RichardHowe.com – Voices from Lowell & Beyond

North, This Time from the South

On the wall of my home office is a small sign that proclaims, “Love Where You Live” which highlights the importance of community in each of our lives. Stories about “place” and how individuals interact with it have had a constant presence on this site.

Last fall, through the efforts of guest contributor Melissa Franks, we launched a series called Lowell Stories. These included:

Rank has its privilege

Twirling and other twists

The Faith Home

Keeping things fresh

If you have a story about Lowell or the people who have lived here, please get in touch so we can share your story with our readers.

In the meantime, Melissa has relocated to Plymouth, Massachusetts, and shares her discoveries about life on the South Shore:

North, This Time from the South

By Melissa Franks

Massachusetts born and raised, and a longtime resident of the Greater Lowell area, I thought I knew the Commonwealth and its neighboring states well. Like many of us in the Merrimack Valley, my orientation was generally north. Summers meant beaches on Boston’s North Shore or the New Hampshire Seacoast. Winters saw skiing in New Hampshire, Maine, or Vermont. Later, I got to know the western part of the state on trips to Stockbridge and the Berkshires.

Surprisingly, though, I never really ventured to the South Shore as a destination. It was simply the region stretching south of Boston toward Cape Cod. I had always heard it was beautiful, but I knew it more by reputation than experience. There was Hingham, whose downtown Eleanor Roosevelt reportedly called the prettiest in America; Hull and its Nantasket Beach; and Duxbury, jokingly referred to as “Deluxebury.”

All that shifted with my recent move to Plymouth, at the southernmost end of the South Shore. I haven’t just moved to a new town. I’ve moved to a new part of the state, and it’s clear there’s much beyond the Pilgrims’ landing to discover.

As for Plymouth, if I thought about it at all, I thought of Plymouth Rock, which anyone who visited on a school field trip knows to be a remarkably small rock. Beyond that, it mostly meant traffic en route to Cape Cod. These days, it’s The Pinehills, one of Plymouth’s burgeoning condo communities, where everyone seems to be moving.

So it was a bit of chance, along with a desire to be nearer the ocean, that my search for a new home brought me to Plymouth. I arrived in early June, just as the hydrangeas were beginning to bloom. They seemed larger and more vibrant than those I’d known elsewhere in Massachusetts. I’ve since learned they thrive in the South Shore’s coastal climate and are one of the area’s signature flowers.

It turns out Plymouth is enormous—the largest municipality by land area in Massachusetts. Yet it seems less like one place than a collection of smaller places. While most people picture the bustle of Plymouth’s historic downtown, I found myself settling in Manomet, a sleepy seaside village about 20 minutes away. It’s a little farther from my mom than I’d intended. The destination was more happenstance than plan, but maybe something led me here. It’s not at all posh, but it’s lovely to me.

Manomet

Church

My first impressions of Manomet began at Gellar’s old-fashioned ice cream stand on the corner before I turned into what would become my new home. Across the street stood an old church and churchyard. What really caught my eye, though, was the sign advertising 24 flavors of soft serve, which I immediately took as a personal challenge—one I started later that very day.

Unfortunately for my wallet, their soft serve doesn’t come in “kiddie” size, and I’ve been adding jimmies to the mix. By the time I’ve sampled all 24 flavors, I’ll have spent nearly $200. Still, my friend Dana assures me that “ice cream therapy” is a lot more fun, and probably cheaper than a single session of traditional therapy.

Gellars

Village Crossing at Old Field Road, my condo community, gave me an immediate sense of peace. Its single-level New England duplexes are separated by stretches of grass, their muted siding and white trim softened by flower beds tended differently by each homeowner. Many have hydrangeas.

When my realtor and I left the neighborhood, we followed the signs toward White Horse Beach, less than a mile away. Along the way we passed gray-shingled homes framed by hydrangeas, several trailheads leading into conservation land, and the weathered White Horse Beach General Store, which had just been sold.

The only other nearby business was a shuttered restaurant called The Lobster Pound. I remember thinking the area could really use a great bakery. If only I knew how to bake. Then, just around the bend, came my first glimpse of the ocean, with Priscilla Beach’s iconic flag-painted rock in the distance. I was already falling for little Manomet, and I hadn’t even made an offer yet.

The Lobster Pound

If this quiet village had captured me so quickly, I can’t help but wonder what the rest of the South Shore will be like. I think I’ll make my way north from Plymouth, one town at a time. Then again, maybe I’ll jump ahead now and then to visit a sprinkling of friends already on the South Shore to see the area through their eyes. And every so often, continuing north will bring me back to the Lowell area, where so many of my stories began.

Why do it? A hiker’s confession.

WHY DO IT?

A hiker’s confession

By Jerry Bisantz

OK, so this is the newest in my “try to figure out why Jerry does stupid stuff all the time” writings. And this one will be about my passion for climbing.

I must blame my buddy Steve for this one.  I never knew anything about hiking and climbing until I went for a little “trek” at the Lynn-Fells Nature area in Stoneham, MA. I liked it so much I was done for.

Buying hiking and climbing equipment, and a tent for overnighters, I became obsessed with challenging myself on any of the forty-eight 4,000 ft mountains in NH. I started on small mountains to get used to climbing. … Mt Wachusett, Pack Monadnock, Mt Watatic. My first 4,000-footer was Mt Pierce. Did it with my buddies Phil, and Steve. The view at the top was extraordinary, and the effort was worth it. Of course, that was 13 years ago, and 33 mountains ago.

So, imagine my surprise when I found myself, this September, halfway through the 9.2 mile, three summit climb that is called the Franconia Ridge Trail, facing the third and tallest of the mountains, Mt Lafayette, and literally holding back tears, and, not because it was so beautiful (and trust me, it is breathtaking)… but, because I was so miserable.

Breath. That’s what it was all about. Breathing. I was sucking wind with every step. And there was NO turning back. I wasn’t about to re-climb Mt Lincoln and Little Haystack, only to attempt to go DOWN the Falling Waters Trail.  I had no choice. I made the mistake. I was the stupid person who forgot how difficult it could be.

A side note: I had completed this same climb 11 years ago. It’s easy to forget how hard it was then. But now, at the ripe old age of 71, I thought I could still do it. And I was learning quickly how naive I was.

If you have never climbed in The Whites, let me tell you what makes them stand out: ROCKS. Millions of them. At all angles, shapes and sizes. Jagged edges, small cracks, any opportunity to turn an ankle, or break a leg. No easy, manicured trail or switchback, no.  You look for the trail marker and you say to yourself “that can’t be a trail.”  Even the Ridge, almost three miles of exposed trail above tree line, even that is filled with nothing but rocks.

I got to the point where I would climb for five minutes, sit down and suck wind for three minutes, and repeat. People were passing me like I was standing still. I kept looking at my watch, making sure that I would have enough sunlight to complete the climb. Praying that I had the energy to at least get to the AMC Greenleaf Hut that looked like an inviting little postage stamp on the Western side of Mt Lafayette.

That little speck seemed to get further and further away every time I stumbled over rock after goddamn twisted, misshaped rock on the descent. They say that most accidents occur on descents. That’s because good old gravity has it’s say. Fortunately, hiking poles can be used to cushion and slow yourself down with each step. My water bottle was empty, tongue beginning to swell, I slowly made my way down the torturous path to the Hut.

Where was that feeling? That overwhelming feeling of being one with nature? That feeling that I, at 70 years of age can still do this when so many of my friends are content to suck down a beer and watch TV or are unable to do it due to bad knees, ankles, or medical conditions.  Nope, that feeling was not there. Not at all. Just tired, boring plodding along. Occasionally I would trip on a jagged rock, catch myself with my poles. My thighs were screaming. I didn’t dare look at the view if I was moving. Each rock, each step had to be analyzed as to where to put my feet.

I had stepped into the water above Cloudland Falls on the Falling Waters Trail. Up to my knees. I literally squished my way to the top of Little Haystack. Now, on the descent, blisters were beginning to arrive.

Who needs this crap? I started thinking of my stupidity. “Challenging” myself to do this difficult climb. A climb that literally killed a hiker two years ago. “Mr. Macho,” huh? Yeah, right. I started questioning myself, my body, all the dumb decisions I had made in my life.

No cell service. At least if I can make it to the AMC Hut, I may be able to assure my wife that I was OK. But, where the hell is this hut? Why is it taking so long? I summited Lafayette an hour ago, and I am still not there. My mouth felt like sandpaper, my feet were killing me, and I was running out of gas. Big time.

As luck would have it (all bad so far) I had to climb again. Almost 200 more feet to reach the Hut. Climbing at that point was pure torture. I finally turned a corner, and there it was: the AMC hut. Many hikers were lounging in the sun, taking a break.

I wearily went inside, pulled off my boots with much effort and changed into dry socks for the rest of the descent. I helped myself to a brownie, filled my bottle with ice cold water which I drank greedily. Not moving at all was a pleasure.

The hikers were all very nice. One thing about climbing, it’s hard to find a jerk on the mountains. Everyone was just happy to take in the scenery and rest for a while.

I stayed about 20 minutes at the Hut and plotted the next part of this interminable hike. The Old Bridal Path Trail would take me back to my car.

It certainly couldn’t be that hard, after everything I had been through. I spied a very interesting young lady who was about to begin her descent. Her name was Alex. She looked to be about 25 years of age. What really set her apart from everyone else was the fact that she was barefoot. Yes, ya got that right… barefoot! When she told me she was from my hometown of Buffalo, NY I knew that I had to descend with her. Fortunately, she was cool with an old coot like me hanging with her. Ya gotta love a fellow Bills fan.

Angels come in crazy packages. Alex was my angel. Her nonstop conversation, her ability to find just the correct rocks to trust helped me on that interminable last trail.

When we got to the bottom, over 7 hours after I began, we took a “selfie” and promised to keep in touch.

I called my wife, told her I was safely off the mountains, and headed to The Woodstock Inn for a steak and a beer.

Where was that incredible feeling? That feeling of being on top of the world? Of seeing that 360-degree view of all the beauty of the mountain tops, the soaring eagles that flew beneath me?

I didn’t feel it.

I felt tired, I felt old. I felt stupid. I overdid it in a dangerous way.

As I sit here typing away, my sciatica has grounded me. Perhaps it’s for the best that I take a little break and be a bit more aware of my limitations. A challenge is one thing. Stupidity is another.

Is 70 the “new 50?”

Not when it comes to The Franconia Ridge Trail.

Not by a mile.

Fading Impressions (Ghost Signs)

Fading Impressions

By Leo Racicot

I first noticed ghost signs around town about twenty years ago; I was sitting at the depot when I noticed the faded Hood’s ads on the side of the old Thorndike Factory Outlet building: Hood’s Vegetable Pills, Hood’s Ointment. There were names of other Hood products but they’ve faded over time. This is why it’s so important, I think, to try to preserve them, as history, as culture, as advertisements of the way the city used to be. I like taking photos of them and of murals in general because of their impermanence; you go back a week, a month, a year later and they’re gone. The urge to capture them, like scarabs in amber, is strong.

The J.C. Ayer ghost ad downtown on Middle Street is probably the most recognized of Lowell’s signs. It, along with the Rogers sign, also on Middle Street, are hard to miss. Both are still well-preserved. J.C. Ayer Company was once a mainstay of Lowell in the 1900s, offering residents, as it did, so-called “quack” patent remedies like Sarsaparilla, Cathartic pills, Ague cures, hair tonic (“vigor) and my favorite name, Cherry Pectorals “for anything that ails you”. Rogers was, of course, one of Lowell’s big toy and novelty stores and is still, I believe, in operation, selling pools and pool equipment.

For years, I’d take ghost sign strolls around the city to see what I could see. One sign that has proved a challenge for me is the Uneeda Biscuit ad on Merrimack Street near where the Royal Theater used to be. Due to heavy construction in that area, the awkward location of the sign, the trees, I’ve not been able to find a proper vantage point from which to snap it in its entirety. I’ve tried taking a photo from far away (Zoom lens), from close up (can never get close enough) but never can commit it to film. I keep trying.

The nicest sign, not diminished by time, is the Lawrence Manufacturing sign near Riverwalk Way. I was out walking Sally DeAngelis’ dog, Ruby, when I happened quite by accident to turn around and there it was. It quite startled me; I didn’t know it was there, had never heard about it. Luckily, I had my camera handy, snapping it from many angles. A true Lowell treasure.

The Lowell Sun newspaper sign downtown, towering above Prescott Street but visible from lots of different observation points, isn’t, strictly speaking, a ghost sign. I’ve heard it referred to as The Citgo sign of Lowell, in reference to Boston’s legendary Kenmore Square landmark attraction. DIY efforts to keep it looking young continue and it says and hopefully will always say Lowell to those of us who remember its banner landmark status from when we were kids.

The author thanks Joe Markiewicz for suggesting “ghost signs” as the topic for this essay.

_______________

J. C. Ayer Co. on Middle Street

Lawrence Manufacturing Co.

Rogers Toys on Middle Street

Uneeda Bisquit

Have a Joyous Vacation!

Have a Joyous Vacation! – PIP #109

By Louise Peloquin

     At a time when a great many Lowellians were actively engaged in World War II,  L’Etoile maintained daily detailed coverage of the conflict and of those involved in the thick of it. While extending happy summer vacation wishes to readers, the editorialist did not forget all of the valiant individuals who made endless summers days carefree for schoolchildren and anyone privileged enough to take a break.

Turmoil tortures today’s world too and service members continue to risk their lives, and, alas, lose them. Nemo’s message therefore remains pertinent. (1)

 L’ETOILE – July 7, 1944 Editorial

 JOYEUSES VACANCES!

      The summer season, with its soft breezes and its burning rays, is supremely evocative of idleness and of aimless, playful rambling. To adults and to little ones appears, at the most heavy and most painful time, the anathema of the original earthly paradise: “You will earn your daily bread by the sweat of your brow.” Everyone dreams of the enchanted garden of Eden before the fall.

     If this period of heatwaves generally brings workers a bit of relaxation and recreation, for our schoolchildren, summer brings ultimate happiness. For them, only one thing counts, one thing that, for ten months, they have waited to shout with all of the power of their lungs, these two words: “Vacation time!” How many delights in these magical words! No more despotic morning alarm; no more fastidious and absorbing homework; no more pages to learn and assignments to copy; no more teachers to spy on them; no more detention; no more slavery! No more of that. On the contrary, freedom, fresh air, racing in fields, sun on heads, in eyes, in hearts, in souls, everywhere!

     It is beautiful. We have all been there and we would not, for all of the gold in the world, spoil the joy our dear, precious schoolchildren. We need them to grow strong and vigorous because their task, in future battles, will be heavy and exhausting. To acquire vigor and strength, they need recreation during these hours of rest and calm.

     At the solemn time we are crossing, we ask all of our valiant schoolchildren to think of their older brothers who are exposing their lives on the fields of battle in order to secure, for the next generation, freedom and happiness and to pray to God for them.

     Parents who have delegated their task during these past months to our devoted teachers, should open their eyes to provide their children with physical and moral strength during these days of vacation.

     To all, a joyous and beneficial vacation! (2)

• Nemo

 ****

Many of L’Etoile’s editorials are not signed but this one is. We cannot identify this However, the name could be borrowed from French writer Jules Verne’s fictional character called Nemo who first appeared in the 1870 novel “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” and last appeared in the 1875 novel “The Mysterious Island.” Nemo, the brilliant and mysterious submarine captain of the submarine Nautilus, is known for his anti-imperialist views.

Translation by Louise Peloquin.