Dad, Grandpa & The Giant
Since I was around eight years old I have been preparing to be a father. As my first real dependent prepares to descend, I wantonly ponder what I have learned.
Reflecting on being a dad I must especially thank the three men whom I have called some form of father: Peter Miller, Mickey Miller and David Greenberg. Almost everything I have learned about fatherhood I have learned from them.
To dad, thank you for your love -- though mostly unspoken and unwritten for most of my life -- since you started smelling David Stulin's and Aunt Jonnie's proverbial roses I have due to your words and example lived a more purposeful life and for that I am grateful.
I appreciate the bond we built when I was young, forged over rides home from soccer events, listening to Joe Castiglione and Ken Coleman in the backyard and resolving whatever tool-related project was atop your list. I really never felt as important as I did when we discussed soccer, and I never knew then that those formative experiences would so springboard and prepare me for my life's calling.
When I catch myself putting my thumbnail between my teeth, I realize the imprint a father makes on his son. When I say a silly made-up compound word like unbe-mazing, I recognize how the words of a father are indelible, like the markers they use to label soccer balls and Fascia boxes and color the ends of dark mouldings. When I make a toast before a meal, I feel the father's grace has rubbed off. When I recognize Scherezade or Bolero, or Auberjonois on Star Trek, or that doing good is wrong, I know that little lessons leave lifelong impressions.
[Thankfully] I didn't get my dancing or language abilities from you, and I don't get as excited about yardwork or chainsaws, but most everything else I learned from you or because of you.
Thank you for reading the first Hardy Boys book to me, the second Hardy Boys book with me and then leaving me to the rest of them on my own. Thank you for always throwing the ball a little farther to the side. Thank you for allowing me to fail, and allowing me to fall, but always being strong enough to pick me up.
Thank you, dad, for preparing me -- for better, for worse, knowingly, unknowingly -- to raise the next Miller. I love you, and I know your grandson will too.
To David Greenberg, thank you for all the oranges and apples. Eleven years of math classes in school and everything I needed to know I learned from you on napkins and tablecloths.
You taught me so many things -- some I enjoyed, like learning about stocks, bonds and dividends -- and some I did not really enjoy, like golf.
What I derived from your stories about your parents and their immigration in particular, along with your life on the Lower East Side, cultivated my fascination with my own history. Where did I come from? Henry Street. Your tales of playing ball in the street and throwing bags of water from the roof and sharing a small apartment with boarders and family thrill me, and will one day thrill your great-grandson. Your parents journey to the United States, and how hard you worked to climb from that tiny hole on Henry to running an enormously successful business is an allegory for determination.
I have long loved to travel, and that can be traced to you. My parents knew only three routes -- Wayne, Falmouth, Florida. But your postcards and tales of far away lands inspired me. Thank you for instilling in me a curiosity for adventure, a willingness to use the four words of Italian I know and an interest in learning about the natives. Thank you for taking me to Washington D.C. when I was younger, one of the most memorably trips of my life -- we ate dinner the last night at Caesar's, where you and grandma shared chocolate cake and she called it sinful.
You are an outstanding storyteller, and while the written word or my recounting might otherwise suffice, I hope you will stick around awhile and share with your newest great-grandson. Not to do so truly would be sinful, and you really are a great grandfather.
To Mickey Miller, thank you for moving to Gloucester later in life to be near us. This taught me how precious life is and how much you wanted to be closer to your grandchildren. I learned from you that fishing is a boring waste of time, unless it's done with your grandfather and then it's awesome. Trolling the cove in the Gheenee with you is one of my fondest memories. You made tranquility even more peaceful.
You were always the one family member I always wanted to see most: hosting amazing family holidays in Farmington or Gloucester, wearing really short shorts and boat shoes in Wayne or taking me on a trip to Hanover for the Dartmouth-Harvard game in your Acura. It always felt special being with you because you were always so interested in me. Even when there were others around you made me -- and probably everyone, I imagine -- feel at the center of your world.
I often think of the time you asked me if I liked soccer. You're the only person who ever asked me that. You wanted to make sure I enjoyed it and was not playing for any other reason. I wish more adults asked kids those kinds of questions, and you many years ago instilled in me the idea that one should spend time doing what he enjoys. You proved that life was too short by leaving us far too soon, and leaving the Red Sox one year too soon.
To a handful you were Francis and many called you Mickey. Four called you dad and your grandchildren used Grandpa or Gampy. But to all you were The Giant. You'll never know your great-grandson, but he will know you.
Reflecting on being a dad I must especially thank the three men whom I have called some form of father: Peter Miller, Mickey Miller and David Greenberg. Almost everything I have learned about fatherhood I have learned from them.
I appreciate the bond we built when I was young, forged over rides home from soccer events, listening to Joe Castiglione and Ken Coleman in the backyard and resolving whatever tool-related project was atop your list. I really never felt as important as I did when we discussed soccer, and I never knew then that those formative experiences would so springboard and prepare me for my life's calling.
When I catch myself putting my thumbnail between my teeth, I realize the imprint a father makes on his son. When I say a silly made-up compound word like unbe-mazing, I recognize how the words of a father are indelible, like the markers they use to label soccer balls and Fascia boxes and color the ends of dark mouldings. When I make a toast before a meal, I feel the father's grace has rubbed off. When I recognize Scherezade or Bolero, or Auberjonois on Star Trek, or that doing good is wrong, I know that little lessons leave lifelong impressions.
[Thankfully] I didn't get my dancing or language abilities from you, and I don't get as excited about yardwork or chainsaws, but most everything else I learned from you or because of you.
Thank you for reading the first Hardy Boys book to me, the second Hardy Boys book with me and then leaving me to the rest of them on my own. Thank you for always throwing the ball a little farther to the side. Thank you for allowing me to fail, and allowing me to fall, but always being strong enough to pick me up.
Thank you, dad, for preparing me -- for better, for worse, knowingly, unknowingly -- to raise the next Miller. I love you, and I know your grandson will too.
To David Greenberg, thank you for all the oranges and apples. Eleven years of math classes in school and everything I needed to know I learned from you on napkins and tablecloths.
You taught me so many things -- some I enjoyed, like learning about stocks, bonds and dividends -- and some I did not really enjoy, like golf.
What I derived from your stories about your parents and their immigration in particular, along with your life on the Lower East Side, cultivated my fascination with my own history. Where did I come from? Henry Street. Your tales of playing ball in the street and throwing bags of water from the roof and sharing a small apartment with boarders and family thrill me, and will one day thrill your great-grandson. Your parents journey to the United States, and how hard you worked to climb from that tiny hole on Henry to running an enormously successful business is an allegory for determination.
I have long loved to travel, and that can be traced to you. My parents knew only three routes -- Wayne, Falmouth, Florida. But your postcards and tales of far away lands inspired me. Thank you for instilling in me a curiosity for adventure, a willingness to use the four words of Italian I know and an interest in learning about the natives. Thank you for taking me to Washington D.C. when I was younger, one of the most memorably trips of my life -- we ate dinner the last night at Caesar's, where you and grandma shared chocolate cake and she called it sinful.
You are an outstanding storyteller, and while the written word or my recounting might otherwise suffice, I hope you will stick around awhile and share with your newest great-grandson. Not to do so truly would be sinful, and you really are a great grandfather.
To Mickey Miller, thank you for moving to Gloucester later in life to be near us. This taught me how precious life is and how much you wanted to be closer to your grandchildren. I learned from you that fishing is a boring waste of time, unless it's done with your grandfather and then it's awesome. Trolling the cove in the Gheenee with you is one of my fondest memories. You made tranquility even more peaceful.
You were always the one family member I always wanted to see most: hosting amazing family holidays in Farmington or Gloucester, wearing really short shorts and boat shoes in Wayne or taking me on a trip to Hanover for the Dartmouth-Harvard game in your Acura. It always felt special being with you because you were always so interested in me. Even when there were others around you made me -- and probably everyone, I imagine -- feel at the center of your world.
I often think of the time you asked me if I liked soccer. You're the only person who ever asked me that. You wanted to make sure I enjoyed it and was not playing for any other reason. I wish more adults asked kids those kinds of questions, and you many years ago instilled in me the idea that one should spend time doing what he enjoys. You proved that life was too short by leaving us far too soon, and leaving the Red Sox one year too soon.
To a handful you were Francis and many called you Mickey. Four called you dad and your grandchildren used Grandpa or Gampy. But to all you were The Giant. You'll never know your great-grandson, but he will know you.
Fifth in a series about the upcoming birth of #lilmill
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