These fine looking young folks are my first cousins, the Porrettas. From left to right, you see Anthony "the Big A", Maria, Tom, and Carla. They're turned out in front of their Detroit home and are dressed in their Easter finery.
They're the children of my mother's sister, Mary Ellen and her husband Tony.



My brother Paul and I are the youngest cousins of our generation. When were visited relatives, the duty of entertaining us usually feel to younger cousins, and this meant that when we went to the Motor City, the job fell to Tom.


Tom did good work. He turned me on to Soupy Sales, and that simple act provided me with joy for years. We did White Fang and Black Tooth, and when he called me "Birdbath" I laughed uncontrollably. He had a friend down the street, a blond haired kid named Tim, and they told me that Tim was Lion quarterback Bobby Layne. I believed them both and happily told everyone who would listen that I knew Bobby Layne. It was a cool time. I was about four. I was dialed in.


Tom lived a good life. He lost his battle with colon cancer earlier this year. He was kind, and gentle, and smart. His life was rich with family. I have a Tom story that lives on in my memory--which means that some of the details may or may not be correct, and Tom would be good natured in correcting any details that I may misrepresent. Here goes: When I was in high school, and he was fresh out of the navy, he performed one of the all-time family stunts. He drove his mother's Buick convertible down to Florida. One night he parked on the beach, lowered the convertible top, and went to sleep. Over night, the tide came in. The car was flooded, and Tommy had some 'splaining to do. However much 'splaining he did, it didn't prevent his story from being told in solemn tones with pregnant pauses sprinkled throughout to allow the guilt to soak in with requisite caution and introspection.


So, in Tom's memory, and for our own sake, most of us have had a {begin whisper voice}colonoscopy{end whisper voice}. (Those of you who knew my mother or my aunt understand the whisper voice). I had mine this week.


Those of you who know me know that I can have a sophisticated conversation with you about the effects of chronic pain. However, I have {begin wood knocking sound} never {end wood knocking sound} had surgery. So, the concept of sedation for surgery is new to me. I understand why. Surgical sedation is powerful stuff. Upon arrival at the Endoscopy Center the staff told me that the worst was over. They were right. I was given a sedative named Versed that erased all memory of the process. I came to in the recovery room bright-eyed, chipper, and richer for the experience. As my mother would say {cue MJ's voice} "It's charming how our little experiences bind us through time."{end MJ's voice cue}


Tom is missed by many, White Fang and Black Tooth included.

A beautiful little storefront in Taos, NM. Took the picture on a bright, summer Sunday morning last time we passed through NM. Recently finished Blood and Thunder: An Epic of the American West a wonderful, even-handed Western History by Hamilton Sides. Kit Carson, who made his home in Taos, is featured prominently in the work. Blood and Thunder is a must for anyone who is interested in the convergence of Navajo, Spanish, Mexican, and Anglo cultures. This tiny garden in Taos provides ample evidence that all these cultures live on in a very special place.

For those of you who have been clamoring for a photo of me from this century, your wait is over. That's me on the right. On the left is the wonderful, beautiful, Lori who spends far too much time making sure that I am tethered to the planet. This makes me one lucky individual. The photo is a couple of years old, and Lori looks as fine as ever. On the other hand...

My dad was born in Lake Linden, a small town located on Keewanaw Peninsula in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. The Keewanaw is a small sliver of land that juts out into Lake Superior. Houghton and Hancock are the major towns on the Keewanaw. The area was the center of the cooper boom in the late 1800s and early 1900s. My dad loved the UP and spent as much time there as he could. My mom wasn't as enamored with UP, so my dad usually had to come up with some type of side trip that my mother could embrace. This picture was taken in Indian River in the UP. My recollection was that there was a giant freestanding cross that was a religious tourist attraction, which was probably the reason why we were visiting there. I don't know who the people are who are flanking my mother. My Indian headress was temporarily gracing my noggin while my Tiger cap was in the car.

Three uncles from the Mongeau side. From left, the great and gentle Oscar Loftquist, husband of my father's sister, Regis; Denny Ward, former fire chief of Muskegon. Denny may have been the strongest man I ever met. He was a legitimate hero having once climbed aboard a burning freighter and carried men out of the burning ship one-by-one. Denny married my father's sister, Betty. Next to Denny is Lloyd (Mung) Mongeau, the patriarch of our branch of the Mongeau clan. Lloyd was the city assessor of Muskegon Heights. During the Depression he coached his younger brothers, Phil and Izzy, at Muskegon Saint Mary's High School. The fellas are sitting on the Denny's back porch which overlooked Lake Muskegon. All the freighters that docked in Muskegon passed by Denny's picture windows. The house was on the main road to Pere Marquette State Beach and Denny, Betty, and Kids renovated their garage into a root beer/hot dog stand for those heading for the beach. It was pure heaven for me.

Here's a great family photo from a time long ago. Front row: My dad, Phil Mongeau; me; my cousin. Pete Mongeau; my dad's brother, Izzy Mongeau. Row 2: Unknown friend of my sister; my cousin, Dave Mongeau. Row 3: My aunt, Lorena (Ming) Mongeau; my sister, Celeste Mongeau Crouch; my cousin, Jim Mongeau; my mom, Martha Jane Mongeau; my sister's friend, Janet Maurer