From time to time, you’ll meet someone who looks so much like someone you already know that you’ll be disposed to like that person, even before you’ve shaken his hand.
That’s how it was when I met Daniel Miller, our next door neighbor up at the Creek. With his slight build, narrow face, round glasses, and salt-and-pepper goatee, he was a dead ringer for my Uncle Jerry. Jerry Miller, that is. The fact that they had a surname in common was a bizarre coincidence, yet another aspect of an eerie similarity.
But the resemblance was really only skin deep. My Uncle Jerry was the ultimate city dweller, a man who worked at Neiman Marcus, collected art glass, and called an electrician when it was time to change light bulbs.
Whereas Dan Miller was just about the handiest person I ever met. He was a flooring installer by trade, but loved any mechanical challenge, whether it be assembling a greenhouse, nursing a Harley Davidson golf cart back to life, even attacking the miserable shale in front of his house with a jackhammer to clear the way for a two-story addition he was building, virtually by himself, to enlarge his log cabin home.
I consulted with him all the time—about building things, fixing things, even growing things. He was a superb gardener, and very proud of the fruit and vegetables he raised from his land. I trusted his advice implicitly. Together, he and I built the tree house that was my daughter’s 9th birthday present. He was wonderful with our daughter, exceedingly patient and gentle. He accepted her well-intentioned “help” whenever she offered it, no matter how much extra work it created for him.
If I ever needed an odd tool, I simply walked up to Dan’s garage. He was sure to have it, no matter how obscure. He loaned me the monster socket wrench I needed to disassemble the ancient cider press I recently restored. He helped me pull the blades off my Hustler mower, then strolled down to our pole barn, where I was sharpening the blades, just to be sure I was being safe. He helped me insulate our basement, twisting himself like a contortionist to make sure that the insulation was packed just so in every nook and cranny.
Dan was a perfectionist. One of his close buddies called him “Mr. Perfect-Perfect.” I witnessed the pursuit of that perfection up close. He was unsparing of himself, to the point of injury. In fact, I wrote about him in a recent column, “A Tale of Two Healthcare Systems.” Dan was the unnamed man in that column, the one who hurt his leg carrying bucket after bucket of stone. He didn’t want me to use his name. He didn’t like being the center of attention. He liked helping, not being helped.
He loved his home. I heard him call it “paradise” more than once. He loved his garden. He loved his endless projects. He loved scavenging and recycling. Just last week, I was admiring some of his work. He was proud of the work, but prouder still of the fact that every last material for the project had been scrounged. He loved his dogs, a gang of Shiba Inus that worshipped him like a god. He loved all of the other animals who found a home with him, and even those who were just passing through the yard. He was truly a gentle soul, a family man who had a special place in his heart for his mother, Elaine.
But most of all, he loved Elizabeth McCue, his fiancé. They were to be married in St. Peter’s Church on the 5th of September. The invitation is sitting right next to my keyboard. We’d R.S.V.P.’d for five people—the three Olshans, and two friends who’ll be visiting from England. I’d told my English friends that the wedding would be a highlight of their trip. Dan and Elizabeth, I said, were American originals, and fabulous hosts, to boot.
When I asked my daughter what she wanted me to say about Dan in this column, she said, with tears streaming down her cheeks, that Dan was simply a good person, in a world where there are all too few good people.
She was right, of course. But to that I’ll add that Dan was a close friend to all of us Olshans. He would have done anything for us; and we, for him. Which makes his premature departure all the more baffling and painful.
This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 20 August 2009
For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com
