An Acre Christmas Memory - Part I

A Christmas Memory

by David McKean

When the skies turn grey and dry leaves do their winter dance, thoughts return of another time.  A time of simple pleasures and innocent wishes.  They come to me like Dicken’s ghost of Christmas past, haunting in a way that invites you to return.  Sometimes it is the notes of a song that lives in the recesses of my mind.  Other times a whiff of cinnamon or an orange peel.  My soul has passed through five decades and four Christmases.  Each leaving its impression upon me and building in my collective memory.  How much is true and how much is dream has become blurred over time.  The expectations  of a young boy becomes the memories of an aging man.  Christmas.  Just the word makes me think of putting on black rubber boots with those impossible metal clips before going outside into snow mounds made by the passing plows.

The tenement I grew up in was located at

761 Broadway Street

in Lowell, Massachusetts.  Weeks before the holiday preparations began.  Dostaler’s Market next door would start stocking walnuts and Gorton (pork scrap sold in cardboard tubs), would once again be found in the cooler where the meats were kept.  In the back large pieces of beef would hang where Paul the butcher would cut the meat to the various needs of the neighborhood mothers.  The Dostalers’ sons would be busy delivering the groceries to the neighborhood.  Cans of SS Pierce vegetables would fly off the shelf.  Don’t forget the Bradt’s crackers and be sure to include some bread that would be left out to stale for the stuffing.  Mr. “Ovie” (Ovid Dostaler) was a kind soul who along with his wife would offer credit to his patrons.  To a six year old the sight of the glass enclosed wooden case filled with penny candy was a feast awaiting.  Armed with the nickel my memere gave me for carrying her laundry I would have to choose between the peach pits, which were such a bargain at three for a penny, or maybe a black licorice record, which was as strip of rich chewy delight with the little red bead at the center at the end.  But oh there were so many other choices, squirrel nuts, mint juleps, malt balls, flying saucer, which we used to give make-believe communion to each other.  Don’t forget the candy necklaces, wax bottles filled with sugar water, and straws filled with colored sugars which would make our tongues turn colors.  God only knows the chemicals we ingested.  If I was dutiful perhaps I saved 2 nickels and was able to get a package of Stoddard’s Twins, better known as black moons.  Two delicious, decadent, delightful, delicacies of chocolate cake with icing equal to the nectar of the gods inbetween.   But I digress. 

Years later I learned that Mr. Ovie was often the voice of Santa on the telephone.  With the constant threat of Santa not coming to our home that year, my mother would swear she would call Santa if we did not behave.  Since our apartment was on the first floor and the Dostalers lived on the second floor across the street, Mr. Ovie could see directly into out kitchen.  Upon my mother’s cue the phone would ring and Santa would begin the litany of faults my mother had previously snitched.  Santa even knew what we were wearing and where we were standing.  There really was a Santa!  We were convinced and well into junior high I knew that though my peers laughed at the absurdity of such a folly, he did exist.

A Thanksgiving Memory OR Turkey Day in the Acre

Freedom From Want by Norman Rockwell

I predict in a very short time we will be celebrating a new holiday called HallowThanksmas.  It will be a combination of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.  Children will tear into festively wrapped boxes of turkeys stuffed with candy.  Right now the week before Thanksgiving, in my neighborhood there are 5 houses decorated with twinkling lights and blow up Santas.  Nearby is a house with a witch on the doorstep and the remnants of a jack o lantern leftover from last month.  Remember when Thanksgiving was its own day and not the day before Black Friday?  Thanksgiving held a different connotation than it does now. 

I grew up on the corner of Broadway and Walker Streets in the Acre section of Lowell.  The block I grew up on was a set of tenements all connected with concrete paved space in between.  Without knowing it, we may have grown up poor, using today’s standards.  We didn’t have a car for many years, but neither did a lot of people.  Many of my friends wore hand me downs.  Mine were from my cousin Armand.  I never fell for my mother’s trick of trying to get me to wear my sister’s old mittens.  The oversized jars of peanut butter and big blocks of cheese should have been a giveaway.  But when it came to holidays, my parents spent no expense.

When I hear folks spin yarns of Thanksgivings of long ago, they’re infused with images of moms wearing aprons, wiping hair away from their foreheads with flour covered hands.  My mother was no Martha Stewart.  Her kitchen philosophy consisted of if it came from a can or a box, it was homemade.  We would be dismissed from school early on the day before, and my mother would have my sister and me walk from St. Pat’s School to downtown Lowell to buy some supplies.  We’d go to Kresge’s and Woolworths to buy bridge mix, a blend of chocolate covered peanuts, raising, and caramels.  (Do they even make that anymore?)  Thanksgiving was also when peach blossoms would appear.  Those wonderful salmon shaded sweets filled with peanut butter.  I recall one year carrying the goodies into the kitchen after making the 1.5 mile track from downtown (How often and easily we made that walk without even thinking about it!) only to find my father sitting at the kitchen table.  Why was Dad home so early?  Over supper they told us he had been laid off yet again from Raytheon, but we’d still have a good Thanksgiving.

The night before my mother, being French Canadian, would begin her stuffing.  The smell of sage brings me back to those days.  I loved looking at the bright yellow box with the turkey on front. The next step was the washing of the bird.  Because neither of my parents had much of a culinary background, they both hated the chore with the slippery leviathan once landing on the floor.  The house would be spotlessly clean, even to the point of the winter curtains being hung.  There was an excitement and an air of anticipation.  Stores closed their doors early.  Folks went home, and stayed there.  This was a day for family.

By the time I woke on Thanksgiving morn the house was already abuzz.  Every pot and pan was put into use.  My job was to set the table with the fine paper tablecloth and napkins we picked up at the 5 & 10 the day before.  The good china, the set my parents bought in 1953 that had a gold crown to commemorate Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, was taken out.  The silver, which was used twice a year had to be cleaned.  It sounds fancy, but these were the only pieces of value my folks owned, and besides, it was a holiday. 

All stores were closed, except one, the packie (for those of you outside the Merrimack Valley it’s the liquor store).  If you knew the right people you would go to the package store and even though the law said there should be no liquor sales, you could buy what you needed.  In my house it was the smallest bottle of brandy you could get.  It was for the eggnog, you understand.  It was a necessity.  My mother, who never drank, would have her one shot of eggnog and brandy as she cooked.  Within minutes she would declare the house too hot and open all the windows.  Weighing 90 something pounds and under 5 feet, that one little nip would make her tipsy, or so she thought.

My mother was from a family of 13 kids, my dad from 7 kids.  We had family, lots of them.  Sometimes too many, now too few.  In hindsight, it’s interesting that the 2 families never met.  They would alternate holidays.  (Was there something going on I was blind to?)  The Macy’s parade would start off, often with a bagpipe band.  Maybe because with a last name like McKean, but the whole family would stop to hear them play Scotland the Brave.  When it was done everyone would return to their given task.  One by one the family members arrived.  Just as the Underdog balloon would come into view my mother would call me to the kitchen, tell me to bundle up, and bring 2 dinners to my memere and pepere who lived down the street.  I’d whine.  She’s command.  I’d plead to see Underdog; she’d take a shot of eggnog.  Their house was 4 doors down, but I’d turn it into the Long March.  Memere would open the door, I’d put the dishes on the table and attempt to run out.  Underdog was on his way.  In her thick accent, she’d say thank you a million times, but I was too busy to hear or even give her five minutes of my time.  I regret that.

Back at the ranch people were just sitting down at the table and I’d squeeze in.  Then began the beautiful tradition of Grace.  My mother would ask for someone to begin.  Silence.  My mother would look at my father.  Dad would begin, “Jesus Christ almighty.”  Before you think he began the prayer, no, that was his response to anything.  Then my mother would command me to begin.  It was the same scenario every year until adulthood.  Being a product of parochial education, I knew what to say.  What I wanted to say was, “Over the lips and past the tongue….  But that would have gotten me a hit on the noggin.  Instead I began, “Bless us O lord and these thy gifts….”  This was followed by the lifting of glasses.  Most families had wine, we had cranberry juice.  Without getting into it, my mother didn’t allow wine (just her stash of eggnog).  We had all the traditional foods most American families had, along with my mother’s specialties.  Celery with cream cheese, pickles, and pickled onions.  Haute cuisine, Acre style.   Like most families the meal would be done within 8 minutes.  Then men would retire to the TV room, the women to the task of scrubbing and cleaning.

My dad was not a giant TV sports fan, but he was on Thanksgiving.  He’d have me take my place by the TV to turn the channel.  My father’s philosophy was that children were made to change TV channels, since these were the days before remote.  Thankfully there were fewer channels.  Since he imbibed tryptophan, he would soon be asleep. If I dared changed the channel, he would immediately awaken and want the game back.

The meal was not done until dessert was served.  My mother’s theory was that there should be as many desserts on the table as you had guests.  The table would be laden with apple pie (from Table Talk), pecan pie (from Aunt Cis), mince pie (from Table Talk), pumpkin pie (from Aunt Cis).  The one creation of my mother’s was the mandatory Jello.  She’s stand there with plates of wiggling Jello, holding it like she won a Betty Crocker medal.  If you didn’t put a blob of it next to your pie, she’d be heartily disappointed.  After the meal Ma would put the fruit bowl on the table.  My mother wasn’t much of a nutritionist and we didn’t have a lot of fruit, but this was not for eating, it was for show.  Everyone knew you needed a fruit bowl on the table.  That was accompanied by nuts, not shelled, but with the shells.  Then the contest of where the nutcracker was would begin.

One by one folks would leave with a paper plate filled with enough food for a few days, including jello.  Dad would be back to sleep; he did that a lot.  Ma would be in the kitchen cleaning up, but next to her was her eggnog.  Quiet would descend on the house. 

As the years passed, fewer people come over.  We all went our separate ways, even losing contact with some.  Soon my parents were the grandparents sitting at my wife’s and my table.  We kept some of the old ways, but started some of our own.  Now there are even fewer at the table.  As the gray hairs on my head multiply I think more of those days.  The nice part is that I still have cousins whom I love dearly and have reconnected with others over the past year or two. 

Be thankful.  Give the day its due.  “Bless us O Lord….”

The Bishop's Problem

Benedict Fenwick had a problem.  The growing parish in Lowell was comprised of upstarts and trouble makers.  Being the second Bishop of Boston, he had to maintain a delicate balance.  He represented the Catholic presence in Yankee Boston.  While courting the Brahmins of Boston, he needed to meet the needs of the ever growing Irish population that stretched from the deep woods and Indian strongholds of Maine, down the to the mill towns springing up along New England rivers, over to the choked streets of Charlestown, and to the fishing villages of the Atlantic.  All of this with a handful of priests.  It meant a different life from his upbringing.

Bishop Fenwick



The Benedict family was one of the great families of Maryland, founded as a sort of refuge for Catholics.  Because of persecutions against Catholics, his family left England and became major landholders in the colony.  He could have had a life of ease, but chose the seminary, namely the Jesuits.  Soon he was a professor at Georgetown and later a leading prelate in New York City.  He was assigned to help heal divisions in South Carolina.  Probably because of the success he had there, upon the return of Bishop Cheverus to France, Fenwick was elevated to the rank of Bishop.  Donning the purple robes of his status, his ecclesiastical ring and cross, he left to encounter the trials of his life.

He was now the prelate for one of the major dioceses in the United States, but he also knew of Boston’s past.  Christmas, at one time, was banned and still was not fashionable at Fenwick’s time.  Bonfires and burning the Pope’s effigy was still being practiced on the fifth of November, though not as violently as in the previous century.  The trees that filled Boston Common once held the bodies of his fellow Jesuits in Boston’s earliest Puritan era.  Though many of these practices were no longer observed, there was an underlying bias against anything Papist, and with the growing number of Catholics, Boston was on edge.   

In 1831, Lowell was his pride and joy.  The Corporations gave land for a church and later a cemetery.  The numbers justified a full time priest, Father Mahoney.  The church was dedicated in July of that year with imposing ceremonies.  Regular reports were coming in.  While the offertory collections weren’t great, Fenwick had hopes.  A major challenge faced Fenwick when the Ursuline Convent in Charlestown was burnt by an anti-Catholic mob in 1834.  Just days later, news arrived that the Catholic Burial Ground in Lowell was desecrated.



Things go from bad to worse.  The new pastor that Fenwick appoints to Lowell does not seem to be performing his duties.  Though just a few years old, St Patrick Church is too small for the numbers.  Expansions are planned, but the carpenters refuse to work.  Funds that were promised to fund the work do not show up.  He sends priests to Lowell to investigate allegations.  The response is not good.  No money.  Rowdy parishioners.  Priest not showing up for Mass!  There’s trouble in the mill city. 

Fenwick makes several trips by train and stage to check on conditions.  Fenwick recommends that the priest “goes on a spiritual retreat.” Parishioners threaten him with withholding the collections if their priest is replaced.  Fenwick wants the work on the church done.  He writes in his diary that he is afraid Lowell will not make it.  His stomach is upset.  He decides to raise funds by selling pews with disappointing results.  He replaces the pastor even after the threats of some of the more affluent parishioners.  (This same priest returns to Lowell months later, and Fenwick reports the priest is no longer one of his flock.)  They literally board up the church.  The new cleric, Father McDermott, awaits a welcoming committee at the train station that never shows.  He walks to the church and finds he is barred from entering.  He physically removes the boards.  Fenwick has a headache.



We’re fortunate that we have Bishop Fenwick’s actual words to tell us what was going on.  While you could see it as a 19^th century soap opera, it reminds us they really lived.  It personalizes the people whose lives have influenced where we live.  It’s important to remember that they were human with hopes and fears, times of laughter, days of woe.  And headaches.

Samuel Murray

In the last 2 years more research has been done regarding Lowell's Irish pioneers than in the past 2 decades.  I'm honored to be playing a small part in it, but I'm just the guy who collects all the stories and data the real historians are gathering.  Needless to say my laptop's desktop is covered with files.  There are dozens of dozens of them.  I need a better filing system.

Over the last months, we've found out much about the life of Hugh Cummiskey, his family, Father McDermott, and other prominent names.  We sometimes forget how tough life was back then.  The name of Hugh has come down through the generations as Lowell's premier Irishman, but certainly he was not alone.  A friend of Hugh was Samuel Murray.  Murray was 7 years younger then Hugh.  There was a strong bond between the two.  Maybe the strongest link was they were both Tyrone men, but it is assumed Hugh brought over many workers from his home County.  One story back in Ireland was that anyone wishing to come to America would go to the Cummiskeys in hopes of making a connection across the Atlantic. 

The two men were close enough they the went into business together running a West Indies Dry Goods store on Merrimack Street.  It would be compared to a modern variety store today.  He was probably quite successful since he later branched out and opened his own store.  Success meant he now how the ability to ask Margaret Holland to marry him, and in the cold of winter 1833 the two went to Saint Pat's Church and were married.  He takes the step to become a citizen in his new adopted homeland.   Life is good for the newlyweds and Samuel, along with his best friend Hugh Cummiskey, are among the first constables in Lowell.  The two men must have been held in the highest regard by their peers and the Town Fathers.  They would have to patrol the Acre, settle small disputes, and keep the peace.  The reputation of the community was on their shoulders.  Hugh and his protege were on their way up the social and economic ladders.  But the Fates must have their way, and Samuel Murray at the age of 39 dies, leaving his young wife alone and in debt.  His will shows that he owed money to several creditors.  The document gives us a glimpse into the life of an up and coming middle class Irishman in Lowell.  Among his possessions were sheets and pillowcases, candlesticks, 3 tablecloths, 1 cane, 5 vests and 1 great coat, window curtains, and 2 looking glasses (mirrors).  The list goes on, followed by creditors.

His young wife has enough to erect a marble stone (not slate like most others) in the Catholic Burial Ground.  Did his friend, Hugh, grieve?  What happened to Margaret, his wife of just 2 years?  Were there no children to grieve?  One wonders if it would have been Samuel Murray's name in the story of Lowell's Irish community   if he lived.  As research continues we find out more about the lives of those who came before us.  They become more than historical figures.  Once again they have a voice.

Ora Pro Nobis

Google image

No matter if you consider yourself a survivor of Catholic schools or someone who benefited from such an education, one thing is true- we all loved having holydays of obligation off from school.  After trick or treating you'd fall into a sugar stupor only to be aroused by the alarm to attend the 8:30 children's Mass at St.  Pat's.  This was not an option.  Every grade has its assigned place in church, and every nun sat there like a sentinel guarding her little troop and taking attendance.  All Hallow's Eve was just the intro to All Saints' Day.  Today's liturgies have cute little kids dressed as saints singing, "When the Saints Go Marching In."  Not for us, the bell would ring, the organ would blare the notes of the opening hymn, "For all the Saints, Who From Their Labors Rest."  We'd open up our Pius X hymnals and sing every verse.  That was just the beginning.  We're talking Pre-Vatican II here folks.  Holydays meant they pulled out all the smells and bells the church had to offer.  Being All Saints' Day the chanting of the Litany of the Saints was mandated, in Latin.

Beginning in Grade 3, I believe, Charlie McGrail (Now Father McGrail, a Benedictine monk) taught us Gregorian chant out of little hymnals.  I still own one with its square notes and and various modes.  To this day I can chant the Kyrie, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei.  At age 9 I knew more Latin than I do now, but also explains why I did phenomenally well in vocabulary tests throughout my school career.  Truly Mr. McGrail was a gifted musician.  St. Pats has one of the best organs in the city, and when he played, you felt the bass notes inside you.  His music joined earth to heaven.

After the Gospel, the Litany would begin.  The priest would call for the intercession of every saint recorded in the Church calendar, all 1332 of them.  Ok, that's an exaggeration, but when you kneel for that long it feels like it.  Honestly, there was a beauty to the chant.  Sancte Jacobe, Ora pro nobis.  Sancta Matthia, Ora pro nobis.  Sancte Luca, Ora Pro Nobis.  Sancta Anna, Ora pro nobis.  I've attended a Hopi kachina dance, and I've sat in meditation with Buddhist monks.  I've heard the chants from Mt. Athos in Greece and the call of the muezzin at a mosque.  All of them have the same goal- to lift man from his human existence to glimpse into the Great Unknown.

The next day is yet another memorial day in the church calendar-  All Souls' Day.  One of the traditional hymns for that day is a beautiful poem written by an English nun and sung to the tune of an ancient Gaelic tune (Trinity Sunday).  It's called Spirit Seeking Light and Beauty.  Here are the lyrics:

Spirit seeking light and beauty,

Heart that longest for thy rest.

Soul that asketh understanding,

Only thus can you be blest.

Taste and see him, feel and hear him,

Touch and grasp his unseen hand.

God is all that you can long for,

God is all his creatures home.

All this comes back to me because of something I recall and regret.  A good 30+ years ago I was asked to help clean a part of St. Pat's church basement.  At that time, that beautiful space, was no more than storage.  At one time masses had to be held simultaneously in both the upper and lower churches.  That was decades ago.  What I saw hurt the eyes and the soul.  Statues were tipped over.  Pews were broken apart.  The worst is what I saw in a pile.  I picked up what looked like a rag.  It was a chasuble (priest vestment).  This wasn't any chasuble; it was the very old style, black velvet, silver embroidery with a skull and cross bone on the back.  How many All Souls Day Masses or funerals was this a part of?  What stories could it tell?  There it was in a rag pile.  Not far away was a puddle.  But in the puddle was a stack of Gregorian Chant books used by the schola.  These were mammoth books that a group of chanters would stand around and all read out of one book.  They are mostly found in monasteries.  The beautiful notations and lettering were  smudged from being in water.  There wasn't just one, but a stack of them.  The little angel that sat on my left shoulder told me to take them home, but the one on my right said, "Thou shalt not steal."  I wish I listened to that first voice.  I am haunted that I let them stay there, since I learned all of those pieces of our history- our story- were put in the trash.  It was after this incident that I started up our Parish Archives.  A people who choose not to honor their past, have little hope for a future.

Nest week I'll have more to share on research about Hugh and some thoughts about how he ended up in Lowell.

The Rites of Fall in the Acre

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People have asked me if what I shared last week was all true.  Certainly!  And it becomes truer each time I recall it.  I also want to share that I am totally inept with technology.  To all of you who have shared comments or asked questions, I would like to respond, but I keep getting messages that since I don't operate this blog, I cannot post comments or responses.  (Needless to say I'm confused.)  If you wish to contact me directly, email me at dadumc@comcast.net.

Let me continue with my reminiscences of growing up on the corner of Broadway and Walker.  I truly believe I was given a gift of being brought up in the right place at the right time the Acre of the late 1950s  One of the first rites of Fall was the hanging of the storm windows.  Now anyone under the age of 55 will have no idea of what I speak.  In the cellar of the tenement I was brought up in were stored the 14 storm windows that had to be put up when the leaves changed, and taken down when the lilac buds showed.  These windows weighed as much as a full grown adult and had to be lugged up the stairs and brought outside for cleaning.  Our apartment, like most of the time, had no central heat- just a space heater and the kitchen stove.  Having ice form on the inside of the windows was no foreign occurrence.  Back to the storm windows.

My father would take out his wooden, 6 ft step ladder.  The one that listed at a 45 degree angle.  As he said, it was in perfect condition, why get a new one.  With a mouthful of 8 wood screws per window, he'd climb the ladder.  I would also climb the ladder doing a flying Wallendas routine of holding the window against the house and standing on the opposite side of the ladder from my Dad.  Misters Black and Decker had not invented the portable screwdriver yet, so good old Dad, with lightning speed would attach the windows.  This was also the time that I learned how religious my father was as he called out to "Jesus Christ Almighty" so many times. 

You knew it was really Fall when my mother would hang up the Indian corn.  You don't see a lot of that now.  Many houses today have blow up figures, strings of orange lights, and plastic pumpkins on the doorsteps.  My folks would never waste money by putting a pumpkin on the step.  We'd open it up and roast the seeds in the oven.  My aunt would make pumpkin pies.  But my mother used the same Indian corn for years.  the sad part was that birds, rain, and the years got to the corn, and each year she hung it up it looked more like she was hanging up just the cob minus the kernels.  She often bragged how many years she kept the same corn with the faded bow.

Another rite of Fall was walking by Waugh Street and waiting for the horse chestnuts to fall.  Before the blight which wiped out many of these beauties, Waugh Street was chestnut tree lined and became our own little "run the gauntlet."  A horse chestnut is covered with hard spikes.  When it falls from the tree it resembles a medieval torture instrument.  The trick was to run under the trees before being brained by the spiked bowling balls.  It was most fun on a windy day to see who could collect the most chestnuts without suffering a concussion.

But the best rite of Fall was Halloween itself.  I don't remember buying a costume.  I think I was a hobo from ages 5 to 11.  When I turned 12, I revolted and was a vampire.  I thought I was cool with a cape and blood dripping from my mouth.  That's when I learned not to use red Magic Marker as fake blood.  It was also a let down when a friend pointed at me and said vampires never wore glasses.  So I took them off , and then looked like a blind vampire tripping on stairs and walking into doors.  That was my last year of trick or treating.

What I remember most is getting my paper, orange, trick or treat bag from Greens in downtown Lowell.  I think it cost a nickel.  It was nothing more than an orange paper shopping bag, but by night's end it would hold a bounty of cavity producing treats.  My Dad was often given the chore of walking with us.  It often became a history of the Acre lesson.  Being an Acre Boy himself he'd tell me this is where he helped light the gas lanterns when he was a kid.  Or this is where the Keyes sisters lived and he'd run errands for them.  We'd walk by Lovejoy's mansion where UMass is now.  Everyone knew it was haunted, and I'd walk a little closer to him.  He's pretend to see ghosts in the broken windows.  One year right in front of Lovejoys it started raining, hard, and my little trick or treat bag got soaking wet and broke.  I was in a panic.  Do I stop and pick up my candy, or do I let the ghosts drag us in to Lovejoys basement and my mother would never see us again?  I did what any 6 year old would do.  I cried.  My father said another prayer to Jesus Christ Almighty, put as much candy into my little hobo hands as could fit, picked me up, and walked me home.

Samhain, Halloween, and other things

Thanks to Thomas Cahill's book, How the Irish Saved Civilization, we're all aware how our ancestors were personally responsible from keeping the Western Hemisphere from spinning back into the primordial abyss.  Well that isn't exactly what he says, but that's my take on it.  I am always aghast when those who share our Celtic heritage are unaware of the Irish roots of Halloween.  The Irish brought Halloween to the Americas.  The Celtic calendar ends at this time of year.  The season was a celebration of harvest and a time to prepare for bringing things in- closure.  And so it also became a time for the dead.  Large bonfires would be lit and animals and humans alike would walk by them as a type of cleansing.  The spirits of ancestors would be recalled with food being placed out for them.  Of course when the Church stepped in, the old went out.  Sort of.  All Saints Day and All Souls Day were to replace the old ways, even though they never completely disappeared.

Image from Google

I attended Saint Patrick School under the instruction of the good Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur.  Now it's become the fad for former Catholic school students to gather and tell horror stories of the torture chambers that the schools kept in their basements.  One friend claims his nuns performed lobotomies on students who refused to wear their uniforms to school.  Another claims one of his nuns packed heat.  They are apocryphal stories at best.  You will never hear such stories from me since I hold those women in the highest regards.

When I was in first grade my nun was Sister Julie Barbarian (a false name was used to protect the guilty).  Our classroom was in the school basement since Sister had 52 students, no exaggeration.  There was no aid in the class or break for an art or music teacher to come in.  She was stuck with us, which may have lead to the encounter I tell.  It was Halloween.  Being good Catholic boys and girls we were told to dress as our patron saint and be ready to parade around the school.  As I was ready with my sister to walk the 1.5 miles to school (today that would be child abuse).  I informed my mother I needed to dress as Saint David.  "When?" she asked.  "Now!" I replied, "Today is Halloween."  My mother took a copy of the Lowell Sun and folded it into a bizarre lump and informed me it was a crown.  I was going as King David.  I'm grateful she did not give me a loincloth and sling shot and go as young David fighting Goliath.

When I got to school there was St Francis, Saint Anthony, Saint Ann....  It looked like the hosts of heaven descended on Adams Street wearing their fathers' robes and mothers' bedsheets.  Sister looked ecstatic as we walked in.  She pointed at the folded Lowell Sun sitting on my head.  "What's that?"  she asked with her black habit looking much like a witch's outfit.  "It's a crown.  I'm King David."  I thought she would comment on how creative my crown was.  Instead she gave some sort of theology lesson that David was not a saint since the Messiah had not yet arrived and how could I be a saint if the gates of heaven had not been opened yet..............  My eyes glazed over as she went on quoting scripture, I think.  Her last words were, "Take it off."  I was crushed, until the kid after me walked by, we'll call him the sacrificial lamb.  He had on a Woolworth's skeleton costume compete with plastic mask.  You could see her take a deep breath.  "I'm a skeleton," came the muffled voice from behind the mask.  I've heard that certain sounds can break glass, and that the blasts of trumpets felled Jericho's walls.  The sound that came out of Sister's mouth was akin to that.  Her final words were, "Take it off."  "I can't," said the skeleton mask.  "You can't or you won't?" asked the good Sister, now looking more like a witch.  "I don't have anything underneath here," retorted the skeleton.  While the rest of the class paraded around the school ,Skeleton Boy and King David stayed in the classroom eating candy corn. 

Sister Julie is now counted among the saints.  The whereabouts of Skeleton Boy remains unknown.

THE CROSS AND THE SHAMROCK and FROM ERIN TO THE ACRE

BACK IN PRINT!

Are you thinking of a unique gift for someone who may be interested in Lowell's Irish past? 

The Cross and the Shamrock: the art and history of Saint Patrick Cemetery

and From Erin to the Acre: a photo history of Lowell's early Irish

have been reissued and are available for a limited time.  All proceeds from the books will go directly to the restoration fund of St. Patrick Cemetery.  Those who have visited the cemetery know the beauty of the shamrock slate stones that make St. Pat's truly unique.  Profits from the books will go to help restore the stones which are in need of restoration.  The gift is twofold.  Not only will you learn of Lowell's pioneer Irish past, but also know that you have helped preserve our common heritage. 

The Ladies Ancient Order of Hibernians is managing the sales. 

The books are $10.00 each and your check should be made out to 

LAOH Cemetery Restorations and mailed to:

LAOH Div 1 Lowell

c/o Donna Reidy

PO Box 266

Pelham, NH 03076

EXTRA! EXTRA!- Those who purchase the book and add a small donation of their choosing will also receive a 5 x 7 parchment certificate acknowledging the contribution for help in preserving our heritage for future generations.  (Please state the name to be inscribed on the certificate.)

Costello Monument, St. Patrick Cemetery

I met Kim a few months ago at an Open Doors event.  She came bouncing into St. Pat's Church with more energy than anyone should have at that time of the morning.  That's also when I realized what a unique individual she really is.  Kim is the assistant administartor at the Lowell Historic Board and works with Steve Stowell.  We've crossed paths a few times since then, and each time she amazes me with her talents.  Which brings me to this week's topic, the Costello Monument.  Most folks who drive by assume it is a mausoleum, not so.  Saint Patrick's has no mausoleum.  As the predominant landmark of the cemetery you might be interested in more of its background and architecture (Kim's forte).  So I invited Kim to be a guest blogger.  (Any other "volunteers"?)

Along with that, Kim will be conducting a tour of Old English on November 20th at noon.  Our neighbors share a number of great slate stones that are masterpieces of art and date to Lowell's earliest days.

Costello Chapel
St. Patrick’s Cemetery

                                                By: Kim Zunino

One of the most fascinating structures in the St. Patrick’s Cemetery is the Costello Chapel. This chapel was commissioned by prominent businessman Thomas F. Costello around 1905. With a very successful plumbing fixture business in Lowell, he had the chapel built for his son, Rev. Fr. George A. Costello, who served as the pastor of St. Bridget’s Roman Catholic Church in Lexington until his death in 1915. Thomas Costello passed away in early 1906.

Often mistaken for a mausoleum, the chapel was designed for performing Mass and the only burials are in the Costello family plot in front of the structure.  Designed by the prominent Swiss-American ecclesiastical architect Franz Joseph Untersee, the classically designed chapel was built of stone from the Vermont Marble Company of Proctor, Vermont. The structure has bronze entry gates and a painted copper roof. The interior of the chapel has had some conservation issues, as the marble-covered walls have been failing and pieces have been falling onto the altar and floor of the chapel.

            What makes this chapel so amazing is that it one of only a handful of Guastavino domes left in Massachusetts. Rafael Guastavino was a successful architect and builder in Spain when he immigrated to America in 1881 with his young son, Rafael Jr.  In 1885 Guastavino Sr. patented a type of structural tiling in the U.S. called the “Tile Arch System”, in which interlocking terra cotta tiles and layers of Portland cement combined to create self-supporting arches and domes. The Guastavino Fireproof Company was founded in 1889 and was responsible for designing the tile ceilings of many historic landmarks, including the Boston Public Library, two Vanderbilt family estates, and the ceiling of the Registry Hall on Ellis Island. They are also responsible for designing dome at the Grace Universalist Church (1896) in Lowell, which was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2010.

Another side of Hugh

We know of Hugh the labor leader; Hugh the peace keeper; Hugh as church founder, etc..  You have heard of Hugh the beer brewer (and the subsequent lawsuit against him), but do you know of Hugh the temperance man?  In my never ending quest to know all I can about him, I recently came across an interesting account.  Hugh wore many hats.  One was merchant.  He kept a West Indies Dry Goods store on Merrimack Street.  (A few years ago we had the Cummiskey Alley sign installed to remember Hugh, and since it is an actual street on city maps.)  Like most stores of the period, one of Hugh's best selling items was whiskey.  Each of the stores had their own jugs with the store name labeled on it.  (We have one with "Cummiskey's" on it in our parish archives.)  When the contents were emptied you simply brought it back to the store for a refill.  In the 1840s an anti-liquor movement swept the nation.  It made a big impact in Lowell among Yankees and Irish alike.  An Irish priest named, Fr. Theobald Mathew, was a well known speaker and visited Lowell to give "the pledge" where men and women alike swore they would never touch another drop again.  (Our parish archives has a medallion from one of his visits.)

In the Journal of the American Temperance Union is a brief account of a visitor seeing a gang of men and some type of disturbance outside Hugh's store.  Closer inspection showed it was the store owner, Hugh Cummiskey, having casks of liquor removed from his establishment and "abandoning entirely a traffic which is heretofore given him part of his livelihood."  (I wonder where they brought the evil deamon rum.)  The writer further says Cummiskey is a model to his fellow Catholics and hopes other "will join hands with him in this cause."

Now I feel a little guilty on Saint Patrick's Day when I raise a glass to the man who brought the Irish community to Lowell.

I made note of our parish archives.  We've got a nice collection of items from the parish, schools, and the Acre neighborhood.  It consists of several hundred artifacts, printed materials, prints, and photos.  Every now and then folks drop off items that they think deserve a good home and relate to the story we try to tell.  I remember getting a call from a wonderful woman asking me to look at some items she was going to throw away.  There were great neighborhood photos and the bell that called the kids to school at the turn of the century.  Little finds like this make up our history and need to be preserved.  Do you have anything to share?

We've reached over 3000 hits!  Those interested in preserving Lowell's Irish past are out there.  You hear from me each week.  I'd like to hear from you.  Drop a line.  Tell me a story.  I'm looking for guest bloggers.  Share your family's role in Lowell's Irish past.  dadumc@comcast.net

On another note the Lowell Historic Board is doing a tour of Old English, Saint Pat's neighboring cemetery on Nov. 20th.  Might be interesting to see who the neighbors are.  I was also thinking of doing a preliminary census before mapping out the slates in Yard 1 on Saturday, October 22.  If you might be interested drop me an email.