Michael Parent died Friday. He was one of my storytelling heroes, a brilliantly creative, big-hearted man who encouraged me at a crucial time.

One of the first times I ever attended Sharing the Fire, the Northeast Storytelling Conference, Michael gave the keynote. He did this hilarious routine where his cellphone rang and he announced, with wonder and delight, that he was being invited to perform at some fictional prestigious festival, the “Musk Melon Storytelling Festival,” or some such thing. His ultimate point, elegantly made, was that getting invited to perform at high-falutin’ venues is not the reason we do what we do.

Now, Michael had been performing since 1977, and had been featured numerous times at the National Storytelling Festival and international stages from France to New Zealand, stages every bit as prestigious as those at that “Musk Melon Festival.” He had been inducted into the Circle of Excellence by the National Storytelling Network. Clumsily done, that speech could have come across like a “first world” diplomat lecturing a Global South statesperson on how, for the good of the planet, their country didn’t need to aspire to the same level of development. But Michael’s touch was deft, and his humility was never in question.

The reference to fruit seemed fitting. Because Michael made you feel that we were all laborers in a common vineyard. And working alongside each other was enough. But you also wanted to be able to prune those vines and tie them up with the elegance and precision and panache with which Michael did it.

Michael was a Mainer, a Franco-American from Lewiston, and his art grew organically out of his culture; When I met him 20 years ago he was still enthusiastically playing hockey. The artists I admire most know where they come from, are tuned into the traditions out of which they grew, but also add their own individual, special je ne sais quoi. Michael was all of that.

He was like that wacky, favorite uncle that shows up at the family gathering and you know everything’s going to be livelier and more fun. He was more Loki than Odin, but Loki without the bad bits.

I read something by Michael’s dear devoted partner, Katy Rydell, in which she shared a favorite Anne Lamott quote: “Laughter is carbonated holiness.” Michael had sooo much of that kind of holiness, enough holiness to make you snort, holiness to make you giggle.

Such blessings you brought us, Uncle. Bonne route.