She was a poor high school girl who just needed a ride.  And if she’d never had the courage to speak up, I wouldn’t be here today.

Each morning, handsome young Mike Miller drove past her house on his way to North Hollywood High. He usually picked up a friend on the way.  Barbara, friends with his morning passenger,  asked her one day,  “Do you think Mike might pick me up also? I’m right on his way.” Her friend offered to ask on her behalf and returned the next day with his reply:

“He said if you want a ride that bad, you have to ask him yourself.”

What a jerk.  What a cocky, arrogant ass.

Swallowing her pride for a ride, Barbara caved.

She sat in the back seat, but not for long.

The chemistry between them became too much and she soon moved to the front where their molecules mingled and began the Miller Family in 1958…and by some counts, even sooner.

At the end of his long, successful life, the greatest story never told about my dad, Mike Miller, is the one that belongs to my mother.  She’d have no interest in telling it herself, but someone should speak of the woman who first just came along for the ride and ended up successfully navigating an entire generation.

Don’t mind if I do.

Barbara Ann or “Babs” as they sometimes called her, was the oldest of four in a not so great childhood where she was often the only present “parent. ” She learned at an early age how to care for people, to put them first, enjoy their achievements and take a backseat to their successes.   If  I’ve spoken of my dad’s remarkable humility in previous stories, Mom’s humility is truly incalculable.

Like Dad, Mom is also an artist, but of the family genre.  The co-author, co-illustrator and presence in every sky of every painting he ever did, she is as much in every canvas of Dad’s art as the paint put upon it.  And if you ask anyone, together, they created a family masterpiece. The full story of my dad’s life is immeasurably void and incomplete without her.  During Dad’s final year, I watched them in their side by side recliners holding hands as he slowly drifted off until the day he finally drifted off forever.  She wasn’t watching the television. She was watching the man who invited her to join him for this long ride that ended all too soon.

She’s the first to admit she had no formal education, but graduated from what she very proudly calls the School of Hard Knocks.  She was the bobbing buoy in the family storms–unless of course they were real storms, in which case she was crouched under the stairs with her fingers in her ears. But despite the joking, she learned to make peace with a relentlessly stubborn man and lead the family from the back seat while still letting him believe he was always behind the wheel.  We all knew better.

On many occasions, she could have given up, but always regarded the potential of the investment greater than its episodic highs and lows.  She appreciated dreams and always listened intently to mine as if they were her own.  I’ve always been a dreamer with a story to tell and many a pre-dawn morning, we sat together as I recited the most elaborate soliloquies of my night’s slumber and she always made me believe she starred in every one.  And for a little boy turned author, she was my first captive audience.

She has always been fastidious about things.  The kids, the house, holidays, Dad.  For all his life,  he was her project.  Few know that.  She could plant an idea and make him believe it was his seed. She could draw a picture of the future and he would paint it as an original. Set a course and he would route it as if he’d created the map.  Together, they have at times been the Laurel and Hardy, George and Gracie and Ricky and Lucy of their many friendship circles, and were always the admired ones.

Their youth was the last to speak fondly of the woman behind the man.  It was a post-depression era when young men and women enjoyed their mutually supportive roles with pride, producing what many now consider the last of the best families of the century. Their homeostatic coupling had no room for notions of pride and independence.  Marriage had a purpose that far outweighed anything they might achieve on their own.  Each acknowledged the other as a necessary complement, a symbiotic relationship which stayed the course and often defied societal odds and birthed a well-mannered generation of survivors.

Mom has given her three kids more stories of personal sacrifice, selflessness and principled living than we’ll ever live to tell.  During our early years, she was always the mark of the family.  Without her, we would have very few of our funniest stories.

Even now, 56 years later, she still drives us all crazy.  But crazy is as crazy does and now nearing the end of her days, just like Dad, neither would change a thing.

Mom has since taken the wheel, driving the last leg of their journey alone.  But they will end up at the same destination.  For she will join him in the skies he will continue to paint for her from afar with light and color and placid memories.

They will forever be those two young kids, still enjoying that first ride that lasted a lifetime. And we will all watch from below and gather from time to time to laugh and cry and be thankful that they were that couple who once shared a front seat and drove each other, and the rest of us, crazy.

Until her own time comes, she misses him each time she gazes into the painted skies he leaves on her lonely walls.

But I’m pretty sure as she continues to talk to him over coffee from her early morning patio, he may finally reveal to her who it was who changed the setting on the dryer.

And the Valentine lovers will have yet another good laugh.

Coincidences happen every day for those who believe in them.
You pull over with a flat tire and seconds later there’s a massive pileup at the next intersection. You find a $50 rebate check and an unexpected $50 invoice on the same trip to the mailbox. The difference lies in your perspective. Is it just chance or might some other force be at work on your behalf?

The simple minded view them as mere chance with no room for divine explanation. The former offers no chance to change the outlook on your day ahead while the latter gifts you hope and optimism that perhaps you’re not so alone in this world, and a better than even chance to begin your day with a distinct possibility there’s more to this life than meets the eye.

No matter how far you’ve traveled,
The distance you’ve placed between you and your past,
The amends and erasures,
The changes you’ve made which are now habits,
And the difference you’ve since become in this world…

In just the right place, at just the right time,
He caught my eye and called me.
“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.
He really needs somebody.”

He said “I kinda need some help.
I’m wondering what you got.
I haven’t much, but three days clean
But for me that’s quite a lot.”

I said, “What’s up, my name is Don,
I’ve been where you are too,
I should be gone to prison
But today I’ll stand with you.”

We spoke the language addicts do
And quickly made a bond
He asked me how I got this far
I said “No magic wand.”

New on the scene and over zealous
He was hardly apprehensive,
Wanting one more day, and of me jealous,
Scared and aptly pensive.

I said “Advice?” He said “For sure!”
So I went on to tell him
“For what you got, there ain’t no cure”
I had no line to sell him.

He listened to my story.
And feasted on each word.
He was ravenous and hungry
For all that he had heard.

I wished him well and shook his hand
He countered with a hug.
Then thanked me for my sincere words
Which spared him from the drug.

And at just the right place and at just the right time,
Years later, less in danger
That friend I’d met with a story of mine
Was asked to help a stranger.

I haven’t met you yet…

but I glow inside knowing you’re thinking of me right now.

Planning what we’ll do after work tonight and what you’ll make for dinner

because you’ll probably beat me home and you’re a great cook and

even better at surprises.

I haven’t met you yet…

but while my birthday is months away, you’re already making secret plans.

I haven’t peeked but I’ve noticed the little list you keep of things I like and

how it’s been a long time since I’ve been on an airplane.

I haven’t met you yet…

but I smell you sometimes in my clothes and my pillows and way down deep

under my sheets at night where only me and my dog have slept.

And he wouldn’t mind at all sharing  me and my bed with someone like you

at some point.

I haven’t met you yet…

but i’m sure you look incredibly sexy with your mind all caught up in a river

of thoughts running deep and wide and long about everything, everyone, and the kinds of

things that make a difference for you, me, us and the ways of this world.

I haven’t met you yet…

but something about you makes me want to write with words I never use, like “amazing,”

and not really care so much that my grammar is perfect because you’re so ravenous

to read even my first drafts as if they were my final all because

you share my thoughts and you want to make me look perfect.

I haven’t met you yet but…

you make me cry, laugh and care in such extremes that it kind of hurts to stretch myself

that far. But you remind me that things like that are worth it.  And I know they are,

and I can trust you.

And if by chance we never will,

I want you to know how much I’ve enjoyed just dreaming that one day we might have.

And of the memories we would have.

And of the fun we could have

made together

since that one day we first saw each other and stared just for a moment,

wondering if it was really, finally,

You.

LMSM,

Don

When you lose someone, the remnant of memories can be difficult to reconstruct.

Photo albums, home movies, funny stories and touching recollections are usually the best and only ways of remembering.

But I am the fortunate one.

Growing up, our family lived in many homes.  On average, we never stayed in the same home but for a couple years or so before it was dolled up, decorated, built out and outlived for the ever clever, upwardly mobile and on the move Miller family.  Friday night through Sunday night, weekends were projects to improve, expand and create a home that was truly a piece of art eventually sold to the highest bidder, moving us on to the next residence and a flow of new ideas and projects.  As kids, we didn’t know any different. Weekends were made for maintaining our home and building things together. It was our fun.  Our way of building a family.

Built-ins, barbecues, patio covers, flower beds and a host of uniquely-designed creations usually began as a sketched design on dad’s easel.  His artistry went beyond the hundreds of canvasses to which he’d lay his brush nightly after a long day of work.  He could take any idea and give it life and dimension that inspired us all.  “Hey dad, I have an idea,” usually was a prompt for him to grab a pencil or marker and any writable surface nearby to join you in the adventure of making your own intangible a virtual reality.   It was a thrill that we all had taken for granted back then.  To sit with dad in one of these creative sessions at home or in the office was to learn a unique visual dialect in the language of his art.

School projects, science fair exhibits, scouting merit badge endeavors, homecoming floats…even campaign signs for our school politics…all were more than a few notches above the rest.  We always won and the accolades were commonplace.  Miller kids were the envy of the classroom project.  Everyone wanted to be on our teams.  But when you grow up with someone famous, you don’t know it.  It’s just normal.

Being the son of someone famous has never really sunk in.  Dad had private audiences with Elvis Presley on many an evening after his show to help him visualize some of his personal projects.  Political leaders, superstars and virtually every Las Vegas resort and entertainer has called upon my dad at some point in their careers. His art hangs in galleries and homes worldwide.  But I just knew him as dad and he never attempted to impress anyone.  Funny but only now as he is facing his exit from this world and into a much better place are people realizing how truly accomplished he has been. And that includes me.

He always taught us to bring our ideas to life.  Mine is done in words and prose.  I can only paint my pictures with a pen or keyboard.  My colors and textures are syntax and grammar with shades of wit and humor  meticulously framed in borders of hope and mattes of inspiration.  I create moods and lighting and beauty for others much like my dad did all his life. But even so, I will never be famous like my dad, but I will always be happy because of him and his fine art of being.

Many times as a young man I would watch him at his easel or table creating.  I’ve lost track of how many times I silently admired the flow.  His mind conceived an image which traveled down his arm, into his hand and out through his fingertips in one continuous movement of extraordinary creation and I always wondered if I might be blessed with such a gift.

But a painting, a drawing or a sculpture are mediums more powerful than my words could ever describe.  And to a little boy’s heart, an elaborate landscape of molded colored mountains and tunnels and trees and buildings for a toy train set is a prize I have often remembered.

In our family home, the walls would go up first and I always wanted certain pieces in plain view.  Some of his creations were the kinds into which I would stare for hours, scanning the sometimes hidden details he would include like the prize in a Cracker Jack box if you dug deep.  They would transport me to a time and place we once traveled or a stream we once fished or a past American era about which he’d studied and more than once dreamed of living.  During my rougher times even today, I can stare into a favorite piece and lose myself in his thoughts and dreams and again be at his side watching its creation as I did countless times as a boy. Those are moments that satisfy my soul yet have only recently come to fully appreciate.

We often think of fame as something afforded the stage, screen or simply, one who cleverly seeks it at the right time and place in history.  That is not fame, that is celebrity.  Fame’s roots necessarily run deeper with heart, meaning and lasting purpose.  While celebrity shines for a moment, fame, like art,  endures posthumously and forever influences.

So without brush or canvas, I hope to use my words and stories to bring joy, tranquility and light now and long after he is gone until we are reunited as a creative team once again.  Until then, it’s just me and a really tough standard to live up to.

But dad, I promise to try.

I love you so much.

LMSM,

Donnie

Last night, I did and when I woke up today, BAM!

Everything was different.

Fathers, if you have daughters, I recommend staying awake and vigilant at all times.

One day, your pretty little girl may be taken from you by another man right from under your nose.  Trust me, it’s true.  It’s happened to me.

Your baby girl will grow up to be a young woman and other men will find her just as beautiful. And if you doze off for even one night’s sleep, you may find her gone into the arms of someone who sings better lullabies, buys her prettier dresses and plays her favorite games all the time.  She’ll be gone for good and you’ll ask yourself “Where did the time go?” “Who is this thief?” “How do I get her back?”

And you’ll be lost without her.

If this happens to you, know you are not alone.

Many of us dads have experienced this before and after we’re done with that first big cry, realizing that life for you and her will be a lot different from now on, you will recover.  It won’t be easy though.

First, don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault for having taken a little nap.  Raising beautiful little girls is hard work.  You’re bound to need a doze now and then.  Those little snoozes however, often become blocks of years. You may wake up and find your baby girl is no longer a baby.  She’s smarter, prettier and a little more independent with each passing nap if you were doing your job right.  You’ll grieve the little losses each time, but that’s normal.

Second, accept your grief.  It’s part of fatherhood. Reframe your loss of your little princess as a graduation. Let her become the Queen she was always meant to become.  It’s what little girls do.  You’ll still be the king in her heart, don’t worry.  Fairy tales are always full of handsome princes and they always end up living happily ever after.  They even come visit your castle again from time to time.

Third, wake up.  Though you were the one who loved her first, if you have done it right, her heart is much bigger and can handle a second.  She will always love you and that will never change.  It’s very natural for her to want to love others. Especially THAT guy you’re calling a thief but who is actually just helping to take over the responsibility of continued care for her.  Face it, you’re old now and you need a little more rest without the worry and that’s perfectly fine and normal.

So fathers, go get some well-deserved sleep now.  Your job is done.

And you’re gonna want to be rested for the celebration to come when you kiss her cheek, hand her off and step out of the way.  You can still dance with her. She’ll be fine.  And who knows, she might even present you with another little prince or princess and you can start over again doing what you did best.

Take my advice.

LMSM,

Don

[Each Father’s Day since Dad’s passing, I add to this story. My new entry is at the end as will be each annual entry until I’m finally fishing again with the big fish who got away October 2, 2014]

My final Father’s Day 2014:

If I could simply make out the words on the paper, I might be able to finally choose one and get out of here. But my eyes are flooded with the reality that this will be the last time I ever shop for a Father’s Day card.

My dad is dying.

The news this early spring was that he’d be gone by the end of summer. I often feel selfish about my thoughts of him not being around any more. But then I’m humbled when I imagine what it must feel like to be him, knowing the same thing. and feeling it happen a little more with the passing of each day.

Thanks to Sonora Dodd who conceived of the holiday in 1910 and President Richard Nixon who signed it into law only as recently as 1972, today is Father’s Day. It’s the official time we thank and think about our dads.

My dad is Mike Miller. I need no holiday.

I’ve not been the kind of number one son he’d hoped. But he would never admit it. And before you start disputing me on this point, know it is one that we’ve already discussed and is water long under the bridge. I failed at many things in my life and only very recently am becoming the kind of man my dad had taught me to be. I’m sure if you asked him, he would probably tell you every reason why he, himself, was no better, albeit for different reasons. We have much more in common than could ever drive us apart. Except cancer.

Mike Miller is a humble man. If you’ve met him, you know this already. Perhaps that’s why, of all humanly virtues, I prize humility most of all. In my life and in my writings, it’s pervasive and my dad is the reason.

An accomplished artist of life in so many ways, as a little boy and young man I watched him fend off compliments and minimize the value of his gifts right and left. Though I didn’t learn the word to describe it until I was much older, he had long modeled the lesson that would eventually save my life. Now it’s his at stake, and I am helpless to return the favor.

Everything important I have learned in life was taught and caught while fishing with my dad. It is the sport of fathers and sons, richly embedded with the virtues that turn a young boy into a young man.

The appreciation of the morning, the art of the water, the craft of the lure, the precision of the cast and the thrill of the catch. And, as with most young men, fishing will always be a first experience with matters of magnificent life, gruesome death and incredible off the hook mercy.

We had the privilege recently to take one final fishing trip together. It was much like old times and many trips before, but on this trip, dad was tired. He’s been fighting his enemy much longer than any of us had ever realized and on our last evening at the campfire he put his arm on my shoulder and told me, “Don, after this trip, I think I just wanna go home.” He meant that with a capital H.

The wait of cancer is ugly. Every tick of the clock is punctuated with grasps at fond memories of times past. They are floods of bright color which wash away more quickly now as the grey moments encircle and encroach on a big fish who’s getting tired of swimming.

We know that someday soon, we will look up and see the hook sinking down into our family waters to reel in the biggest catch of His day. And yet still, we desperately hope he will yet be the one that got away.

So I wrote my inscription, sealed and stamped the envelope and sent it on its way just now to meet my dad in time for Father’s Day. I would give anything to be with him today and I know he knows that.

Dad, you saved me many times over. And in doing so, you taught me that life means so much.

Happy Father’s Day. Keep swimming. Don

——–

One year later, Father’s Day 2015…

People say I look more and more like you every day. Sometimes I scare mom when we’re out and I come around the corner. She acts like she’s seen a ghost.

Maybe so.

A lot has happened since you’ve been gone. Mom’s doing well back in Vegas. The three of us look out for her every day. The grandkids are moving along with their lives and marriages, and nine months since you’ve been gone we’re expecting our newest Miller family member any day. As much joy as it brings us, nothing seems to fill your vacancy. We all find ourselves awash in tears at unpredictable moments and today is a particularly tough one.

I remember when I first wrote this story about “the one who got away,” hoping for a miracle that would keep you around a little longer. It was last Father’s Day and I’d come home from shopping for your card. Mom hadn’t even known I wrote the story last year so I read it to her for the first time this past weekend in small chunks until we could both finally get through it. I decided then and there that every Father’s Day, I’d add a little more to the story as an update on our family happenings and what life is like without you.

After you left us that Thursday evening last October, we had big events on the immediate horizon. Emily and Ryan were married on October 11th and we honored you at a memorial service with all your friends on Todd’s birthday, October 17th followed by Allie’s birthday the next day and what would have been your own on Hallowe’en. It was one of the most beautiful yet difficult months for the family on record.

And then all the holidays drove home your absence and I think we would have all rathered just let them pass if we could. But the New Year brought Mom back to Vegas to a new home you both had seen and loved on a former visit. She’s all settled in now and much happier. Shelly’s getting a well-deserved break but still fills in all the gaps that Todd and I miss in caring for her every week. We set up the den at her new place as “Dad’s Studio” filled with things and walls of all your memories about which we can easily touch and not so easily hold back the tears. It’s a comfortable place to cry.

At work, we pulled of that February event I told you last July was in the works to posthumously honor you. Lots of your friends came and even Oscar and Carolyn gave you a little roast to remember.

Spring has come and gone and summer is gonna be a hot one for sure. We’ve made plans to spread your ashes over the course of this year in the places you asked.

But today is Father’s Day, again.

It seems each passing day has been Father’s Day since you’ve been gone.

And while things may change over the year, we will always remember you and how you taught us how life means so much, every day.

Happy Father’s Day, Pop.

Love, Don

——-

It’s Father’s Day again, 2016:

Well, I lost 20 pounds, gained a beautiful niece and your wife has a new lease on life since my last entry, but the world is a different place since you left, Dad. The family is doing fine but the events of the past year and recent weeks point to a coming civil war, if it’s not already begun.

I spent this morning to escape into all your paintings on my wall because they are soft and peaceful and offer solace at these times. Who’d have thought that just two entries later, this planet would be so much uglier? Sure, there are bright spots, but we’re all getting a little older, creaking a little more and life remains uncertain.

As you know, Mom made it through the heart surgery okay. She might last forever. It seems when we talk and reflect, we cry less and stay closer. You’d be proud of me. I keep her laughing just like you did, call her every morning and evening, spend every weekend with her bitching about something new, and honored each time she says “You’re just like your Dad!” Shelly and Todd and I make a pretty good safety net together. We have grown a lot closer as a result.

But as the grandkids grow up, they’re moving on. We got little Addison a couple weeks after last year’s entry and she said “I love you” for the first time ever this very week. I wish she had known you, Dad. We keep your memory alive whenever we’re together, and we learn the urgency of making each day matter, and how life means so much.

Here we are, Father’s Day 2017:

Those 20 pounds I lost? They found me again. Another year and more ways people find me your doppelganger. A first time grandpa this year, I tend to agree. Makenna is a wonderful bundle who’s being packaged off and shipped with Allison and Alan to their new home in Florida next week. Glad for the kids, sad for the rest of us who will miss them so much but will visit often. I’m sorry you never got the chance to meet her. She’s beautiful.

As for your wife, this past February, she got the same news you did the February before you left us. Doctor gave her a while longer though. While heaven can wait, she certainly cannot. She’s gone off some meds, declined treatments that might keep her around here any longer, and we’re trying to make the best of the time she will give us on her fast track to eternity. No more curtailing symptoms yet, but we know they’re just around the corner. We will care for her up until the last moment she’s back in your arms.

While most of the family is buying houses, graduating, moving away and changing jobs, surprisingly I’ve become the most static of them all. I do need a break though, and I smell fish.
Four long days at work helping seniors followed by each weekending three with your darling dinosaur is taking its toll. It’s back to Panguitch this fall where we made our last casts together just a few years ago.

This world is a different place from when you left, and that’s not a good thing. Optimism is harder to come by and what were once distant fears of what might have been seem to be arriving daily. But because of you, your family is well equipped with wisdom, faith and love to be good influences on this bad world. I’m grateful for what you taught me and for what I’ve passed on.

This next 12 months are liable to be our most difficult since you left. But we’re holding on for the ride and thinking of you again every day and especially today. Sure miss you, dad, and your reminders that life means so much every day. Happy Father’s day from grandpa to grandpa.

Love Donnie.

Father’s Day again, 2018 and Mother’s Day was rather empty around here without her. She got what she wanted most in life and afterlife, to be by your side once again and for all eternity. We were with her at her exit from this world and entry to yours and we were more happy than sad because she was back in your arms again where she’s always belonged.  It’s been only 3 months or so and it seems a lot like yesterday. But with both of you gone now, the harsh reality of a generation passed leaves the next in our hands and that’s a huge responsibility.

You have another grandchild on the way, maybe two, and with every passing day I become a little more like you. I survived pancreatitis and three heart attacks last fall and dropped 45 pounds so my eventual arrival to join you may be a little delayed. Next week is our annual boys fishing trip to Panguitch again and we’ll be spreading yours and mom’s ashes there together and have a good cry. By this fall I hope to be fully moved in to your home on earth here that mom left us where I’ll spend the rest of my days gazing at the gorgeous walls of artwork you left behind.

Still hate that my job even exists but thoroughly love the work that I do there. Hungry homeless people continue to be my passion and the reason I sleep well at night, albeit brief at times. I’ll be 58 in November and dad, I’ve never felt more purpose in my life than I do these days. You taught me that and I’m forever grateful.

The rest of the family is thriving too. Siblings, kids, grandkids, cousins, nephews and nieces, all are doing great. You left an incredible legacy and big shoes to fill but we’re hitting it hard and strong every day. Tomorrow is Father’s day and we’ll be celebrating you as we’ve done every day since you left.  Give Mom our love and keep her dancing on the clouds as you both deserve. Love and miss you.

The view of you

through the eyes of another

is something you

may never see.

The spark you make

may set ablaze

a smile or thought

that saves a life

another day.

Your ordinary self

and what you are

to another is extra.

You may never know

but may soon see

the spark of you

in another

by another

through another

for another.

And their smile or thought

may save another life

in yet another moment

in yet another day

and start a fire.

LMSM,

Don