide-screen-video era, we little ones had to visualize the pomp a few feet above our heads. We didn’t mind. At the end of the Mass we would file back up when the pastor switched on all the lights and placed the “Petit Jésus” statue in a bed made of planks covered with yellow straw. Marie and Joseph would contemplate the divine newborn and the whole congregation would break out in song. Joy and love became palpable.

“Il est né le Divin Enfant!
Jouez hautbois, résonnez musettes.
Il est né le Divin Enfant.
Chantons tous son avènement.”

(He is born the Divine Child.
Play oboes, resound bagpipes.
He is born the Divine Child.
Let us all sing His coming.)

When Midnight Mass was over, attendees lingered to wish one another “Joyeux Noël!” with smiles, handshakes and hugs. The army of angels went back to the basement to exchange its celestial garb for winter coats, boots and colorful handknit “tuques” (woolen hats). While helping the younger cherubs bundle up, the supervising nuns would insist on maintaining angelic conduct. A heartfelt “Oui, ma Soeur” (yes Sister) was the usual response.

After Mass, mothers accompanied children to the crêche. Everyone wanted to admire “l’Enfant Jésus” surrounded by Marie, Joseph and the two shepherds. Lights flashed as snap shots were taken and the organist continued the repertoire of “cantiques” (hymns) like “Minuit chrétien” (O Holy Night), “Les anges dans nos campagnes…Gloria in excelsis Deo”, “Dans cette étable” (in this stable).

Fatigue evaporated as churchgoers headed home for “le Réveillon”, the post-Midnight Mass family celebration consisting in a French-Canadian smorgasbord and singing. For us kids, the prospect of staying up long after “la Messe de Minuit” with our favorite playmates was most appreciated. During “le Réveillon”, the doors separating the two-family residence remained open. It was a magical time. An evergreen wreath with red ribbons dancing in the biting wind hung on the door outside. Inside, an “arbre de Noël” (Christmas tree) bedecked with multicolored lights, glass balls and shiny tinsel occupied the front hall.

Happy Cousins at Christmas

On the living room wall hung an unusual wreath made of large pine cones encircling shellacked and painted paper mâché fruit. It looked real enough to make our mouths water. Had it been within my reach, I certainly would have plucked a few cherries and grapes. My physician father had received the ornament from the mother of a young patient he had saved by performing emergency surgery on a ruptured appendix. When the holidays were over, my mother would store the work of art in safekeeping. One December, when she noticed that the shellacked paint had chipped and the cherries and grapes had begun to droop, she salvaged the bananas, apples and pears to prolong its lifespan. How sad we were when the cornucopia wreath eventually disappeared from the holiday scene. The young patient had grown up and his parents had moved out of town. For years thereafter, Papa received a “carte de Noël” (Christmas card) expressing their “gratitude éternelle”.

Another patient contribution to our Noël decorations was a unique “Petit Jésus”. Papa had tackled an outbreak of pneumonia in a convent one year. The severe as well as mild cases had taken their course and every nun, old and young, recovered. They decided the care warranted a special “merci” – a baby Jesus made of beeswax. His upturned mouth was delicately painted in the palest of pinks. Blonde eyebrows over opalescent lids showed off blue glass eyes. A tuft of soft, fluffy blonde curls crowned his round head. The first time we laid eyes on this “Petit Jésus”, we were convinced he could read our thoughts so we tried to be “bons” (good) in his presence. Laying in the small wooden bed sculpted by “Pépère” (Grandpa), he became the showpiece of our crêche. Maman would always put him away in the basement along with the fruit wreath. But one dog day of summer turned our beautiful “Enfant Jésus” into an amorphous glob. Since he had been blessed by a priest, he remained very precious and we couldn’t possibly dump him into the trash. The wax figure had a proper burial in the back yard with a special rock to mark the spot. Long after, we kids said silent prayers there during our after-school games of tag and hide and seek. “Le Petit Jésus”, we thought, was still observing us with his blue glass eyes.

In most Franco-American homes “le Réveillon” was a culinary “fête” where expert cooks toiled beyond the call of duty to satisfy appetites and thrill palates. Specialties were served buffet style at our house. Crackers spread with homemade “cretons” (pork scrap pâté) were snapped up while the “tourtières” (pork pies) heated. My mother and aunt would compare their “tourtière” recipes and exchange tips on the most appropriate spicing. Cups of thick, bacon-rich “soupe aux pois” (pea soup) were passed around along with slivers of “pâté au salmon” (salmon pie). Drinks included fresh apple cider and Maman’s egg nog whipped up instinctively, never with a recipe. Since her passing in 2012, no one has managed to duplicate it. Adults spiked the concoction with a splash or two of brandy while we kids downed it like water.

“Le Réveillon” was meant to restore energy from the effort of attending Midnight Mass. It included desserts like apple and cranberry-raisin pies, as well as “tarte au sucre” (sugar pie) – a delectable maple syrup, brown sugar, heavy cream, butter, eggs and flour filling in the flakiest of crusts topped with a dollop of whipped cream.

Louise’s mother at the piano

Hot coffee, tea and cocoa helped everyone digest before the musical portion of “le Réveillon”. One of the family’s pianists would sit at the old baby grand, purchased by “Mémère” (Grandma) decades before at a flea market. Happy revellers joined in song belting out French and English yuletide carols. When my aunt and mother noticed droopy eyelids, the celebration wound up. We all complied knowing that the merriment would continue the next day. “Bonsoir, joyeux Noël tout le monde!” (Goodnight, merry Christmas everyone!). Cousins trooped up to their rooms. Parents expressed thanks and the doors closed on happy hearts and replete tummies. Once again, the two-family “Réveillon” had been “une belle fête” (a beautiful party).

Morning comes quickly when one retires in the wee hours. After “le Réveillon”, we were eager to discover what “le Père Noël” (Father Christmas) had brought. Yes indeed, we had often been naughty but we had become nicer and nicer as December 25th approached. There had to be something for us under the tree. Sure enough, colorfully wrapped boxes and bags were awaiting. My parents didn’t raid the toy store to cater to our every wish. Each of us received one. This was completed with a gift for the whole family.

Louise and her brother

One year, my brother and I received a “doctor set” – a bright red plastic satchel filled with medical instruments like a stethoscope, a thermometer, bottles of jelly-bean pills, cotton balls, a little scalpel. A family gift was a board game, an illustrated book or a badminton set to share with our cousins. Maman and Papa received artwork created under the supervision of the very patient Grey Nuns of the Cross at NDDL school.

After exchanging gifts and reluctantly getting out of our PJ’s, we helped Maman prepare the table. “Le jour de Noël” (Christmas Day) was a day for more family members to gather for an afternoon meal. My paternal “Mémère” and “Pépère”, along with several aunts, arrived with offerings. I remember Pépère’s box of individually-wrapped, cantaloupe-sized, pink Florida grapefruit and the aunts’ homemade fruitcake, fudge and snowman-shaped gingerbread cookies. The culinary creations had to look as good as possible before disappearing into hungry bellies. We sat down for the “repas de Noël” (Christmas meal) after saying the “bénédicité” (grace) with a special “merci” for the most precious gift of all, “être ensemble” (being together).

The menu included “tourtière” for those who couldn’t get enough of it. The “plat de résistance” (main dish) was either a repeat of Thanksgiving or a glazed ham decorated with cloves and pineapple slices. Papa would take out his sharpest knife and carve out paper thin slices of meat while explaining – “Les tranches minces sont plus digestes, plus faciles à mastiquer et vous en aurez plus!” (Thin slices are easier to digest, easier to chew and you’ll have more!) He was undoubtedly thinking of the guests with missing molars.

The spirited exchanges were always in French. “Parler français” was natural, especially since we had never heard our Québec-born grandparents speak English. After a lifetime working in New England mill towns, they certainly could “Parler américain”.  But their thoughts were best fashioned in that wonderful French-Canadian vernacular which mirrored the language of Jacques Cartier and Samuel de Champlain. We kids grew up with its special music and vocabulary. Still today, it rings in our heads like a familiar tune.

At the end of the day, Mémère, Pépère and “les Ma Tantes” (the aunts), bid us “Bonsoir et à bientôt” (goodnight and see you soon). We would reunite on January 1st to receive Pépère’s “bénédiction familiale de la nouvelle année” (the new year’s family blessing), a French-Canadian custom – the head of the family ushers in the new year with prayers and good wishes for relatives, friends, the local community and the whole world. We would reverently bow our heads beneath our grandfather’s raised arms, convinced that the blessing would put the year on the right track. Ever since, we have felt Pépère’s presence during the “bénédiction”.

Many Noël traditions remain as we meet to exchange greetings, gifts and lots of food. Some Franco families still organize a “Réveillon”. But the pageantry and magnificence of “la Messe de Minuit” belong to the era when many Franco-American parishes served the city of Lowell.

* NDDL Parish was founded in 1908 to cater to Lowell’s South Common district Franco-Americans. The house of worship on Church Street opened in 1962 and was closed in 2004.

The Author

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This post originally appeared here on December 21, 2021. 

The Perfect Tree

This essay by Henri Marchand was first heard in 2008 as a radio essay on the “Sunrise” program of WUML, 92.5 FM, at UMass Lowell. Today we continue our tradition of reposting the essay each year at Christmas.

The Perfect Tree

By Henri Marchand

We begin the holiday season engaged yet again in a debate of vital importance. It’s an annual and endless argument and we look forward to every December—what qualifies as the perfect Christmas tree? Over the years a variety of false and flawed imposters, each promising no-mess perfection, have been introduced–early plastic trees in distinctly odd greens; the unconventional aluminum specimen illuminated by a 4-color wheel; and, a few years back, the upside down tree. Charlie Brown said it best, “Good grief!” Despite vague threats, claims of greater convenience and calls to “try something different,” over the years we’ve resisted all attempts to go “artificial.”

My wife and I discovered the joy of venturing out to the country to cut our own perfect tree when our children were young. Over the years, as our children have grown up and left home or decided that sleep or term papers were more desirable than putting up with Dad’s all-day search for the holy grail of a Christmas tree, a new tradition was born. I convinced my brother and cousin, both avid hikers, to join me on my annual schlep in search of the elusively perfect tree. And so, the second Saturday of December, following a hearty breakfast at the Owl Diner and with map, tape measure and bow saws in hand, we set off to the wilderness to find the perfect Christmas tree.

My cousin, ever the optimist, sees perfection in every tree. Rick declares the first tree he comes upon a beauty, worthy to cut and hauled home as the centerpiece of this year’s holiday celebration. On the other hand, unless we spend several hours and examine every last tree in the fields, I refuse to acknowledge that we’ve yet found this year’s tannenbaum.

Standing happily by a sapling of a specimen he’ll confidently cry out, “How’s this one?” Seeing me grimace, he’ll ask, slightly indignant and mildly defensive, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Too short,” I’ll offer, or “too tall, crooked trunk, bad side, hole in the middle, no scent, weak branches”—until he gives up and moves on to the next tree, and the next. This goes on until my brother Rene, who, with his pickup truck is the designated driver for this adventure and regards our debate with mock exasperation, makes the sacrilegious suggestion, perfectly timed, that we go to a pre-cut vendor and get the whole thing over with. This starts up another round of spirited disputations and comparisons between fresh-cut and pre-cut trees, needle retention, size, color, selection, safety, and on and on. Thus it goes, back and forth and up and down as we continue to zigzag through the neatly ordered fields of Douglas and Fraser firs, balsams, con-color firs, a few blue spruces. We agree on one thing—scotch pines, natural or not, do not make our list of acceptable varieties and we will bypass them with proper disdain.

There have been some years when we’ve visited nearly half a dozen tree farms, logged at least a hundred miles, and examined several hundred trees in our search for perfection. We’ve slogged through mud, skittered on ice, shivered in unseasonable cold and sweated in unseasonable warmth. All in search of yuletide perfection.

A few years ago a snowstorm made for a particularly seasonal scene and we high-stepped from tree to tree in nearly a foot of snow. Knowing from experience that the snow laden evergreens that looked so Currier and Ivish in the open field were deceiving and might be overwhelming when taken indoors, we shook and brushed off countless boughs in order to properly assess the candidates. Then we had to dig out around the base and account for snow skewered height perspectives. By eleven o’clock we noticed that the snow had become particularly well textured for snowballs. Between neat rows of Fraser firs, a small skirmish broke out.

By noon we were getting hungry and time was running short. With visions of lunch dancing in our heads, the trees began to look better and better. Soon we came upon two that were perfectly and agreeably acceptable. They were cut and carted out of the neatly rowed forest, paid for and carefully placed in my brother’s pickup and taken home, one to my mother’s house and one to mine.

This year family members will gather once again to string the trees with white lights and festoon them with ornaments old and new. And, over toasts and good cheer (and a few more squabbles over credit for selection and the ones that were left behind) all will agree that they are perfect and the best Christmas trees yet.

Lowell Politics: December 21, 2025

Last Tuesday’s Lowell City Council meeting was the final one for outgoing councilors Corey Belanger, Wayne Jenness, and Paul Ratha Yem, all of whom gave farewell remarks. I’ll write about what they said in next Sunday’s newsletter.

Otherwise, the most significant thing that arose at Tuesday’s meeting was a report by Councilor Erik Gitschier as chair of the Nonprofit Subcommittee which had met the previous evening. Gitschier’s report was thorough, but some of the things he shared were disturbing, so I reviewed the LTC recording of the subcommittee meeting and will report on it here.

The subcommittee meeting was requested by Assistant City Manager/DPD Director Yovani Baez-Rose to acquaint councilors, local nonprofits and the public with new requirements governing the use of federal funds coming to the city. Specifically, the new rules apply to entitlement funding from the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). Lowell is eligible for these funds because so many residents have such low income.

Lowell receives three categories of these funds (with the amount received in the most recent year shown in parenthesis):

• Community Development Block Grants (CDBG) are funds that go to quality-of-life improvements such as small business assistance programs, open space projects, and subgrants to nonprofits. I believe eight staffers at DPD are paid by these funds ($2 million).
• Emergency Solutions Grants (ESG) involve services for the homeless ($200,000).
• HOME Program provides down payment and closing cost assistance for first-time home buyers ($750,000).

For the most part, the city administers these funds through a Request For Proposals (RFP) process whereby non-governmental organizations submit applications for grants and, when they are awarded a grant, provide the promised services.

This year, the federal government has imposed new requirements on the city in the administration of these funds that will have a profound impact on the community. Any entity applying for any funds must be in compliance with these requirements, and the federal government has imposed a positive duty on the city to monitor such compliance.

Regarding the specific federal requirements, I think it best to share a transcript of this portion of Ms. Baez-Rose’s remarks which I’ve lightly edited for clarity. It’s a bit lengthy, but please read it entirely:

One [of things applicants must certify] is that they are not doing any diversity, equity and inclusion work. They are not providing any access or information related to abortion care. They are not using more than two genders in any of their language. That also means using “he/him/she/her” kind of pronouns or referencing LGBTQ+ in their documents, hiring practices, job descriptions, handbooks, all of these things. Again, they’re defining that as DEI and so it is unacceptable.

Also, organizations can’t reference or promote climate change, environmental justice, and climate resiliency.  And they cannot provide any kind of benefit to undocumented immigrants.

What that means is that organizations in grant agreements will have to sign off that they are in compliance with all of these things. We’ve had to add language into our RFP that says if you are accepting these funds, you know that you cannot be doing any of the following things.

There is also an expectation that our Community Development staff will do compliance monitoring of these organizations including organizational websites to ensure they are in compliance.

But asking organizations that serve vulnerable populations in a very diverse community like Lowell to abolish any diversity, equity, and inclusion language in their documentation and in their programming that is being funded is going to be difficult. It’s one of the reasons why we asked for this subcommittee meeting, because I think it’s really important that everybody is very clear that these are not arbitrary changes coming down from DPD. It is coming down from HUD, and we need to maintain compliance with this otherwise all of the entitlement funds that the city gets essentially would be at jeopardy.

We also want organizations to understand that this is a voluntary grant opportunity. They don’t have to apply for it. They don’t have to accept it. But we fully understand that losing a $50,000 grant for a small organization could be a pretty big deal to their operating budget.

Verification of immigration status is something that we have never had to do before. So now if you are a first-time home buyer and you’re looking to buy a house, in addition to the income verification documentation, you’re going to need to provide us with proof of your legal status. And there is a federal program online program called SAVE which the city would essentially need to put individual information into to confirm that person’s legal status. That’s documentation and information that we haven’t collected previously and that we would be required to do and that’s information that we would not only collect but we would collect and input into this federal SAVE system. That would also be true for any small business expansion loan.  And then any homeless prevention under ESG or any nonprofit organizations that are taking the grant funds and then paying for things on behalf of people. That would include rent, stipends if they were getting paid through the grant, or a childcare voucher. Anything that could be direct payments.

[Ed. Note: SAVE is an online service administered by US Citizenship and Immigrations Services (USCIS) that allows governmental entities to confirm the immigration status and US citizenship for applicants seeking federal benefits.]

We would have to collect that information and then staff would have to put that into the SAVE system that would do whatever it does in the background to confirm that and then we’d be able to move forward. I think that could make people nervous. It makes us nervous. It’s not something that we’ve had to do before and it’s important for people to understand that we’re asking for it because they’re accepting  these federal funds and that it’s not a requirement of the city of Lowell, but if you’re trying to access these funds from the city, this is something that you’re going to have to provide us – the DEI, abortion, two genders, climate change, all of these  things. It doesn’t matter the project. You have to commit to it. It has to be something that you commit to. We have to monitor compliance for any program that’s funded.

These new requirements have many implications for the city. Some are practical. The reality is that many in our community are undocumented. If you imagine a Venn Diagram with one circle being the undocumented and another being those in need of these federally funded services, there would be at least some overlap. Will the children of the undocumented now be ineligible for childcare vouchers? For rental assistance? Won’t that drive up the number of homeless people in our community?  Although not mentioned at this meeting, will the Lowell Public Schools which depend on significant amounts of federal funds, face similar requirements? Even for those here legally, will there be a chilling effect on their willingness to apply for assistance? For anyone not native-born and white, it’s not unreasonable to worry that having one’s name entered in a federal immigration database might lead to being snatched off the street by masked agents.

Then there are the moral implications. Many sincerely believe that DEI, LGBTQ+ rights, confronting climate change, and other banned concepts are positive goods. But is the sincerity of those beliefs so tenuous that any mention of them can be purged from an organization’s documented identity overnight? On the other hand, if the federal funds are irreplaceable and doing without would cause more suffering, is it acceptable to redact statements of an organization’s values to keep receiving that money?

As I said, the moral and ethical dilemma posed here is profound and is deserving of a broader community conversation. DPD did its part by prompting the subcommittee meeting to alert people to this situation, and the subcommittee did its part by holding a meeting and conveying the information to the entire council. But it was disappointing that the council as a body simply accepted the subcommittee report without comment and moved on to the next item on the agenda. Residents should know where councilors stand on this, and why the city is making the choices that it is. I’m not saying the city’s response is wrong, necessarily. But I am saying that the repercussions of these policies, their anticipated impact, and the rational for the city’s response should be fully discussed in public.

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As mentioned above, the city’s HOME program, which provides down payment and closing cost assistance for first-time home buyers is covered by these requirements. The city in turn uses the Merrimack Valley Housing Partnership (MVHP) to manage the program. Coincidentally, on Tuesday, Cathy Mercado, the Executive Director of MVHP, appeared before the council to speak in support of a motion by Councilor Corey Belanger.

The motion requested the city manager to “facilitate a workforce housing development program to assist residents onto a path to home ownership focused on first time home ownership opportunities as well as down payment assistance and rent-to-own initiatives.” Belanger explained that he saw home ownership as a path to wealth creation for many in Lowell which has made him a strong advocate of first-time home ownership programs. Although this will be his final motion as a city councilor (for now), he hoped that by filing this motion at this time it might create some momentum going forward.

I concur with Belanger’s sentiments on first-time home buyer programs and can add a real-world example of the importance of the work done by MVHP. As most of you know, I spent 30 years as the Middlesex North Register of Deeds. In that position, I had a front row seat to the collapse of the housing market in Lowell (and globally) in 2008.

In the years preceding the collapse, loose regulations and the quest for obscene profits led unscrupulous lenders and brokers to extend onerous mortgages to aspiring homeowners. For many of the thousands of mortgages recorded during the expansion of the housing bubble, it was obvious on the day the mortgage was recorded that it would end in foreclosure. But everyone involved was getting paid up front and quickly passed along the right to repayment to unwitting pension administrators or mutual funds managers who suffered the loss on behalf of their clients. By the time the mortgage crisis ended, more than a thousand Lowell residents had lost their homes to foreclosure.

The financial crisis had a devastating effect on Lowell’s neighborhoods that transcended just the foreclosed properties. I spent considerable time digging into the records to understand what had happened and why. One thing stood out: almost none of the many people who had obtained their homes through the first-time home buyer program administered by the Merrimack Valley Housing Partnership faced foreclosure. It was compelling evidence of the value and effectiveness of the MVHP program.

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On one of the coldest days of the season this year, our mail carrier delivered political flyers from Rodney Elliott and Vanna Howard, both candidates for the state senate seat vacated upon the death of incumbent Ed Kennedy earlier this year.

It seemed strange to get a political mailing the week before Christmas, but it was a reminder that the special primary election in that race is just a few weeks away on Tuesday, February 3, 2026. The special state election will be a month later, on Tuesday, March 3, 2026.

The deadline to submit nomination papers to local election officials is not until December 23, 2025, so the field of candidates is not yet set. However, whoever wins will have to run again for the same office in the state primary on September 1, 2026, and in the state election on November 3, 2026.

If either Howard or Elliott win the senate seat, the state representative seat the winner now holds will be left vacant until the fall election since there won’t be time for another special election.

In person early voting will not be available for the special election primary or the special election, however, voting by mail will be offered. To apply for a vote-by-mail ballot for all 2026 state elections, visit the Secretary of State’s website.

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Back in 2012, I recruited 56 people from Lowell to each recite on camera a line from the classic story, “A Visit From St. Nicholas” (a/k/a The Night before Christmas). Some who appear in the video have passed away, or moved away, but many are still around. Please enjoy the video which resides on my YouTube channel.