First, forgive me for being a slacker in not updating my “saint” widget over there this week – so many worthy remembrances! The Ugandan martyrs, Augustine of Canterbury, Boniface..I’m so ashamed.
Well, anyway.
My mother grew up in Maine. Born in New Hampshire, but grew up in Maine.  The aunt and uncle who raised her lived there (in Sanford, in case there are any small-world moments waiting to happen out there) and for all of my childhood, a month every summer was spent in that lovely little spot of southern Maine.

My best friend there was named Lesa. (spelling is correct, btw). She lived across the field lying between my great-uncle’s house and her family’s, and was the only girl in a family of about 6 or 7 boys – that is until her little sister was born when she was around 13, I think. Very French-Canadian family, her grandparents barely spoke English. Being an only child, I was always mildly stunned after being with them for a while, alternately taken aback and entranced by the energy, the earthiness, and things that were so odd to me – like making a whole meal out of nothing but ears and ears of fresh corn.
Her oldest brother was probably about ten years older than she was (and she was a year older than I). He was a pretty dashing guy, although if you’d asked me at the time, I would have confessed that I thought he had a rather strange name.
“Nobbit,” they called him.
Nobbit graduated from college. Nobbit was a ski instructor in the winters. Nobbit was coming home.
Nobbit?
What kind of name was that, I wondered..for years.
Until one day, as an adult, I happened upon…
St. Norbert.
Ah..got it. Finally. Ay-up!