Thursday, July 2, 2009

UNCLE MILLER

UNCLE MILLER


Almost everyone has a relative other than their parents who fascinates or influences them. In my case, that relative was my uncle, Miller Brown, who was my mother’s brother. In some respects my affection for him is inexpiable. Other family members had more education, more money, better employment and, in general, knew more about the world than Uncle Miller.

He never lived beyond shouting distance from where he was born. By contrast Uncle Wayne Brown served in the army in the Pacific theatre during WW II. I admired him for his intelligence, interest in history, knowledge of our family and his familiarity with everything technical. His experiences in the war were often more than his sensitive nature could manage. He carved a small, impressive farm in a mountain and kept everything electrical workable around Bland, Virginia.

Uncle Miller had a small store in the Ceres community before he opened a garage, which also carried a few groceries. By the way, he like everyone else around, engaged in some kind of farming. He was particularly proud of his role in acquiring a fire truck for the local volunteers. It was housed in his garage building. He maintained the Methodist church nearby that my grandfather Bogle had established. He worked on all motor driven vehicles in the area, but more likely than not he repaired mower blades or other broken things in the community. In this respect he, and Wayne, to a degree fulfilled the role of their father, my grandfather, as the local blacksmith.

His little house could hardly have been simpler or plainer, but anyone would feel comfortable in the atmosphere he and his wife, Ida, provided. The truth is that many of his neighbors either could not or did not pay him for his services. He would be the last to complain. A significant part of his loving soul was for his hunting dogs. Basically, like many other men in Appalachia, he liked to hear them run and voice their excitement. He had the best bear dogs in the region and any time a bear caused trouble they sent for Miller and his dogs.

Above all else Uncle Miller was funny. He found humor in almost everything. He was more a prankster than a jokester. He regarded mishaps to himself as amusing as the funny foibles of others. I vividly recall the nods, winks and twinkles from him as he listened to Country and Bluegrass music. A hot fiddle playing “Bileing Cabbage Down” or a performance of the adventures of Frankie and Johnny set him aglow.

What do this and others things about him add up to? Perhaps he was just a simple and real man, a genuine man and person, without an ounce of pretense and unaware that deception was an option. He knew what was important and gave them his attention. He did more than other people around him because he could and he could not think of doing otherwise. Without trying, he was a great uncle. He died when I was in my thirties and never knew that I named my second son, Andrew, after him. Handily, Miller was also Andrew’s mother’s family name. As his hearse moved to the cemetery farmers were standing by their fences or respectfully parked their vehicles by the road in respect for this great, unheralded man, my Uncle Miller.

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