Mom and Dad – Starting out in Life – 2-11-2012 – Final version
It’s the summer of 1938 and you are standing on Merrimack Street near Pawtucket Street in Lowell, Massachusetts. The apartment of our focus – across the not-so-busy-street – is that second story one directly before you. This is where that young, married couple, Claire and Ben Bolduc, is making their entrance walking slowly to the double entrance porch landing. One door goes to the ground floor unit and the other one leads to the upper living quarters.
Many, large two and three story individual homes have been converted in the last few years to multi-family dwellings. Maybe, the shaky economy across the country encourages this type of belt tightening? Now, people are forced to live closer together and it changes the life of the community.
The world-wide Depression also dampened the hopes and plans for a “good life” that had been inculcated into the souls of many first and second generation immigrant families from Quebec, but also from several European countries such as: Ireland, Greece, Italy, Poland, Portugal. Romania and Russia.
All the drama and sacrifice bravely endured in Lowell’s ethnic ghettos from 1900 to 1929 might suddenly lose their intrinsic worth as the local real estate values come crashing down like Humpy Dumpy falling from his favorite wall. Some insist that he was pushed.
The sticky, almost clammy, late afternoon, Massachusetts air hangs heavy around the couple. My mother and father (soon to be) appear pensive, yet happy to be home again. A slight breeze refreshes their sweaty faces as the passing wind brushes aside leaves in the maple and chestnut trees on Merrimack.
Each person is reflecting on the workday duties that can now be put aside, at least, for the time being. For my Dad, delivering fresh bread, pies, and other pastries to restaurants across the city for the Darcy Pie Company is not exactly a career direction, but times are tough and the pay, about $20.00 a week, is steady, at least.
My Mom, in contrast, has yet to make a solid start at her newly established hairdresser shop located on the second floor of a brown brick, late 19th century building on Central Street. It is located not far from the Strand and Rialto movie theaters. Her beloved father, owner of the North End Dairy, is helping her financially to launch this new endeavor. What other way is there for an enterprising person seeking possible success as a businessman of businesswoman? She seems to be her Dad’s favorite. it’s a two-way love affair between daughter and father.
Couples starting out in life often face challenges that can impose an unexpected strain in the relationship. Dad’s younger brother, Maurice, is living with them – temporarily, they hope – as Mémère (Anne-Marie is her real name) Bolduc attempts to rebuild her own life after being separated from her husband, Eugene. Family stories told would have me believe that domestic violence was the underlying issue, but all family members know enough not to discuss such unpleasant realities. Family secrets add a dark flavor to this theme.
But, Pépère Bolduc was known by other family members as having a very angry temperament, which was also the case in Maurice’s general comportment. Like Mother Hubbard of English country rhyme fame, there may have been a certain lack of dependable weekly income needed to comfortably support six offspring plus his wife and himself.
Being a letter carrier, a postman, within the Lowell Postal Department had not successfully brought the Bolduc family status to a comfortable position. The sledding had always been rough and the depression days only made everything more difficult.
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Maurice, however, can suddenly erupt with apparent anger and fear, running out of that small apartment and then back inside again. There is no rhyme or apparent reason for these escapades. Sometimes, he rushes into their private bedroom at night, frenzied and scared.
What torments this young man so? Previously, he threatened his mother, Mémère, with a butcher’s knife at the dinner table. Certainly, such behavior must stop. He is quite a handful. What to do? Mémère seems to be afraid of his unpredictable tirades brought on by what? Who really knows? Mom says that people are afraid of him. He is dangerous and several people think so.
The infamous and very frightening facility, that insane asylum in Worcester, Massachusetts (Some relatives call it the nuthouse, but that sounds a bit cruel) is the answer that the family and his doctor appear to favor. I am not aware of the details, but shortly before my appearance on the scene, Maurice was forcibly introduced to his new home and living space in that awful, Worcester institution. In Lowell, adults are often heard to say,
“Be good, or we may ship you off to Worcester.”
Dad’s erratic brother appears about three years younger than him. Staged family photos of the entire Bolduc clan (my relatives) taken years before serve as a neat reminder of how things once were. How strange it is that Dad never speaks of Maurice these days although he often refers to his other siblings like Walter, Bertha and Cecile.
In contrast, his oldest bother, Lucien, is far away in Honolulu developing a solid, Army career as a successful West Point graduate. Today, he is in training as an Army tank commander. Antoinette, his energetic, Lowell-born wife, also enjoys their exciting new world helping to raise two young children, Anne and Lucien Jr. with all the advantages offered by the Army in Hawaii.
It is only a year later now. Mom and Dad are living across the Mighty Merrimack River on Endicott Street in Pawtucketville, a working class residential haven, and one of Lowell’s five major neighborhoods. This move represents a small improvement in their lives although Mom does find the new neighborhood a bit snooty and self-righteous. Yet, it was just around the corner on Unknown Street where Jack Kerouac hung his hat and taunted the neighbors with his sister by his side. How snooty could that neighborhood have been?
Soon after the arrival of the stork carrying Ben and Claire’s first-born male child (me, Paul), Dad’s mother became physically and emotionally ill. Now, being temporarily disabled, she shares our new, clean and spacious quarters. The day-to-day living situation is a little strained for all four of us. However, we seem to be managing okay although my Mom appears to be losing her grip on life, but only a little. Now and then, she speaks to me privately of possibly having “une crise de nerfs”, a nervous breakdown. But nobody around seems to be listening.
As for me, I’m not sure what a nervous breakdown really is all about. After all, I’m only about three and a half years old at this point with very limited life experience. To me everything is uncertain. Things can easily go this way or that, and there’s no controlling the outcome.
Naturally, I hope and pray to Jesus and to Mary, the Mother of God, that my little family will hang in there. But, can they do it? There seems to be a lot riding in this family of shaky and, sometimes, angry people. And to top it off, my Mom says she is pregnant again. The last time this happened, she lost the baby. Will have a sister or a brother? It’s exciting but why is having a baby so tough on my parents? After all, they had me and that worked out fine.
But, there are some good and happy times also. When Dad is off to work and Mom is not curling the hair of visiting lady customers in her in-home beauty parlor (her downtown business was sadly unsuccessful), I happily get to spend some precious quiet times with her playing a child’s card game called Rouge ou Noir (Red or Black). The object of the game is to successfully call out the color of the next card in the covered deck. After all 52 cards are called out, the winner is the player, who has the greatest number of correct cards in his or her possession.
Another reason, I enjoy being with my wonderful mother is that she speaks to me in French. That language sounds and feels so good. Actually, we always speak French at home. it’s only when we go downtown to shop at Kearny Square that things are different. There, you only hear folks talking English – mostly English with some Greek and Portuguese thrown in to add some spice.
Finally, I want to say that Mom teaches me songs from Quebec and also nursery rhymes from long ago. here is one of my favorites – a cure for hiccups:
J’ai l’hoquet.
Qui l’a fait? C’est Jesus.
Je l’ai eu, mais je ne l’ai plus.
In English, this bit of French-Canadian, doctrinal advice comes out as:
“I have the hiccups
Who made them? It was Jesus.
I had them, but I have them no more.”
It’s a time honored cure (a home remedy) for the hiccups. And, it works surprisingly well.
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For the moment, she really needs emotional support and financial help from one of her children. My parents, Alexander and Claire Bolduc, newly weds starting out on Life’s journey, somehow assume this new responsibility. You might simply ask, “Why were other, more successful siblings enjoying sound financial status not asked to directly help bear this new family burden?” Life seems inscrutable to a young person like myself and, yet, I do enjoy being around my sick grandmother and often talking with her in her bedroom. She sleeps a lot during the day so I must stay aware that she needs a quiet and good grandson in her new household.
Our second story apartment with its modest but spacious living quarters, a fine, screened-in porch, beautiful lilac trees in the yard below and a small vegetable garden (we grow rhubarb in abundance) provides a peaceful and neighborly environment for Mémère’s (Grandma’s) rest and recuperation. Our apartment offers easy access to bus service leading to excellent shopping opportunities in downtown Lowell, Kearny Square, is chosen by
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“Do nuns eat fish on Fridays?”
“How do dogs do pipi?”
Voisine – Madame LaCouture
Monsieur Poulin – owner, downstairs
“”Are you my father?”
henhouse = ?
Dad was an Air Raid Warden with grey gas amsk and a white hard helmet
Germans are killing French people in France
France is far away across the ocean
I like drawing pictures with pencils and crayons on paper
I did a nice caricature of Hitler that grown ups seem to appreciate.
A Scary Story – My Mom Told me when she was pregnant with my brother
Bad children Really Scary end up as meat in a soup just like chickens. In the paper, Mom saw an interesting article about a mother, who had such a bad boy in the house that she chopped him up and cooked him in a pot. Her husband found the chopped up little boy and the Mom was sent away.
My dog, Pal, is a German Shepherd and he loves me. Sometimes, Dad and I take walks in the neighborhood in the evening when the light is not quite gone and gray shadows are painted everywhere.
Maybe, the Germans will drop their bombs on our house? Mom is very scared that they will. “They are across the ocean, far away. Don’t be stupid.” My Dad tries to reassure her. “Fais pas la folle!” Yes, I am scared too, but being afraid is not okay in this house.
In the daytime with a friendly, sunny sky above, I enjoy looking out the large kitchen windows in our second story apartment wondering about people in our voisinage (neighborhood). There is Mr. Poulin, our landlord, who lives downstairs with his wife and daughter. Then, there might appear the fresh fruit and vegetable man, a Greek, driving his horse drawn open air wagon through our streets.
“Clunk, kablonk, screech and grind!”
He usually arrives with all the noisy sounds of metal on cobblestone. For a poor, Greek, street vendor, who never learned a single word of French, his verbal sing-song shouts of rough spoken French amuses us. We smile and enjoy this mini carnival. Does he really know what he is saying?
Des fraises, des pommes, des oranges, des carottes. Aussi, des choux, des beaux choux. A vendre!
“Strawberries, apples, oranges, carrots!. Also, cabbages, beautiful cabbages.. For sale.”
His routine never changes. The season does not matter. It could be spring, summer or autumn, but the fresh fruits and veggies for sale are always the same. Fruits and vegetables are seasonal, but his spiel doesn’t change. Mom wonders, sometimes, if “le Grec” has just remembered a set of words that he sings as he enters our part of town.
From the porch of our apartment, Mom might shout out,
Combien pour les fraises? – “How much for the strawberries?”
The old guy must understand the question because his immediate answer is surprising, but it does make sense.
Pas de fraises, Madame. C’est la guerre! – “There are no strawberries, Madame. It’s the war!”
Mom gets tangled in this French-Greek theater of human frailty again and again during these early years of the 1940s. She does not seem to mind though and she seems to like this funny misunderstanding between housewife and vendor.
Yes, at the friendly corner of White and Endicott, a whole world of busy happenings keep on happening.
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who suffers from a life-long history of histrionic behavior has left her in a state of broken human response.