Maureen Feeney

Of ice cream and ambition

by Yvonne Abraham

City Councilor Maureen Feeney's campaign trail is paved with soft-serve.

It is a warm Sunday afternoon at Garvey Park, in Dorchester, and the Saint Ann's Church picnic is jumping. Hundreds of parishioners have demolished hot dogs and chicken breasts and are preparing for the sack race when the announcer turns down the music and tells everyone that the ice cream is here, and free, compliments of the councilor.

"I'm known as the Ice Cream Lady in my district," Feeney says. During the school year, she is also known as the Pencil Lady, because she gives out stacks of MAUREEN FEENEY pencils to students. But in warmer months, wherever she goes, Joe Dizoglio's ice cream truck -- decked out in green-and-blue MAUREEN FEENEY signs -- goes too. For a big event like this, Dizoglio hands out small vanilla and chocolate cones for an hour and a half. It costs Feeney about a hundred dollars.

"In my district, we have so many kids," she says. "We're so lucky. I love my kids, I'm telling you." And these kids' parents vote. "I've probably received more votes from people in this district because of their kids," says Feeney, a 50-year-old Irish Catholic Dorchester native with blond hair and big blue star earrings. "But I don't use the kids. I genuinely love them."

Feeney, with two children of her own, knows what kids want. And despite the fact that she's been a city councilor for only four years, she's been pretty definite about her own wishes, too. Last year, she entertained the idea of running for Jim Brett's vacant seat in the state legislature; she had a good shot, but decided to stay at City Hall a while longer. This past January, she replaced Dapper O'Neil as city council vice-president (much to his chagrin), and ran against James Kelly for president (she was one vote short). In the voting chamber, she has come out for teen curfews and against the domestic-partnership bill. She is tight with Kelly, and with the other three women on the council. And though she has been critical of Menino, and vocal about the council's need to stand up to him, she insists her relationship with the mayor is "really good. For me, none of this has been personal."

Her seat looks safe, but Feeney may not be long for this city council. Dizoglio's ice cream truck is doing double duty this year: immediately after the city ballot on November 3, Feeney will be on the hustings again, running for state senator Paul White's seat in a special election. (White is leaving after 25 years to take a job at Boston College.) And as she makes her way across the park, giving her friends at Saint Ann's hello hugs, that's what they want to talk about.

"Let's get through this one first," she tells a round, middle-aged woman after an extra-long embrace. "We have to get through this one first."

"Ah, you don't have much competition," says the woman.

"Don't take anything for granted," Feeney answers. "It's an exciting time," she says later. "And it's difficult to try to stay focused. But the senator's not even stepping down until September or October."

At about 3:30, Dizoglio slides the glass window on his ice cream truck closed and goes out to gather up chicken and sodas for his kids, who've been helping him. One family -- tall, jolly, gray-haired parents and their teenage son -- arrive too late. They're three of Feeney's most enthusiastic supporters: just last week, the mother wrote the councilor a long letter of support. Feeney was thrilled: "Can I hug you? Can I hug you? If I ever keep anything in my life, it's your letter! I can't thank you enough!"

"Is it closed?" the mother, crestfallen, asks Feeney.

"No, not for you," says the councilor, and has Dizoglio's son open up again. Another line forms instantly. "Just serve these ones," the councilor says. But the queue keeps growing, joined by kids with faces painted like cats or pirates, hankering for soft-serve. Dizoglio returns and tells his son to go ahead and do what Feeney says.

Feeney waits for a lull. "Okay, after them you need to close this up," she says. "You'll be here forever."

Dizoglio slides the window closed again, loads his kids into the truck, and slowly drives off, ringing his bell. He'll be back next week, with his truck and his sons and his FEENEY signs, at the Ice Cream Lady's next gig.