This photos was taken about 1932. My father would have been about 23 yrs old, my mother, Kathleen was about 20 yrs old and Shirley, my sister, was 3 yrs old. The photo was taken at Nola's house (my father's sister).
My father, Charles Esker Miller was a kind and understanding man. Like Belle, he never spoke ill of anyone. He never wanted anyone to be angry with another person. His talents were great and still are admired long after his death. He was quick to help out and he never kept score in life. He was very loving and always glad to see you and welcome you to his home. He would share any thing that he had with you. He was the best story teller. I would listen to stories from his childhood and never grow tired. This man had a great respect for his parents and siblings. He understood the concept of rules and he followed them all through his life. He expected nothing less from others.
His stories always had great meaning. His childhood was fertile ground for stories. He was detailed in his stories. They came alive as if you were there watching it transpire on a television screen.
Once, and only once, he shot a songbird (robin). He was in the habit of shooting black birds; his mother would cook them. He shot the robin and told his father about it. His father told him to never, ever shoot a songbird. Songbirds were sacred. Doing some research, I found this to be a Cherokee belief.
My father's brother, Ross could be a contrary child. When their mother sent the young boys to the store, about a mile from their home, they were to get a twenty-five-pound sack of flour, some other staples and the newspaper. When they started the mile walk home, Ross would only carry the newspaper. My father asked Ross to share a bit more of the load. He flatly refused. Not only did he refuse to help but he kicked stones at his brother. Ross ran ahead and hid in the ditch to jump out and scare his brother. Well, a brotherly struggle took place and who drove by at that moment but their father as he was coming home from work. Their father stopped long enough to tell them he'd be waiting for them at home. They were punished for fighting. They were told, in no uncertain terms, never to fight in town again.
It was a warm summer day and my father and his brother were in town again. My father was with his school chums and they were sitting on a big iron fence. This fence had about three or four iron poles/rails. My father and his friends were sitting on the top rail. My father had his feet wrapped to the back of the second rail. Ross snuck up behind my father and grabbed him in a choke hold around the neck and bent my father backwards. My father's feet were locked on the second rail and he could not get them loose. Ross' grip wasn't loosening. My father's friend jumped off the fence and released my father's feet from the rail. My father grabbed his brother and the fight ensued. At this moment, their father came through town. The boys were punished for fighting when they all arrived home. My grandparents, Belle and Russ instilled good values in their children. One was, you didn't fight or air your laundry in public. You were to never give the Miller family a bad name. It was a good name and they were a good and upstanding family. You were to do nothing to sully it, period. This was taken to heart and still is to this day.
If going to meet other people, job interviews, social situations, my father and my grandmother always said, "Tell them who you are." That is where the title comes from. We have a good family name. We are upstanding people. We have no dark marks on our lives simply due to the fact that Russ and Belle insisted on nothing less for their children. That phrase, tell them who you are, is still spoken today within this family. So, I am here, with great pride, to tell you who we are.
The names and nicknames my father had during his life were varied. Speed was one of them. It is explained in a following paragraph. All of his siblings and his mother called him Brother. Some of the children of those siblings, nieces and nephews, called him Uncle Brother. The rest called him Uncle Speed. His twin sister, Esther, was called Sister by her siblings and her mother. But, no nieces or nephews called her Aunt Sister. It seems the twins were labeled "brother and sister" to distinguish them from the other brother and sisters. The names stuck. As for Charles, no one called him Charles or Charlie. When the twins were very young, they were referred to by their middle names, Esker and Esther. For years, my father signed his name E. C. Miller and went by those initials. The middle name seemed to take on the priority. When Social Security became active in 1935, my father didn't have a birth certificate. My grandmother had to do an affidavit in regard to my father's correct name and birth date. After that, he signed his name as C. E. Miller and went by those initials. Everyone that my father worked with called him Eckie. So, he was all of the following: Brother Miller, Speed Miller, E. C. Miller, Esker Miller, Eckie Miller, C. E. Miller and Charles Esker Miller.
My father played the harmonica. He referred to it as a mouth organ. He was quite good at it. He had a very nice singing voice as well. His most favorite song, other than the old hymns he loved, was Bye-Bye Blackbird. The other musical talent he had was whistling. He could whistle any song with such finesse. I have never found another person that could whistle like my father. His whistling wasn't limited to music. He had a knack of being able to call birds. He could mimic any bird and recognize a bird from its song or chirp. Many times I saw him call birds right up to the front porch while sitting in his lawn chair. The birds would answer his whistle. He could call quail out of the field and into his yard near the porch. He could also call you home from wherever you were in the neighborhood. That particular whistle carried on the wind and everyone in the neighborhood knew that meant the Miller kids' father wanted them home.
My father was a sportsman in all aspects of life. Meaning, he played fair and he did love sports. He loved to hunt. From the time he was old enough to hold a gun, he hunted. He hunted deer, rabbits, pheasants, squirrels. He took what he would eat and no more. He loved to trout fish and never took more than the limit. In his early years, he played baseball on a county ball team. He was the catcher and his best friend in life was the pitcher.
He was a middle weight boxer. This is when he acquired the nickname of "Speed" Miller. He had twenty-five bouts and won them all. Twenty-four were knockouts and one technical knockout. At the age of 70, he could still hit the speed bag and jump rope. I can remember watching him, his feet so quiet, all you could hear was the whir of the rope.
He also shot skeet and was very good at that as well. While in his 70's, he suffered the loss of some sight in his right eye. At that time, he learned to shoot left handed and could still break 25 targets in succession. His determination was outstanding.
My father worked for The Dow Chemical Company for almost 40 years when he retired. He was an Electrician. He had held other jobs prior to that. He was a pattern maker for Defoe Ship Building and the Industrial Brown Hoist. As I mentioned earlier, he had a profound interest in guns. He was a gunsmith and had a business within his home.
He loved working on guns. Not just working on the mechanical aspects of the gun but building guns. He could take a blank piece of walnut or cherry and carve it down into a gun stock. Gently and accurately, he would chisel the wood for in letting the action of the rifle. The stock would be sanded, re-sanded too many times to count. Then the checkering of the grips and the forearm would take place. Precise lines were made, which took many hours, were made into the wood. Several coats of finish were placed on the stock and rubbed down. By the time the stock was done, the craftsmanship was outstanding and the finish looked like glass.
This was a man that loved his work. He never made prideful remarks at how skilled he was. He was known throughout the area and beyond for his work and his high standards of excellence. He also built kitchen cabinets, cupboards, pantries and his own gun cabinet. He just had a love of wood. When he ran his hand along a piece of wood it was more like a caress.
You could set your watch by my father. He always arrived home from work at the exact same time. He was never late, always early. He never ran out of gas or things to do. Grass never grew under his feet. Yet, he had time to let my children into his shop and show them how to sand a stock. He had time to sit down and read a book to them or tell them a story about when he was a little boy. He had time to rock them to sleep or walk the floor, while holding them, when they were sick.
My father had a wonderful sense of humor. He was quiet in his humor. You needed to pay attention to catch it. He never failed to prank my mother on April Fool's Day. He was good at it. When my mother would take the phone to the sofa to talk, the phone cord would be laying across the living room floor. My father would walk through and pretend to trip on the phone cord. Every time he did that we actually thought he was tripping. He'd continue on his way with a barely audible snicker. He never laughed loudly. You'd get a glimpse of dimples in his cheeks as he tried to hold his snicker but his little "Heh, Heh, Heh" would escape.
How my mother became a part of the Miller family. My father and mother were nineteen and sixteen, respectively, when they married on October 27, 1928. My mother, Kathleen Virginia Ullom, was born in McMechen, West Virginia to Doris Madeline Martin Ullom and Sherman Peter Ullom on July 31, 1911. Sherman Ullom had an upper management career with the Steel Mills in Pennsylvania and West Virginia.
My mother was raised in large home in a city setting. The family had someone to help with household chores, cleaning, laundry and cooking. Two of my mother's siblings, brothers, passed away. One died as a baby and the other as a youngster of seven years. She grew up with her younger sister, Doris.
My mother's parents divorced when she was about eight. Her mother moved the family to Ohio and then to Detroit, Michigan. Kathleen was used to traveling, big cities, hotels and room service. Kathleen and her sister, Doris would travel by train to frequently visit their father in West Virginia.
When she was ten years old, her mother and her mother's gentleman friend, Art Sales took the girls to Auburn to visit Art's parents who resided in Auburn. Grandma and Grandpa Sales, as my mother referred to them, lived almost across the street from Russ and Belle Miller. The first time my mother met my father they were only youngsters. My mother made frequent visits to Auburn to the Sales home and each time she'd see my father and his family. The last visit Kathleen made to the Sales family home, she told her mother she wanted to stay. She didn't wish to return to Detroit. She did stay and she found a job in Bay City working for a Judge. She was only sixteen. The Millers had moved to Bay City. Belle told my mother she was welcome to stay at their home.
On June 27, 1927, the Miller family received word of Russ Miller’s death. My mother was with deepest sympathy for my father and his family after the news of Russ' death. They all loved Russ so very much and had a great respect for the hard working, dedicated family man that he was. It was that very same day that my mother received a telegram stating her father had passed away, too. My mother had to leave my father's side that day to take a train to West Virginia due to her father's death.
I always found it quite ironic that both of my grandfathers died on the same day. I and my siblings never knew our grandfathers but our parents made them become real people for us, as if we knew them, with all the stories they passed on to us.
My mother and father had four children. All four of children had the luxurious gift of having two great parents. We grew up with parents who cared where we were, who we were with and what we were doing. They set clear boundaries for us to follow. They didn't demand respect, they commanded it. They provided a positive example for us to follow. We were shown, by example, how to live and love. We respected each other. We had those good southern manners and still do. We were allowed to voice an opinion, with respect. We were taught to be assertive not aggressive. We laughed heartily; we loved fiercely, stood together, stayed together and still do.
I have seen my father cry, I have seen my father pray, I have heard my father apologize. I have seen my father go on with life after losing his wife of 57 years. I was with my father when he died. It was an honor to be there at his passing. He was there for me all my life. I knew I was loved more than words can express. He knew he was loved, too. I never saw my father strike anyone or be less than honest in any way. He was truly a gift and I cherish all the years I had him with me.
