W

Wisdom and sensitivity to the feelings of others are human traits, which define a person’s social worth through many interactions from the crib to the present. No one is born wise or insightful. This is a continuous process, but, below, I have spelled out some worldly examples in my life.

Harry Levine, my next-door neighbor and local Jewish grocer, helped me better understand the Lowell world around us. Often, we were talking about the value of education as a way to get ahead in life, to get out of a societal rut not of our personal making.

“Remember, Paul. They can never take your education away from you.”

In 1957, I did not realize the depth of this observation coming from a young, Jewish-American, variety-store merchant, who provided meats and pantry goods with good cheer to the Franco-American community that he served. It had been only twenty years before, that Jewish merchants like himself and his young wife had completely lost their livelihood and, even, family members to the savage politics of Teutonic supermen in the German Heimat (homeland). Maybe, he was referring to that piece of recent history, but we never went into any more depth on the issue. A lost opportunity, perhaps?

At the time, I was doing my first year of studies in engineering, math, physics and chemistry. My progress at LTI (now called U-Mass-Lowell) was surprisingly painful and slow in comparison with my successes at St-Joseph High School for Boys over the previous four years. This intense, new exposure to the STEM world of science, technology, engineering and mathematics was not going to be a “walk in the park.” I did not expect that all of my efforts would be required every day just for me to keep up and maintain, perhaps, a B average, especially, since my grades in elementary and high school were usually in the A to A-plus range.

At LTI at the time, about 500 new students were welcomed as freshmen, but only 135 successful students could manage the demanding tempo over a four-year period. That was roughly a 73% failure rate, but to be fair, many students, who chose to drop out, later, enrolled at other universities and might have graduated from one of these.

“Remember, Paul. They can never take your education away from you.”

The Henes Family moved to Lowell in 1956(?)

Herbert Henes, in 1945 and while walking the streets of Bad Neuheim, had spoken to his mother in dismay :

“Mutti, warum schlafen die Leute in der Mitte der Straße?” – “Die schlafen nicht, Herbert, die sind tot.”

This friend, Herbert, had taught me an important lesson about life when it is lived on the raw edge of survival:

“Wer Geld hat, kann ins Restaurant gehen. Wer keins hat, muss draußen stehen.”

Some Antisemitic Anger Heard at our Kitchen Table

I recall that my maternal grandfather, Pepere Charbonneau, told my mother in 1946:

“The only thing that Hitler did wrong was not to kill more Jews.”

I believe that I heard this comment in our Ludlam Street kitchen. It confused me as a seven-year-old, but I let it pass as local wisdom from my elders. Later, I wondered how adult comments made within earshot of listening children can become the basis for generational stagnation.

Note: It was commonly believed by Lowell’s Franco-American mill-rats (my Canuck relatives and friends) that the eight (or was it, six?) remaining textile mills, those grubby, pitiless sweatshops from hell, were all owned and managed by a handful of grubby, pitiless, Jewish masters, all lacking any sense of human kindness and fattening their pockets through the blood, sweat and tears of the lowly workers.

Back then, I sensed that this belief stemmed from an underpinning mindset of my mill worker relatives. Of course, nobody among our French-Canadian entourage had access to the names of owners and managers of these red-brick colossus structures that covered acres of textile production machinery plus warehouses of cotton bales, spare parts and delivery hand trucks.

Start again

Only the Russian novelist, Tolstoy, could have, possibly, described a more hellish way of life, but in the Russian case, the enslaved people were the poor peasants of the Tsar. But in the Lowell situation, the mill owners had once provided a rough living to all the foreigners that had poured into Massachusetts in previous generations.

Mom in 1957, at the kitchen table and speaking to her brother, Gerald: “Paul was accepted at Lowell Tech. He starts in September.” Uncle Gerry, speaking to my mother at the kitchen table: “He’ll never make it.”

Uncle Gerry: “Ted Williams? He’s a bum.” Let’s keep in mind that in 1948, Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio were considered by writers at Sports magazine as the two best ball players in the majors, but, clearly, these guys had a long way to go to convince my favorite uncle of Ted’s professional accomplishments. Some of my relatives required perfection, it seemed, before handing out any verbal kudos, especially, to the Boston team members, managers and players, alike. The Bosox were always disappointing us. Maybe, this is one reason why Ted hurled his baseball bat (he later claimed that it slipped from his rosin-covered hands) into some yelling fans sitting near the Red Sox dugout along first base, an event that mightily impressed the sports writers from Herald- American – a tabloid of local distinction – as highly irregular and proof positive that Williams was just a spoiled brat and a sorehead. Fortunately, the yelling fans were not seriously injured, but this incident became the galvanizing event that Boston sports writers were to use again and again in lampooning the one player that some fans and aficionados of the game called, “The Splendid Splitter”.

Apparently in sports and in real life, it is never enough to be outstanding many times over and over. Only consistently outstanding is recognized. It sure was not easy being a hero.

Aunt Lida: “It’s a great life, if you don’t weaken.”

Aunt Florence to my mother: “You’re lucky, Claire. You never had to work in the mills.” “Sometimes, when we were going home after a shift, managers on the upper floors would spit on us as we slowly wound our way down the spiral staircase to the exit.”

Uncle Gerry to Michelle waiting by the curb on Dana Street in the hopes of a surprise beverage: “No chocolate milk, today, all the brown cows are on vacation.”

Norman Bergeron to a few boys at our kitchen table after returning from the Korean conflict: “The American soldiers mistreated the North Korean captives.” I could hardly believe my ears. This was not possible, but I had no way to check what Norman had said.

Me to Monsieur Poulain in front yard: “Do you know how my dog, Pal, pisses?” Standing near one of his beautiful lilac bushes with my right leg raised high, I successfully demonstrated the technique to his hollering delight. Later, he told my mother about the incident to her equal delight.

Aunt Vicky to me in her bathroom: “You must not brush your teeth across the front, but only up and down in your mouth.” This advice has kept me out of many a dentist’s office over the years.

Richard to me: “It’s not what you know, but who you blow that counts.” I was saddened by this street-wise insight. At the time, I still believed in a benign meritocracy as to how to get ahead in our world.

Priest at Mass: “Dominus vos biscum.” Congregation: “Et cum spiritu tuo.” “The Lord be with you.” and the congregation responds with: “And with your spirit also.”

Michelle to Mom, months after Dad died: “I really miss Dad.” At the time, my mother was upset to hear that, maybe, because her life had been so difficult when she was married to him. Her response, according to Michelle, was cold and seemingly uncaring. Maybe, it was simply: “Just go sleep.” Decades later, I heard the story for the first time. The remaining hurt was still there in my sister’s voice. Why is life so difficult, sometimes?

Mom to Michelle about Dad: “My happy life came to an end when I met your father.” How do you fix poverty and cultural ignorance ?

Brother Arthur at St-Joseph High when waking up a sleepy student, a Mr. Cormier, in the back of the classroom with a flying blackboard eraser to the chest said: “Stand up, Cormier. You’re sitting on your brains.” This brought on a sense of class levity, which the brother’s tedious algebra lesson had apparently deadened.

Dad to me while walking down Ludlam Street to visit Gerry and Florence and watch the Wednesday night fights sponsored by Gillette blades: “You’re just a crepe-hanger like your mother.” Maybe, I needed to read more upbeat comics like Donald Duck and the funnies in the Lowell Sun? But, he seemed to like my school grades. Otherwise, I may have been a disappointment to him and a major drain on his limited dollars and patience. There always was a clear distance between us. Maybe, I had been an unexpected child, a life-changing, bedroom surprise, appearing when he was 29 and already in charge of caring for his mother and aunt? Of course at 11 or 12, I didn’t have the clarity of mind to weigh out these wild assumptions. Being a highly responsible child was outside my capabilities. I barely knew the essentials about sex at that point.

Aunt Alice, la jeune, at our kitchen table as I was passing by: “After you reach 50, Claire, they don’t want you anymore.” She was talking about herself and working in retail stores downtown on Merrimack Street.

Mom: “Down by the gas-box, two bits.”

Mom: “Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

A crêpe hanger is the ultimate pessimist: ”You Irish are in love with your sorrows. You are too damned depressing. I am not in love with my sorrows!” “You’re a fucking crepe hanger.”

“What is a crepe hanger?” “You see the world draped in black. Nobody’s sorrows are worse than yours. You hang black crepe on everything.”

It’s forgivable that moderns who encounter it are puzzled. Undertakers’ assistants have long ago ceased to be literal crêpe hangers, engaged to drape black crêpe across the windows and mirrors of a house in which a person has died. Neighbors these days no longer follow the old custom of similarly hanging crêpe in their windows as a mark of sympathy and respect. Nor is the customary clothing of a grieving female relative now characterized by crêpe. As for periods of mourning, we are told that a widow’s mourning should last eighteen months, although in England it is somewhat lightened in twelve. For the first six months the dress should be of crape cloth, or Henrietta cloth covered entirely with crape, collar and cuffs of white crape, a crape bonnet with a long crape veil, and a widow’s cap of white crape if preferred. Harper’s Bazar: 17 Apr. 1886.

Definition of crepehanger : one who takes a pessimistic view of things : killjoy