GOOD PEOPLE

“Good people.”

That’s how my dad described folks he liked, and he liked lots of folks. He also described some individuals as “that sonofab*tch.” He liked them, too, grinning when he said it. There are different kinds of liking people.

He only met Tim Miller once, I think, the first time Dad and Vicki visited us in Illinois. If my memory serves, DG and Mary hosted, and Tim Miller was either there or swung by, as he did. They might have talked fishing. Tim definitely had a beer. That was enough for my dad. Like Mary and DG, Tim was “good people.” When I’d catch Dad up on folks here, my dad would ask, “Now how’s that buddy of DG’s doing? Tim?” I think if we’d all lived closer, DG, Tim and my dad might have gotten into some mischief.

We lost my dad and Tim this year.

Yesterday, Tim’s family and friends finally got to gather and honor him. The yellow roses in an oversized martini glass included fishing bobbers. Pictures of Tim greeted everyone—of course Tim on the boat; young Tim, freshly married to Linda; moments captured with his children, grandchildren. A wooden sign, crafted with care, included the image of Tim’s iconic white beard and handlebar mustache, the words ensuring us all that he was heaven bound and “gone fishing.”

And there was a newspaper clipping of Tim greeting some newcomers to Ottawa: the Wheelers.
I stared at the grainy picture of my in-laws and the Millers, and I remembered when I met Tim Miller, the very first time I ever stepped foot in Ottawa.

I was living in Chicago with my mom. It was spring. I wanted to see more green, be in a wider space. The guy who was performing in Forever Plaid, the one who I’d worked with on the auction for Season of Concern, knew just where to go.

I left a note for my mom: “Gone to Ottawa. Be back tonight.”

Of course I was greeted like family at the Chinese restaurant Ross’ family had eaten at for years and years. Of course we hiked in St. Louis Canyon. It was a beautiful day in Ottawa. Sunny. The air a little crisp, so we swung by the docks, and there was DG and Tim Miller, just about to head out onto the pontoon.

Would we like to come?

Heck yeah!

My childhood was speedboats and sailboats, sandy beaches, waves. Tim steered us along the river, DG pointed out landmarks. I’d craved green; I’d needed wind and water, and here we were. As much as I loved the rush of Chicago and the lake in the city, it wasn’t this. This was like my childhood. These men were like my dad.

It was a magical day, with Tim at the helm.

When I got home, my mom was relieved to discover that I had not taken off to Canada. But you know, they did lure me away from home, all these good people.

In the years that followed, Tim took care of our eyes. All of our eyes. He’d always been the Wheelers’ eye doctor, and when I admitted I hadn’t had my eyes checked in maybe ever, I scheduled an appointment. He confirmed I was 20/20. He told me I was blessed with good vision. Everyone else in our house needed glasses to see.

It’s only been in the last few years, after Tim retired, that I’ve needed glasses. Just readers. I only need them to see things up close.

Yesterday, I left them at home, so the newspaper photo of Tim Miller greeting DG and Mary Wheeler was blurry. My vision blurred a heck of a lot more when his grandchildren spoke. They listed off memories with him. He’d taken them fishing. Attended events. Cheered. Helped with homework. He’d even woken them up for school. So much love. Linda’s hugs were so warm.

It was a beautiful day in Ottawa. Sunny. The air a little crisp.

A good day for fishing, I think, with Tim at the helm.

My dad would have said, “Good people.”

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