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Of Karma, Cass and Mary’s Records

Of Karma, Cass and Mary’s Records

By David Perry

The lifeblood of the record store is used vinyl. Buy it in bulk. Trade for it. Every now and then, some kind soul donates it. Just walks in and gives it to you.

The Great Vinyl Revival that began just shy of 20 years ago has hatched new generations of collectors and revived older ones. There is a steady appetite for pressings of new releases but the real boom is the pre-owned market. Combine that with increasingly expensive and physically flawed new releases and re-pressings — warps, grooves cut off center and even complete dropouts of sound – customers seek out early pressings in the used bins. The closer the source the better, whatever the cost. As with all collectors, we record people are a strange, obsessive bunch.

So when you get a call from Connecticut to look over Mary Travers’ collection, you wonder, what is in there?

My record store of just over 10 years, Vinyl Destination, was a firm believer in vinyl karma, a law that put the right records in the right hands. And I wondered, what put these in ours?

I also believe record collections – like batches of books or coins or cars – say something about their owner. What you chose, what you saved rather than sold, what you listen to, it all matters. And sometimes a collection has a certain DNA that offers a tidbit you never knew.

It turns out Travers, the Mary of Peter Paul & Mary, had a few of those. My favorite is a copy of The Big Three, the 1963 recorded debut of “Mama” Cass Elliot. It’s not the music the trio makes, but the inscription it carries. And for the life of me, I can’t find it among the several thousands of albums stacked up and down two floors of my home.

Mary Travers is best known as a third of Peter, Paul & Mary, who with their 1963 cover of “Blowin’ in the Wind,” smoothed out Bob Dylan for the masses.

Though she died in 2009, Mary is back in the public periphery in the film A Complete Unknown, the popular and acclaimed Bob Dylan biopic. There she is, uncredited but unmistakable, blond bangs, a top of horizontal stripes, a camera magnet, the group a presence on the folk-pop scene that ruled New York and Newport.

I knew her a bit back in the ‘80s, though it would be a stretch to call us “friends.” I was a reporter for The Redding Pilot, the weekly newspaper in the small Connecticut town where Mary lived in a beautiful 1730s farmhouse along the winding Limekiln Road. Sonic Youth guitarist Thurston Moore writes in his memoir of his teen years in nearby Bethel, once crashing his family’s Ford wagon into the stone wall in front of her property.

Mary and I became friendly because 1) I was going to cover her as a resident, 2) I was probably going to want to talk to her anyway and 3) my wife, then establishing a housecleaning business had as one of her customers Virginia Coigney, an extraordinary woman whose past included activism, journalism and work with the Newspaper Guild. As it happened, she was Mary’s mother.

“You HAVE to meet this woman,” Wendy said.

So, we did, over a glass of wine at Mary’s house. It was great. Mary, like her mother,  was a gracious and at times hysterically funny host. We discovered we shared a birth date, Nov. 9. She was also professionally accommodating, once allowing me to tag along backstage as PP&M prepared to take the stage at Yale. That night, she did what she always did when reaching a crescendo of righteous anger, clenching her fists and shaking her head as she sang about El Salvador.

In 1986, I moved on from the weekly.

Years later, I was saddened to hear of her death. Leukemia.

In July 2021, I was surprised to hear from a high school acquaintance, who knew I was now running a record store. Mary’s husband and partner were going to clear out the guest house on the property. There were records. Did I want them?

The next day, I was driving to Redding, leaving I-84 in Newtown, winding back roads to Mary’s. All the while, I wondered, what could this collection contain? I imagined there would be Greenwich Village folkie stalwarts. But what else? I mean, she knew Dylan, as much as that was possible. Maybe advance copies of his seminal works? As with any call to pick up a collection, it was the promise of what could be that lured me.

I snapped back into reality and the surrounding beauty of Redding.

The stunning little town was celebrated in Charles Ives’ composition, “Three Places in New England” and it was a location for 1967’s Valley of the Dolls as well as the location for Christpher Walken’s real life for a bit. The photographer Edward Steichen lived there as did Leonard Bernstein. Daryl Hall was a resident in the ‘80s as was Meat Loaf, who passionately coached softball in the town. Keith Richards still lives in nearby Weston. The town’s library is named for Mark Twain, who lived in Redding from 1908 until his death two years later.

Redding is a perfect leafy hideaway, an easy trek to the thunderous heartbeat of New York.

I pulled into Mary’s driveway, greeted by her fourth husband, Ethan Robbins. He led me to the one-bedroom guest cottage, pointing to a few shelves of records.

“There they are,” he said. We chatted a bit. He pretended to remember me. I dug in. He was sure no one in the family wanted any of the records. He was going to toss them.

It was a humid day. I noticed a slight musty smell in the room, but it hadn’t affected the records. I looked around the cottage and spotted a framed photograph of a young Mary, taken (I believe) by her second husband, photographer Barry Feinstein. Some other art. The sound of workmen drifted in from the distance.

Some of the records were “well-loved,” with light scratches while others were pristine. Many were still sealed, especially about 50 Peter, Paul & Mary records, stock Mary would draw from to sell at appearances. A box of three 78’s, signed by the singer/actor/activist Paul Robeson, who I have read would on occasion sing Mary to sleep thanks to his closeness with her activist parents.

There were indeed dozens upon dozens of records from folkies of her time, from Malvina Reynolds (you know her commentary of suburban sameness, “Little Boxes,” as the theme for HBO’s Weeds) to Fred Neil, Tom Rush, Tom Paxton, Dave Van Ronk and Joan Baez. Lots of blues, too, including Mississippi John Hurt’s essential Worried Blues. As with many of the records she signed her name on the back, marking her territory.

Impressively, she had a dozen albums by Nina Simone, whose interpretive power and nakedly emotional work has come to be embraced by more recent generations of fans.

There was also a promotional copy of Miles Davis jazz-funk foray, “On the Corner.” Dave Brubeck, who lived nearby in Wilton, CT signed an album to her.

Yes, there was an early Dylan record but without any sign of personal attachment.

Some of the records are signed to her from other artists. The most notable are albums from turtlenecked poet Rod McKuen and Mama Cass. I take them home.

McKuen was clearly fond in some way of Mary. In April 1972, he signed a copy of his Gran Tour Vol. 3 album to her: “Dear Mary – You can ignore all the songs on this album except band six, side one. It was written for you with love – Rod. The song is “My Mary.”

But now, as I write about it, Cass’s Big Three record remains elusive.

Most interesting are a series of acetates, most seemingly used to shop tunes for potential inclusion on a Mary Travers album. There is a pair of demos of songs by Brill building songwriters Barry Mann/Cynthia Weill, responsible for more hits than Al Capone.

Is that Barry Mann signing on them? Who knows.

Another mystery is the acetate from Regent Sound Studios in New York, a breezy, loving ditty to celebrate Mary’s birthday just shy of a half-century ago. The only clue is Nov. 9, 1975 printed on the label. Who is singing? A mystery. Is this the only copy? Could be.

There were about 400 LPs. I settled on a price with Ethan, loaded the car and put Redding in my rear view again.

I sold some of the records at the store but kept the bulk of the collection.

I closed Vinyl Destination in February 2024 to fully retire. Mary’s house sold nearly a year ago.

But the records are forever, frozen moments that document a time, a place, an approach to culture and politics and yes, they tell you something about a person.

What does it say about me that I cannot find The Big Three?

Postscript: Found it! In a row I had already scoured.

The Big Three was released in 1963, a year after Peter, Paul & Mary’s debut. The trio included Cass Elliot, Tim Rose and Jim Hendricks. It is inscribed from singer to singer, one hoping to match the other’s popularity. It feels like a yearbook signature.

“Dear Mary
Well, we did it
At last we have an album
God knows…
And here’s hoping
Love, love, love

Cassie”

She did just fine.

****

David Perry was a reporter for the Lowell Sun for 25 years, until 2010, when he worked for a decade as a writer at UMass Lowell. He ran Vinyl Destination from November 2013 to February 2024 in Mill No. 5. In 1992, he earned a Grammy nomination for his album notes to the Jack Kerouac Collection box set and in 2005, was named Journalist of The Year by the New England Press Association. He lives in North Chelmsford with his wife, Wendy, and 20,000 records.

Memorable Teachers

Memorable Teachers

By Leo Racicot

See photos at end of story. 

Mr. Trull was a terrifying man. For one thing, to our young freshmen minds, he looked like he was a hundred years old. This was confirmed for me when I came home and my mother asked me how my first days in high school were going. When I told her I had Mr. Trull for Latin One, she exclaimed, “L. Wyman Trull?!! I had him for American History!” I told her how old he looked and she said, “He looked old when I had him.” I don’t know what made me sign up for Latin; the school required that all students take either three years of one language or two years of two languages so I chose Latin and French, both of which I came to absolutely love. I went on to pick French as my major at Lowell State Teachers College, and Latin as my minor. But how I ever made it through Mr. Trull’s class, I still don’t know. We’d all be sitting there as silent as mice when all-of-a-sudden, his tunnel mouth pierced the air and he’d jump up out of his seat, pointing a bony, arthritic finger only inches from our faces and bellow out a name, usually mispronounced — “Ray-si-cotte!! Give meeee the second person plural of porto!!” I’d jump a mile, or maybe it was a mile-and-a-half. The only reason I’d come up with the right answer is because I thought if I didn’t, Trull was going to kill me,” Trull (doesn’t it sound like a great name for a Lord of the Rings villain?) would have struck the fear of God into God Himself. But after I survived him, I realized I had benefited from his gatling gun, very no-nonsense method of instruction. Because we did learn from the old buzzard. He was cut from the mold of teachers of a time that had long since passed from American education and I know I write better, think better, know logic and common sense, and a deeply embedded self-discipline and self-structure because of him. He gave us a solid foundation for the studies that were to come and I look backs so fondly on the man.

At Saint Patrick’s, I developed a crush on the French language (thanks in part to Sister Antoinette Marie’s baby French lessons, aided by the WGBH television series, Parlons Francais, hosted by the laughable Madame Slack whose Ecoutez et Repetez method of teaching had us students howling with delight). But behind the ridicule and derision, my young heart fell deeply in love with All Things French. More than my infatuation with the language and its culture was my infatuation with my Lowell High School French One teacher, Mary Ann Manning. Miss Manning was so pretty, certainly prettier than any nun I’d had for a teacher in grade school. Her calm, measured presence and presentation of the language, her attractive looks and chic outfits, her hair (which she wore, as did many of the young ladies of her time, in the style of Jacqueline Kennedy) — all of it, merely the fact of “her” put me under a spell every D period, following a lunch I’d gulp down so I could get to Miss Manning’s class as fast as I could. When, at the end of the freshman year, I picked up my class schedule for Sophomore year and saw that I’d be having Miss Manning once again for French Two — well, this boy was over-the-moon. Year Two of French was even more wonderful than Year One until that is, Miss Manning announced that she planned to marry and would soon be “Mrs. Kennedy”. Bummer. How could she go and marry some Bozo and not me! Mid-year, she told us she had to take a leave of absence and I was devastated, especially when I saw her replacement, one Doris R. Bourgeois Herlihy. Madame Herlihy, though also attractive, was a woman much older than Madame Kennedy. She had a noble, aristocratic bearing. She always carried herself and her briefcase as if she was on her way to a Very Important Meeting and spoke French with a rapid-fire casualness well beyond my abilities. She took a liking to me early on, liked my “perfect accent” and insisted I was to attend The Sorbonne my Junior Year, at her urging. “I have big plans for you, Monsieur Leo” Oh….brother….I’d run into her on the stairs between classes and she’d ambush me with her rat-a-tat French. I, of course, had no idea what in hell she was saying. With French foreign language deficiencies, it’s best that one nod and smile, nod and smile, knowingly, inserting the occasional “oui” into the conversation. Fooled ’em every time. I never did go on to The Sorbonne, never saw either woman again but carried the deep love of French the two had instilled in me all the way through college and beyond. It, and the lovely Madame Kennedy and the eccentric Madame Herlihy, I hold forever in my deepest being for all the Joy that language has brought me over a lifetime.

Allie Scruggs was the coolest guy I’d ever known. He looked like a thin Charlie Mingus. Like Mingus, he sported a long, scraggly chin beard. When he liked an answer you gave in class, he’d run his long Fu Manchu fingernails slowly through it and purr “Yee-aah“. He boasted a colorful past and was friends with comedian, Redd Foxx. I once saw the two eating breakfast at Deli Haus in the old Kenmore Square. Dr. Scruggs was the first professor I knew who fought the good, nonviolent fight for civil rights. He annexed us students to volunteer our time and energies to Roxbury’s Project Place and its dispossessed African-American population, especially its children. He opened my world view up to what’s important in Life and in society, and I credit him with helping develop my strong belief in the rights of the individual, the belief that each of us, in his or her own way, can make a difference. I’ll never forget the time he ran the movie, The T.A.M.I.Show for the class and jumped up and boogied down in front of us when James Brown came on the screen.

Margaret Guindon didn’t look as liberal-minded as she was. She looked like someone’s staid aunt or a member of her son’s PTA. But in English class, where language and words were concerned, she was full of fire. In the ’70s, Mrs. Guindon defied convention, putting us wise to the poetry and magic inherent in the lyrics of Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, & Joni Mitchell at a time when Longfellow, Wordsworth, Greenleaf Whittier were pretty much all that was being taught. A real revolutionary, I think…

Edith Hancock was a French Algerian from Abidjan. She had wild black eyes and wild black hair. Recently, when I watched astronaut, Sunny Williams, in the news and her wild gravity-infused hair, I thought of Madame Hancock. Edith was fond of challenging us French students to go beyond our comfort zones and when she saw how shy I was, she literally forced me to perform in a production of Moliere’s Le Medecin Malgre Lui. I played the father. She picked out the most ridiculous-looking costume for me to wear and when I was changing into it in The Men’s Room of Mahoney Hall, she burst into the stall and made adjustments and stuck a safety pin here and there where alterations were needed. During rehearsals, I’d had a problem projecting my voice so when we hit the stage of Little Theater, Mrs. Hancock ran behind the curtain and was shouting in a too-loud voice, “Plus haute, Leo! Avec laforce!” So embarrassing! The audience did burst out laughing the minute I appeared from the wings in my absurd pantaloons and feathered hat, and my lifelong friend, Linda Scanlon, recently reminded me what I looked like after the performance, walking up busy Broadway Street at rush hour in that silly costume.

College French II, and higher levels of French, were taught by Dr. Robert Bousquet, whom we were to learn later on was a member of the Xaverian order of priests and brothers, stationed at Saint John’s Prep, Danvers. The French Department, in those days, was small in number; I was the only male in the major. Part of the department’s charm was that it was housed in a small residence on lower Wilder Street. Going to class was like going to a friend’s home for private lessons. Cozy. Bob was brilliant. He had a PhD from Georgetown University in French Language and Literature, a Master’s in Music from Catholic University, loved semantics, and languages of any kind (he spoke not only French but Creole, German and Dutch fluently) He was also an orchestra musician (he could play practically every wind instrument with ease) and was a champion speller. He was also the kindest, gentlest soul I’ve ever met, and would go out of his way for you, give you the proverbial shirt off his back. Following my graduation from college, he remained a close friend and mentor, and when I was having my troubles, he’d drive all the way from Danvers down to Norton, Massachusetts to treat me to a deluxe nosh and a chat. One of Bob’s favorite activities was to take the whole class out to eat. Usually, these convivial meals were held at The Athenian Corner on Market Street, and I have many good memories of them. Bob’s deep desire to leave teaching to do missionary work in Africa was thwarted when an annual checkup with his doctor revealed he had Parkinson’s Disease, a cruel and debilitating condition that slowly ate away at his vitality. Still, when I was living and working in Cambridge, he’d visit me every single week, catching a ride from two fellow Xaverian buddies, bringing me poems of mine he’d transcribed into manuscript form. I cherish the memory of our walks through Harvard Square, seeing so many interesting sights, so many halcyon days.

Christos “Chris” Bentas looked like the Roman emperors and gods he talked to us about in our Latin, Greek and Classical Civilization classes: he was as tall as Mount Olympus and his hair was Roman in style. He had a sly, sometimes naughty sense of humor and was so impassioned about his subject that his enthusiasm was infectious. Of course, it didn’t take much to get me fired up about Latin. Ours was a tiny study group, it consisted of Dr. Bentas, myself and only two others: John Kalergeropoulos (who put himself through school working downtown at George’s Textile for years), and Linda Scanlon who went on to teach Latin at Matignon and later for Andover Public Schools. We three met in an oblong office on the second floor of Coburn Hall. The space might have been claustrophobic if not for the private club feel of it. In Latin III, we were joined by Jack Grondalski, whose dad had been head of the Science Department at Lowell High and whose cousin was Joe Markiewicz, my best friend. Latin wasn’t for Jack, and he said as much to Dr. Bentas every session. Dr. Bentas, like Dr. Bousquet, also dazzled in the smarts department; he’d earned his PhD in the Classics at Boston University and like Donald Bailey, my Latin II instructor at Lowell High, could speak fluent Latin (a rarity in those days or indeed, in any day) and had a Masters degree in Byzantine chant and was the founder of and organist for The Byzantine Male Choir, which performed regularly at Holy Trinity Church in Lowell’s Ecumenical Square. I tried for years to find a rare recording the choir made but I guess it was too rare. Dr. Bentas loved to tell us stories of his time studying Eastern Orthodox chant in Italy and Athens. He made what many considered to be a dead language come to life. He made learning fun (something I, as a former teacher, know isn’t an easy thing to do).

I was working at O’Leary Library (10 of the most glorious years of my life). It was 1993 and I was feeling like I needed to do something new. My colleague, Sylvia Contover, said, “Leo, did you know that as full-time employees, we can take courses here for free? Why don’t you go back to school and get your Master’s?“ And that’s how I came to know Dr. Thomas G. Devine, a nationally recognized reading authority. The graduate program in education was located off of Princeton Blvd. on the grounds of what used to be the city’s juvie, Lowell Detention Center, where my father used to threaten to put me when I misbehaved. I loved the setting: architecturally interesting, old buildings mostly hidden in fields of bee-mad glades, clouds of mosquitoes, leafy, ancient trees. I believe West Campus is gone now as is Dr. Devine. Dr. Devine was a real character. He was mostly mild-mannered, with a wicked wit. But he could bellow if he thought a student was trying to con him or take shortcuts to a grade. “You’re here to learn! Don’t be lazy! And never never be redundant!” He had a blind spot where my writing was concerned; I could do no wrong. lt like all I had to do was pass in my latest paper and he’d slap an A+ on it without even looking at it. One time, he was boasting to the class how “remarkable” my work was and burst out with “Lee-oh is the author of many, fine novels!” Of course, I wasn’t, and in my meek, soft-spoken way tried to tell him and the class I wasn’t but he came back even louder with “Oh, come come now. You’re much too modest.” What a riot. After I left graduate school, Tom and I developed a delightful epistolary relationship. I treasured and have kept his many letters, and postcards sent from his travels to Ireland and Italy. How Tom loved Italy. He spent his retirement doing his favorite activities. He loved his cats, his garden, taking his bicycle out meandering through the hills of The Arnold Arboretum. He was a skilled artist and painted many fine depictions of New England lighthouses which he kindly sent me as gifts. To say that Tom loved opera would be an understatement, and in retirement he earned the equivalent of a PhD in opera from B.U.

I offer these remembrances in hopes these men and women will not be forgotten. I think better, write more clearly (I hope!), and possess a more positive outlook on Life because of them and others like them. When I’m being decent, or trying at least to be decent, my decency is a reflection of their own.

*     *     *     *     *

Edith Hancock

Coburn Hall in the 1970s

Margaret Guindon

Doris Bourgeois Herlihy

Dr. Allie Scruggs

L. Wyman Trull

Tom Devine

Mary Ann Manning Kennedy at a Cercle Francais tea

Bob Bousquet with students Joanna Petsalis and Leon Massicotte

Dr. Bentas with Senior Classical League, 1974

Dr. Bentas with Senior Classical League1974

Fraternité: Jack, Zach, and Saint Jean Baptiste

Fraternité: Jack, Zach, and Saint Jean Baptiste

By Cameron DaCosta

May 8, 2025.

Four thousand miles away from Lowell, the eyes of the world turn to Vatican City. Within the hallowed walls of the Sistine Chapel, beneath the masterful handiwork of Michelangelo, Cardinal electors gather in seclusion to elect a successor to the late Pope Francis. White smoke emerges from the building’s chimney, signaling to the world that a new leader for the Catholic Church has been chosen. Soon after, Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost – newly ordained as Pope Leo XIV – steps onto the balcony of Saint Peter’s Basilica to greet the gathered cheering crowd, beginning a new chapter for his faithful.

Back across the Atlantic, along the Mill City’s banks of the Merrimack River, another revelation occurs. This news is not delivered with the same festivities as those unfolding at the Vatican, but in a divine coincidence, it too centers around a house of worship and new leadership. The story is cause for much celebration, for it is an answered prayer not only for local preservationists, but for the legacy of Lowell’s greatest literary son. A venerable cathedral, tying the city’s French Catholic and Beatnik communities togethers, has found a savior to secure its future.

The next chapter of Saint Jean Baptiste was about to be written, by none other than Jack Kerouac. A new benefactor had arrived to open the landmark structure’s pearly gates: country music superstar Zach Bryan.

Jack Kerouac. Even now, over a century since the novelist’s birth and more than fifty years on from his untimely death, speaking that name within the Mill City’s borders is enough to make the ground tremble beneath one’s feet. It would not be in any way hyperbole to say that Kerouac altered the course of human history, for his works helped to define mid-century American underground counterculture and give rise to the Beat Generation. The spontaneity, rhythmic structures, and philosophical musings embedded into his prose were trailblazing, and captured the imaginations of readers across the globe. Kerouac’s writings – which were often autobiographical and frequently disguised as fictitious events – provided a unique, gritty, and brutally honest look at life in both pre-and-post-World War II America. In his publications, figures including the Beatles and Bob Dylan found great inspiration. Ray Manzarek, keyboardist for The Doors, even went so far as to credit Kerouac’s On The Road as the sole reason his band existed.

Though as synonymous with counterculture as stars and stripes are to the American flag, Kerouac only begrudgingly accepted his role within the Beat Generation, and had a particular distaste for its more radical associates. He was fiercely proud of his Catholic heritage, which he held close to his heart for all his life, and the greatest testament to his faith stands in the form of the church he attended: Saint Jean Baptiste.

Located at 741 Merrimack St. – neighboring both the nearby First Congregational and Saint Patrick’s Churches – Saint Jean Baptiste is one of many magnificent Victorian-era cathedrals in Lowell. First opened and consecrated in 1896, the building is a gorgeous blend of Byzantine and Romanesque Revival stylings. Framed by two bellowers at its front facade, characterized by large arched windows, and stretching roughly one hundred feet into the sky, the structure is unquestionably one of the Mill City’s great architectural icons, yet its survival is perhaps an even greater feat than its design.

In 1912, just sixteen years after services began, a massive fire tore through the building, destroying a significant portion of its roof and leaving the nave below in ruin. Thankfully, the inferno failed to spread across the entire structure, and its stone walls – measuring approximately three feet thick – stood firm, allowing parishioners to rebuild. Over the next four years, Saint Jean’s main roof was rebuilt not from timber, but steel, and the nave beneath was transformed from three long halls cordoned off by pillars into a single cavernous open space.

It was this grand hall, a mighty phoenix reborn from the ashes, in which Jack Kerouac became an altar boy.

It was also where his journey on this Earth came to an end.

On October 24, 1969, Jack Kerouac’s casket was brought from the Archambault Funeral Home on Pawtucket St. into the nave of Saint Jean. He had died three days earlier at a hospital in Saint Petersburg, Florida, as a result of a violent hemorrhage and subsequent liver failure, at the age of 47. Dozens of mourners attended the service, and stayed with the procession to Kerouac’s final resting place at Edson Cemetery.

Saint Jean continued operations until its last mass as a French Catholic sanctuary on Sunday, June 27, 1993, officially closing its doors three days later. The building continued to serve worshippers as a home for the Nuestra Señora del Carmen church, the Boston Archdiocese’s first Latin American parish, but upon their merger with nearby Saint Patrick’s in 2004, it was fully vacated.

2006 saw Saint Jean’s acquisition by TMI Properties, who renovated two adjacent structures, including the former Rectory, into apartments. Plans were made to construct additional units within the main sanctuary – the concepts for which can still be viewed at Archinet.com – but they never came to pass and the cathedral remained untouched. It did receive maintenance when necessary, unlike its Congregationalist counterpart the Smith Baker Center further down Merrimack St., yet stood mostly empty and quiet under TMI’s ownership, save for the rare occasional use as a function hall and film set. The 2020 Disney+ exclusive movie Godmothered was shot partially within the building, as were scenes for Season 2 of The Walking Dead: Dead City, which began airing on AMC in May 2025.

In 2022, the Jack Kerouac Estate announced their plans to purchase Saint Jean and transform it into the Jack Kerouac Center, a combination performing arts venue and museum dedicated to the late author’s life. They envisioned constructing a glass extension at the front facade’s northwestern corner to host necessary upgrades such as a new stairwell and elevator, while bringing the original building up to code and leaving historic fixtures intact. Due to funding challenges and lingering after effects from the pandemic, the project sputtered out of the gate, but fortunes began to turn in October 2024 when an investor revealed his interest.

Zach Bryan – a name that has been taking the country music world by storm. Born in Japan to parents stationed with the U.S. Navy in Okinawa, Bryan’s home stateside became Oologah, Oklahoma, where he began to write songs as a teenager. His interest in music continued through his own Naval career, during which he began recording solo performances and uploading them to YouTube in 2017. These videos were his first steps towards fame, and two years later, his debut album DeAnn was released. In 2021, Bryan performed at the Grand Ole Opry for the first time, and in 2022, his third album American Heartbreak debuted at number five on the Billboard 200. One of its six singles, Something In The Orange, became a breakout hit, cementing Bryan’s status as one of country’s brightest young stars.

Later in 2022, Bryan released another single titled Burn, Burn, Burn. It was, just as Ray Manzarek and The Doors were, inspired by Kerouac’s pièce-de-résistance On The Road. This inspiration eventually led Bryan to contact the Kerouac Estate in October 2024, which became the first domino to fall in a series of behind-the-scenes negotiations we will never be privy to that ultimately culminated in their May 8 announcement.

In another coincidence, albeit one perhaps less divine, that was when I first stepped through the doors of Saint Jean. Saturday, October 26, to be specific. Exactly fifty-five years and two days since Kerouac’s funeral.

A week prior, I had reached out to the Lowell Historic Board to ask if there was any way to gain legal access to the cathedral. I’m an amateur photographer with a particular focus on vacant structures, and given Saint Jean’s then uncertain future, I wanted to help preserve a photographic record of its existence. A previous inquiry I had made regarding doing the same for the Smith Baker Center was declined due to safety concerns, so I was expecting a similar rejection, but to my shock the Board said they’d reach out to Saint Jean’s ownership. I was connected to the property’s manager, who agreed to let me in so long as I provided my photos to TMI for them to use. Needless to say, I accepted that deal immediately.

To start the outing, I was given a brief tour of TMI’s offices in the building and their associated attic, along with the basement and nave of the main sanctuary. However, due to urgent leasing business, my guide had no choice but to go to his desk, leaving me to explore at my own pace.

For two hours, I had free rein within and complete control of an entire cathedral. For two hours, Saint Jean Baptiste was mine, and mine alone.

This structure, to say the least, is nothing short of spectacular. It is an incredible testament to the efforts of Victorian-era architects who, by lovingly crafting such stunning beauty, nobly dedicated themselves to lifting others towards the heavens. The experience of first setting foot inside the nave, and being greeted by nothing but open air between myself and an almost entirely freestanding vaulted ceiling sixty feet above was dizzying. The columns at the altar which support arches in the center of three half domes – themselves a remnant of the nave’s original layout – are so massive that they seem capable of holding up the sky itself. Sunshine pours in through large arching windows like water through a sieve, completely eliminating the need for any artificial lighting during the day. A grand rose window, one of the only surviving pieces of stained glass in the nave itself, emits a glorious display of colors, and is framed by a pipe organ so immense its size almost defies logic.

I hope that one day, as this church enters its new life, I’ll get to hear those pipes roar.

Lowell is at a crossroads in many respects, but particularly in its physical environments. As a city, it is widely regarded and renowned for its commitment to historic preservation and allowing the architecture of yesteryear to intertwine with that of the future, but that reputation isn’t ironclad. Previous efforts to save treasured buildings helped lay the groundwork for Lowell’s ongoing revival, and these places have become treasures idolized by local communities of all shapes and sizes. Yet even now, more icons are at risk – including the aforementioned Smith Baker Center and both former courthouses – and Lowell could well be poised to lose its historic identity in the future.

With that in mind, the news of Saint Jean Baptiste finding salvation is more than a welcome relief. It is further proof of a reality that Lowell is intimately familiar with: history and progress are not incompatible. In fact, what came before can often be a vital part of making what comes next even better.

As I stood alone in the center of the nave, with nothing to accompany me but light and silence, I gazed skyward towards the rose window and pipe organ. Slowly, I raised my arms above my head, and then threw my hands together. As my palms collided, a deep, sharp crack erupted from between them, followed immediately by a brief but thunderous echo.

If there is a God, I imagine the sound which emanated from that impact was exactly what he heard upon creating the universe.

Perhaps it will also be the sound the Kerouac Estate hears upon creating this amazing structure’s future.

Vive Lowell. Vive Saint Jean Baptiste.

“Onto the Other Side” (2 Oct 1924)

“Onto the other side” –  (PIP #71)

By Louise Peloquin

Visitors traditionally gather at cemeteries during Memorial Day weekend to pay homage to loved ones passed “over unto the other side.” (1)

     Last year, a “peek into the past” covered the 1917 procession which gathered thousands at St.-Joseph Cemetery. (2) Seven years later, the crowds were still dense.

To this day, St.-Joseph Cemetery continues to welcome all who wish to pay their respects to the departed.

L’Etoile – October 2, 1924

LARGE CROWD AT THE CEMETERY

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     An unprecedented crowd went to St.-Joseph Cemetery yesterday to pay pious homage to our deceased. – Moving sermon by Father William Drapeau. – Parade in the streets and Libera (3) at St.-Joseph.

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A SALVO WAS FIRED AND THE TRUMPET
SOUNDED IN THE FIELD

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              Yesterday, more than 5000 people participated in the annual Catholic Association pilgrimage at St.-Joseph Cemetery. This pious tradition, established long ago by the Association, always draws a crowd but yesterday it was more considerable than usual.

                As in the past, imposing ceremonies at St.-Joseph church were followed by imposing ceremonies at the cemetery.

                Two hundred members of the Catholic Association left their Pawtucket Street rooms at 1:00 and went to St.-Joseph church. Heading the parade was the Regan band. Officer Louis Bolduc, president of the pilgrimage organizing committee, preceded the band.

                The procession paraded down Merrimack, Kirk and Lee streets. At St.-Joseph, the choir, directed by Mr. Télesphore Malo, sang the Libera. Reverend Father Lucien Brassard, O.M.I., officiated. Mr. Elzéar Côté sang the Libera solo.

                Many special tramways and hundreds of automobiles then transported the crowd to the cemetery.

                The imposing religious ceremonies at St.-Joseph Cemetery began with the rosary recited by Reverend Eugène Turcotte, O.M.I., Provincial.

                Father William Drapeau of Reading, a child of St.-Joseph parish, delivered a sermon for the circumstance. The preacher gave a very eloquent and touching homily and commented the following text: “Have pity, have pity on me, you my friends.”

                Father Drapeau urged the faithful to frequently pray for their departed. “It is saintly and beneficial to pray for the deceased” he said. “They need the prayers we can offer them by our alms, our good works and especially by attending Holy Mass.

                Reverend Father Eugène Turcotte then officiated the Libera. The soloists were Mr. Edouard F. Grégoire, Mr. J. Olier David, and Dr. G. E. Casgrain.

                A Catholic Association military squad, all veterans of the Great War, fired a salvo in honor of the deceased members of the Catholic Association. This squad, under the command of William Lussier, was composed of Mr. E. Normandin, I. Tétrault, A. Bélanger, J. Dusseault, R. Tardif, J. Marcotte, N. Breton and W. Bourassa. Soldier W. Lebel held the American flag and Soldiers J. Breton and A. Hall were honor guards. Mr. E. Blanchette held the French flag and Mr. R. Landry held the Sacred Heart flag. Emile Lamoureux played“Taps” on the bugle.

                The pilgrimage organizing committee was composed of Mr. Louis Bolduc, Mr. Eugène Beausoleil, Mr. Arthjur Bilodeau, Mr. Reginald Dragon, and Mr. Tancrède Blanchette. (4)

****

1. Mark 4:35, KJV.
2. PIP #32 – https://richardhowe.com/2024/05/21/honoring-our-departed   St. Joseph Cemetery; 96 Riverneck Road; Chelmsford, MA. 01824
3. “Libera,” from the Latin “liberate” meaning “to deliver,” is the first word of the prayer sung by the priest at a burial service.

Translation by Louise Peloquin.