To the editor:
Born in Nashua, New Hampshire, some 80-plus years ago, I recall my entire Blossom Street neighborhood was not only populated by French Canadian iImmigrants, but inherently Roman Catholic legal immigrants.
I made my First Communion at the age of 7. I was an altar boy (having memorized all the Latin required), being paid 10 cents per Mass. I served weekend Masses as early as 6 a.m. Additionally, on weekdays, I would ride my bike to St Joseph’s Hospital (1.8 miles) in Nashua to serve Mass for the hospital chaplain, Father Cotnoir.
One of those days of long ago, Father Cotnoir (after Mass was over) asked me to be the “godfather” of a lady patient called “Jenny,” who was dying and would do so in the next six hours. I agreed with trepidation, and said, “Sure.”
I went into Jenny’s room, reached under the plastic tent over her and held her hand. Jenny died two hours later, but although she was 76 and I was 12, I am Jenny’s godfather. I love her to this day.
Admittedly, this is kind of a “so what?” scenario. But please think back to your own history and development since youth. Ever experience a “Jenny”?
Lou Ouellette
Madawaska
