My father passed away on March 6, 2020. Unexpectedly. The week between his death and funeral was a frantic blur of arrangements, relatives, skipped meals, forced meals, and reflections—right in the middle of the emerging pandemic.
I thought about what he taught me and examples he set for hard work, independence, and pursuing my goals. I laughed out loud with others, and sometimes even alone, about the quotable moments in the 41 years I spent with my dad.
I delivered a tribute at his service with these words. My family has learned from him and been loved by him all of our lives—perhaps as you struggle to find footing as your own life is upended, you can find inspiration, as well, from this glimpse into the way he lived life.
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If you know me, you know that I like to prepare and to be ready: stay ready so you don’t have to get ready. But as I was getting ready for today, I realized it is simply impossible to be prepared to speak at your father’s funeral. So here we are, to talk about my Dad, Joe Miller, as many of you called him. I think adding his last name puts a little extra respect on it.
Well, for starters, Joe Miller would not be awake at this morning hour. So I think it is quite ironic that we are celebrating his life when he would literally be making bed angels. My dad was up from about 2pm to 4am. However, if the Bulls game had not been canceled, he would have called Granny right about now to let her know they were playing tonight. That was their thing.
My Dad would also appreciate it if we would get to the point, so in his honor, I will do just that.
As much as he would understand just how heartbreaking this occasion is, I could also see him looking around and saying, “Now come on, who is that, now why is she carrying on, crying and whatnot. It just doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.”
But for everybody here who is carrying on today, feel free to carry on.
Things not making sense to my Dad is maybe a good place for me to start—and perhaps because I was a bit of a muse for him, on things that didn’t make sense.
If you are close to the family you have heard the stories of the thrift store I opened when I was five, selling gently used items on the front porch—his things from around the house.
After a few days in business and no sales, my mom asked him to go on out and support my store. And he said, “Now why would I go out and buy my own stuff? That just doesn't make a lot of sense.”
And, well, my small business did close.
Don’t worry. I turned out okay. As you know, my husband and I have started many business ventures. The little entrepreneur in me lives on.
That’s not to say my Dad wasn’t supportive—I’ll talk about that in a minute. He just believed in working hard for whatever you wanted. Nothing was handed to him. My parents worked for what they built and what they provided to my brother and me, and he was more of a tough love person in that regard. We needed to show some grit and effort for what we wanted, because the world wouldn’t hand things out on silver platters.
So, lesson #1: If you want something, put in the work.
Now, the understanding of ownership became a bit more interesting with the grandchildren, as my Dad was recently telling me about a visit with my kids.
Everybody knows Papa Joe kept a basket of snacks in the kitchen—good stuff: chips, gum, cookies, everything my little boys would want. While Papa Joe was out, my then-5-year-old was asking Grandma Mary for a treat and she kept saying, you have to wait to ask Papa Joe.
Well as soon as Papa Joe got home, he went up to him, and rather than asking for the snack, he said, “Why is everything around here yours?”
Now, I was nervous. I asked, “Dad, what did you say to him?”—’cause, you see, my youngest son is braver than the rest of us when it came to challenging Papa Joe.
Papa Joe said, “I told him ‘’Cause I bought it.’”
Lesson #2: Take pride in ownership.
Ownership, independence, opinions, and a strong sense of self were attributes that mattered to Joe. Simply put, he didn’t believe in walking around being or looking pitiful. As cliche as it sounds, he believed that knowledge was power, so invest in learning and at the very least act like you have some common sense.
As I mentioned before, I provided plenty of material for my dad’s life lessons to be exemplified, and as an adult I look back and wonder if he was truly as upset as he came across, or secretly amused.
Like I said, my parents wanted us to work for things and it meant I had to buy my own first car (even though my brother received one as a gift, but that’s a story for a different sort of family meeting).
So when I turned 18, I did what I was told I needed to do: bought my own car. I walked right in the dealership and pulled off with a 1996 two-door Sunfire, and drove home and made my announcement. To my surprise, nobody greeted me with a big red ribbon, hugs, or a cruise around the neighborhood.
I think his exact words were “Good for you,” followed by “How do you plan to pay for this car?”
I was in college at the time and I told him my plans to work on campus and pay for the car.
“What about insurance?” he asked.
So, the truth is, I did not know that I needed insurance and that it would cost anything so…I was kind of stuck with no response.
The next day, the dealership called and I wasn’t financed because I didn’t have credit and I had to take the car back. And I was walking around the house sad, when my Dad said, “You know you are acting like a fool.”
I stormed to my bedroom and a few moments later he knocked on the door.
When I opened it, he was there with a dictionary and said, “Read this.”
He had looked up the word, fool. I read aloud, “a harmlessly deranged person.”
And he said, “Now don’t that sound like you.”
He laughed. I closed my door.
The next day my parents went to the dealership with me to cosign for my car. But I did have to pay my own note and insurance.
Lesson #3: Don’t be foolish and when you are, seek help.
I perhaps took this lesson to heart this most, and appreciated knowing I have my parents’ help and my dad's belief that everything would always be okay. No matter what, even when there are setbacks.
You all know that my dad was wise and insightful, and that he had a knack for looking at people and making grand declarations about their lot in life.
So when I moved back in with my parents as an adult, I was the cliche of a young woman starting over, living back at my parents’ house in my childhood bedroom, which—I should add—had the same posters on the wall from when I left as a high school grad.
And the person who seemed most unbothered by my seemingly pitiful situation was my dad. He never said anything to me about moving back in, how long I’d stay, or what I was planning next. I went to work, came home, and I think—maybe—I gave them, like, $150 in rent. And I just sort of laid around.
One day I overheard my parents talking about my situation, my mother asking him what he thought, and I heard him say, “Oh, Tasha? She’s fine.”
Now I’m looking around at these lousy posters on the wall and this childhood room thinking, “What do you see? ’Cause I’m looking pretty basic right now.”
But he saw more.
Potential.
Lesson #4: You are your potential, not your current position.
The Monday before my Dad died, he’d had an outpatient surgery and when they decided not to release him, I sat with him for about five hours, just talking about everything and anything.
He was in a particularly chatty mood, talking about old friends, past surgeries, and his usual question, “Is your job okay with you being out of the office like this?”
He told me about his hip surgery from a few years prior and when he knew it was time to get it done.
He told me that when my son had started to walk when he turned 1, he was walking like a little drunk person, and one day they were walking together down a hallway and the baby was walking faster than him—and Papa Joe was walking as fast as he could.
He said, “Man, if this drunk-walking-1-year-old is faster than me, I gotta get this surgery done. Somebody will case me out, see me walking all slow, and just know they can rob me.”
And he got his surgery done soon after.
So, lesson #5: Don’t let em catch you slippin’.
I am so glad that I had 41 years with Joe Miller. He was one of the smartest people I’ve known. My cousin will often say, “Joe Miller is one of a kind,” and she is right. We should all wish for the kind of resolve he had and his willingness to be himself.
In my dad’s day, people weren’t using the word “authenticity” the way that we use it now, but I will say that what you see is what you get, and he had no problem with that.
My kids have asked if they would see Papa Joe again, and we explained to him what all of this means. And now I wish someone would explain to me, also, because it is a very hard thing to wrap your head around.
But I am grateful for the stories he has left us with, the anecdotes, and the ever quotable moments.
I know many of you have stories too, and while mine is the last you’ll hear during the funeral, we will have time for more at the luncheon.
Now I have to tell you what Joe said to me when I suggested an open mic for Mom and Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary. His exact words were, “I don’t want anybody getting up there lying talking about what I said and did and whatnot.”
So then I had to make a list for him of who had permission to speak.
We can’t wait to hear more stories, but don’t y'all get up there acting a fool, lying, carrying on and what not.
Thank you.
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A version of this post was originally published on BWOBDirectory.
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