"Beware the ides of March," said Shakespeare's soothsayer in "Julius Caesar." For the scrapblog editor, the ides of March come not the 15th, but March 1. It's one of my least favorite days on the calendar, because 12 years ago today, on March 1, 1996, I watched dear old Dad, Uncle Bill to the cousins (William Alton Miller, April 13, 1924-March 1, 1996) breathe his last. We miss the old lifeguard and soldier still. Some photos:
Pvt. Bill Miller, 18, about to head to Europe and the battleground in early 1945.
Our favorite "egg"head, Dad, in his civies. Dad's head had that odd shape because it was compressed between his twin's knees in the womb. When he was born, his parents (Clyde Clifton Miller and Mamie Louella Jackson Miller of Winston-Salem, N.C.) feared he was brain-damaged, and swaddled his head in bandages to make it more normal-looking. They needn't have feared. Brother Miller was smart as a whip, though he had trouble finding a hat that fit.
Dad, who was a delightful mixture of extreme experience and complete innocence, grew up believing that alcohol was evil, and maintained that point of view through three wars and well into middle age. This was the first time I ever saw him drink, at sister Chats' boiling-hot graduation from Georgetown University Law School in 1985. There was no water, and we were thirsty as could be. Dad swigged champagne like it was water, not realizing the effect it would have. Whoa! The scrapblog editor was happy to help hold her very startled papa up. Meanwhile, Alverna kept trying to trot over to "greet" Dan Rather, whose son was graduating with Chats. The Millers weren't used to such high-class gatherings! Weeeee doggies!
Pvt. Bill Miller, 18, about to head to Europe and the battleground in early 1945.
Our favorite "egg"head, Dad, in his civies. Dad's head had that odd shape because it was compressed between his twin's knees in the womb. When he was born, his parents (Clyde Clifton Miller and Mamie Louella Jackson Miller of Winston-Salem, N.C.) feared he was brain-damaged, and swaddled his head in bandages to make it more normal-looking. They needn't have feared. Brother Miller was smart as a whip, though he had trouble finding a hat that fit.
Dad, who was a delightful mixture of extreme experience and complete innocence, grew up believing that alcohol was evil, and maintained that point of view through three wars and well into middle age. This was the first time I ever saw him drink, at sister Chats' boiling-hot graduation from Georgetown University Law School in 1985. There was no water, and we were thirsty as could be. Dad swigged champagne like it was water, not realizing the effect it would have. Whoa! The scrapblog editor was happy to help hold her very startled papa up. Meanwhile, Alverna kept trying to trot over to "greet" Dan Rather, whose son was graduating with Chats. The Millers weren't used to such high-class gatherings! Weeeee doggies!
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