Political opinions that had often been fashioned through the influence of parents and grandparents decades before were usually handed down like precious gems to help enlighten and guide the attitudes of the city’s citizens. For reasons that are still mysterious, during my growing-up years, it was naturally assumed that someone with a French-Canadian name like Ouellette, Chaput, Beauparlant, or Vallois would vote a straight Republican ticket on any municipal, state, or national issue from dogcatcher to President of the country.
In contrast, anyone of an Irish background could be counted on as a died-in-the-wool supporter of Democratic causes, which we, Canucks, often found distasteful at best, and often politically corrupt. The case of Boston’s Mayor Curly was proof positive that buying the favors of a political figure through graft and corruption represented the very essence of American democracy, at least, in the Greater Boston area. That would, naturally, also include any town or city in Middlesex County where Lowell is located.
As a young lad trying to understand the rules of the game needed in reaching a practical appreciation of life in the Big City (Note that for a kid without a family car and living in one of the city’s several, scattered, ethnic neighborhoods, the city seemed large), it was important to gauge the different religious, political, economic, cultural and linguistic attitudes of those people with whom we might need to work. As news-paperboys in that era, both my brother and I were required to develop good working relations with our customers of all ethnic flavors – Protestants, Catholics, Jews, etc. We were required to get along with everyone, an excellent challenge for any boy or girl trying to succeed in this world of many callings.
Many years later, after my brother and I had individually selected our own business and career directions, these early days of practical experience served us well. An elementary course on basic “street smarts” had not been included among the many fine topics taught at Saint-Louis de France elementary school on Boisvert Street in Centralville.
However, through the support and daily encouragement of our local newspaper, the Lowell Sun, this crucial, educational oversight of the good nuns – les soeurs de l’Assomption – was nicely remedied.
Bob and I, the friendly local newsboys, rolled with the political punches as we spread the national and international gossip, opinions, and misunderstandings of the day, which were wedged somewhere among the weather forecast, the comics, the ads, and, most importantly, the sports section. In Lowell’s working-class neighborhoods, news about the recent baseball, basketball, or hockey results, depending on the season, represented the crowning essence of the good life in the city. Everyone lent a willing eye – this was before television – to the happenings of the Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins as found in the Lowell Sun. Note that the regional football team, the Patriots, was still a far-off dream in the minds of the Boston movers and shakers. But, in a modest and important way, we, two brothers, had gotten involved at an early age in the life of the town. This commitment to the community helped us later, I believe, in dealing with the demands of citizenship.
