All I ever needed to know, I learned in Lowell, Massachusetts, 1939 to 1961
Unfortunately, my Dad’s anger and my Mom’s anxiety were recurring temperaments visiting our inner family circle from the start or, at least, from my starting days in the crib on Endicott Street in 1939. But, since I had not personally experienced the deprivation, fear and emotional strain generated during the previous ten years of unemployment, bank failures, family evictions, the Dust Bowl and the Roosevelt Depression, my background was totally inadequate for understanding the attitudes of grownups around me. Seen from a distance, now, I definitely lacked the gravitas needed to grasp the real meaning of the situation.
In 1939, Alexander (Ben) Bolduc was a 29-year-old, new father, who was employed as a truck driver and a salesman for the Darcy Fruit Pie Company, which then served the Greater-Lowell area. As I understand it, he delivered these fresh fruit delicacies to restaurants and grocery stores in the region.
Kitchen and Chicken Coop Stories
Who were the household players in my tiny world from crib to high chair to little red wagon as World War II brewed dismay and despair in Europe and in the Pacific? The civilized world was going to hell in a hand-basket, but little persons like me were still enjoying the everyday excitement of discovery and childhood.
How can the calm, cleanliness and safety of a neatly segregated, Franco-American neighborhood serve as a security blanket to a child trying to understand that French was the language of the neighborhood, but not spoken everywhere else in the city? Why do some other relatives live in Little Canada or Centralville or, even, Dracut? There were so many questions popping up constantly in my head that seldom was there time to worry about Memere Bolduc, my father’s ailing mother, spending long days partially asleep, again, in bed in her small bedroom next to the large pantry where my mother prepared so many delicious, home cooked meals for us all.
Monsieur Poulain, our Gracious Landlord
Everything fascinated me, it seems. Monsieur Poulain, our landlord, who lived on the first floor on this white, two-story, Victorian, clapboard house complete with ample attic space for storage, introduced me, just about on a daily basis. to the various challenges that I would encounter as a boy and a man in the years to come. Being retired from an obviously successful job or position, which had permitted him to purchase and maintain an above-average house in a middle-class neighborhood, this gentle, older gentleman became my friendly guide in the world with valuable lessons about rhubarb gardens, tomato plants, watering lilac bushes, and on the care and upkeep of the many chickens, which he housed in a separate, enclosed shed located in the large backyard of his property.
It was under his benign tutelage that I learned about the clear, anatomical difference between a male dog and a similar dog of the female persuasion. Years later, one of my mother’s favorite, family stories focused on this innocent discovery, which became woven into the local, Bolduc history. See story later.
It is not clear whether I recall the event myself or if, rather, I remember my mother’s relating it to others many times in my presence. This must have taken place on a warm, pleasant day in the summer of 1941. I would have been two years old.
The country was still at peace, but the Germans – we did not call them Nazis, then – had already taken over France. Right then, Germans were hurting French men, women and children, our own, family relatives living in Europe! As a child, perspective is gained slowly.
Philosophical Conclusions
This war on the Continent was, finally, beginning to scare me and my Mom, yet all the water of the Atlantic Ocean kept us safe and away from the carnage. I recall that my mother and I suddenly were taking in the events of the war with increasing anxiety, but my father refused to be intimidated. A grim, steadfast, New England resolution evolved over him.
Perhaps, it was then when he chose to focus exclusively on his duties and responsibilities of the moment? Yes, there was slaughter happening in Europe, but he had a wife, a child and a sick mother living with him to protect and support on less than $20.00 a week. Maybe, it was during these early years that he first developed his bleeding stomach ulcer that would eventually take him out of the family picture permanently?
As the French are fond of saying, “La vie ne fait pas de cadeaux.” This terse, Gallic comment can be loosely translated as, “Life makes no gifts.” or “Life is tough sledding.” Thomas Hobbs had made a related observation about 300 years before during the English Civil War. His comment sounds more severe and a bit sullen, too. “Life is nasty, brutish and short.” Generally speaking, the Franco-American attitude always seemed to introduce a bit of levity or gallows humor even into desperate circumstances so that Hobbs would never have had a strong following in our crowd. Although his terse observation might have struck a familiar cord in the hearts of many unemployed laborers in the city.
Book Learning in a Poor Ghetto Home
Fortunately, for my own family, the study of philosophical texts touching upon thoughts coming from Plato, Aristotle, Dante, Euripides or, even, Goethe, Sartre and Camus was never encouraged so historical comparisons of past hard times with the current situation remained an open question. Of course, the previous ten years of deprivation under the Roosevelt administration – Democrats were not loved – had inadvertently produced some homegrown philosophers, characters like my uncle Gerry and my mother, Claire, who both managed to laugh at life’s many idiotic twists and turns. “It’s a rat race out there, and the rats are winning.”
Tales from our Front Lawn on Endicott Street
It was under these somber world events, elsewhere, that the cute story around canine, anatomical parts was first launched. Apparently, after some extensive fieldwork on the matter, I could no longer hold back on my discovery regarding gender differences between male and female puppy plumbing. “Did you know, Mr. Poulain, that when my dog, Pal, goes pippi, he comes up to a bush like this, raises his leg like this – here, I was in full demonstration mode – and, pisses on the bush. Girl dogs don’t do that.”
Later, Mr. Poulain related this story to my mother, which sent them both into gales of hysterical guffaws. Family magic is the result of innocent discoveries.
Parents, relatives and friends from Pawtucketville and Little Canada, two French-Canadian neighborhoods of Lowell, meant for me at that time the totality of my awareness about the world. The unique reward of being a relatively new arrival on the scene comes back to this: All the news is exciting and everything is new. No comparisons with past events can be made so imagined consequences do not frighten the young person. Of course, adults within hearing distance usually are there to instill some fear, which lessens the unique impact of the raw message.
But, not everyone was openly distressed by the calamities of the recent decade. Aunt Florence and her milkman husband, Uncle Gerry, were often house guests at our apartment home located at the corner of Endicott and White Streets in Pawtucketville. Often, we might see them two or three times a week. Sometimes, they visited simply to enjoy, once again, old family stories from long ago, which were nicely reexamined over a scrumptious piece of home-made, cinnamon-apple pie, served with a cups of hot, Lipton tea.
Tea Time at the Bolduc Residence
In New England at that time, tea bags were made to stew in an attractive, porcelain teapot filled with nearly boiling water and placed on a doullie in the center of the kitchen table, where all the guests were invited to sit and relax. Each guest was, then, presented with an equally attractive, matching porcelain cup filled with the hot liquid.
At this point, individual preferences regarding culinary tastes began to distinguish each tea drinker from his or her neighbor. Since I did not, yet, drink tea, these differences could be quite fascinating. “With or without sugar?” was usually the first question. “With or without milk?” quickly followed suit.
But, “Do you want a slice of lemon with your tea?” was not a query that I recall ever hearing. Perhaps, fresh lemons were not usually available, which might explain why the third option was never heard.
This English fashion of drinking one’s tea represented a well-established tradition in the New England of my youth. Later, I learned to appreciate this hot brew without the compulsory dash of milk, but never without a dash of sugar. People are all so different in so many ways. These kitchen tales around hot, New England tea played a neat role in helping me to better appreciate this important fact.
Take-home Message
Many comments made over the previous, two millennia allude to this essential piece of humanity. In Rome during the days of Cicero, one might hear a poet say, “De gustibus non est disputandum.” or “There is no accounting for taste.”
To me, this comment from 2000 years ago was proof enough that each and every one of us sees, smells and feels the world around him/her in a unique and importantly different way. My Dad saw his world, my Mom saw things her way, and I saw the same events around me my way. Our feelings were unique. We were all different, but still we all lived together.
Music, which filtered through our RCA radio follows: