This story was originally written in 2012 

After 84 years and 22 days, my father, my dad, or as he preferred to be called – Ron – called it a day. He died while sitting in his wheelchair, as his medicine was being prepared.

Years ago, Ron told me, “Do whatever you want to do, and do your best at it until you don’t want to do it anymore. And then, do something else.”

And that’s just what Ron did, and this philosophy served him well right up to his dying moment. Although he had suffered a stroke in 1995, had limited use of one leg and arm and could only speak a few dozen words, he lived his last 17 years with vigor, strength and the determination to live life to the fullest. Here’s a look back at his life…

THE EARLY DAYS:

Ron, who was quite rambunctious and a tough guy even in his early days, grew up in Chicago with his folks Dave and Alice Miller and his sister Elaine.

Ron attended the University of Chicago and although he did not graduate, he was always a student and studied his entire life. After leaving school he joined the army and served for about a year.

While in the army, he honed his communication skills, and this was the beginning of his long-lasting love with radio, television and newspapers.

And then came the love of his life – my mother, Fern Taube Larmen Miller. The two of them were childhood sweethearts. They married, and before too long they had four boys, Scott, Michael, Jordan (deceased) and Grant.

A CAREER IS BORN:

While living in Huntington, West Virginia, Ron had his first radio show, worked at a newspaper, was on television and radio and his dreams were starting to come true.

His other dream was to live in Florida. He followed that dream, moved the family to Miami and started looking for work in his chosen field. In the meantime, he sold cemetery plots and was building a sales force. Then, his passion and determination paid off. He was offered a job at radio station, WEDR.

Within months, Ron started producing programs at WEDR and was the on-air personality for a show called The Gospel Train. In the late 50s and early 60s, he was also on Channel 7 as an anchor and reporter, and shared that space with Wayne Farris.

Around the same time, Ron bought the South Dade Shopping News, a monthly newspaper that was started by James Carey Martin in 1958. Ron grew the business and it became Miami’s Community Newspapers, with weekly newspapers all over town.

Ron was a busy guy. At one point, he was on the radio, on TV, had a group of newspapers and a wife and four wild children.

Soon though, the TV gig came to an end, the radio station was sold and the format changed, and there he was with a group of struggling weekly newspapers.

DOING THE RIGHT THING:

Ron’s radio show on WEDR was centered on black preachers who discussed what was going on with their churches and what could be done to relieve the struggles that blacks were experiencing in the late 1950s and 1960s.

Ron loved helping those in need. He was a true liberal and stood up for people, especially blacks. I recall many occasions when people would make disparaging remarks about blacks, Ron would instantly respond, “My grandfather was black.” And I have to tell you, I was proud of him for standing up and speaking out, especially at a time when race riots were in full swing.

In the late 60s, he took me to a Freedom March in St. Augustine where I got a first-hand look at seeing the white beaches being integrated. That was the first time my eyes were opened to the struggle blacks were experiencing.

He was active in supporting the causes of the NAACP, the ACLU and other liberal organizations, and served at the president of the First Unitarian Church of Miami. Surely some of those ideals are imbedded in my brothers and me.

My affinity to helping people clearly came from my father. I am very grateful that he talked the talk, walked the walk and shared it with me and my brothers Grant and Scott.

FOR THE LOVE OF FAMILY:

In 1970, tragedy struck and my brother Jordan, died in a car crash. This was devastating for the entire family. Ron, though he rarely showed an emotional side, left the boys and perhaps my mother in an odd place of grief and sadness. He struggled to work through this tragedy. His carefree view of the world came crashing down.

My mother took the brunt of this family heartbreak and the stress on her was enormous. Soon thereafter she was diagnosed with primary biliary cirrhosis. She told me several times that she thought the stress of Jordan’s death caused her fatal illness.

When this happened, Ron essentially stopped working and he and my mother moved to North Carolina. He took her to numerous doctors across the country and overseas, trying traditional and non-traditional treatments in search of a cure. Eventually, they came back to Miami where they had spent so many years together.

Ron clearly loved my mother, spent all of his time with her, and for sure kept her alive for many more years.

Soon after my mother’s death in 1979, Ron left Miami and lived in Mexico and Spain for some years, and eventually settled in West Palm Beach. After he had a stroke in 1995, we brought him back to Miami so he could attend rehab at South Miami Hospital and be with family.

A FOND FAREWELL:

Ron lived the life he wanted, played by his rules, taught others to be compassionate, loved helping people and taught his children to tell their children: I love you.

Dad – thanks for the lessons, thanks for being there. And, just as you wrote in so many of your letters to me – Carpe Diem.

So you can look into his soul and get a sense of who Ron Miller really was, I’m sharing a piece he wrote and read at the funeral of his wife Fern, my mother, at the First Unitarian Church of Miami in August 1979.

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Fern, where have you gone without me? My heart breaks, my eyes redden, and I cry. My face contorts, I sob. I need you and want to be with you, but you’ve gone away from me. You were the love of my life all these years. We had a childhood romance that never ended – a romance that started when we were 15, and died only when you did.

I can hardly move, or talk. I’m frozen. My voice disappears and I can barely squeak out sounds when I think of you and your death.

When you worsened two weeks ago, for four terrible days, I knew you were near the bottom, almost dead. But then, the next morning you came back. Chipper, smiling, alert … and I called you Warsaw, the most devastated city in Europe during World War II. And, then, we planned a rebuilding program of food and vitamins, psychic healing, coffee enemas, acupuncture, and the few things that orthodox medicine can offer to help you fight liver disease.

I told you that you would rise again. That you would be stronger and healthier, whole and hearty, participate in society, and stay with us. I never faltered in my belief, all these ten years of disease.

And you said we would die together in a crash, meaning that you wouldn’t die of the disease. We told each other of the touching scene in the play “Albert and I,” which we saw in London, when Albert died in Queen Victoria’s arms, and she said, “Albert, I wouldn’t do this to you.”

Fern, I wouldn’t do this to you – die without you – let you live without me. I know you fought. I gave you strength and courage. I massaged you and held you and put the strength of my hands and body on you to make you stronger. You were determined to live, you fought hard…

When you were incoherent, you responded to me when I told you that you have to become strong and healthy again to be with us, to let me be with you.

When you were in a coma during your last day and half, when the liver failed, I pleaded with you, and cried over your shriveling body, the tears running down my shirt and onto you, urging you to be strong and survive this.

And, you fought. You whispered “yes” through your parched mouth, barely able to understand what I was saying because the ammonia from your liver had crept into your brain.

You said “yes.” You nodded, breathing hard with great effort – each breath like a bellow’s breath, in a dying coma, telling me “yes.”

You had strength in your arms and in your legs during your last day and half, my wounded dove. Your head jerking, sometimes saying a word to the members of our family, sometimes recognizing us, wanting to be with us, but dying because your liver failed and the poisons went everywhere in you. You were losing weight every day, your skin turning darker, your head becoming bonier, my love. My heart broke when I saw what I saw, what was happening to you.

I rubbed the Vitamin E into your bruised and parched lips so they would heal, and wished that there was something I could rub on your skin that would heal your insides. I was helpless.

Ten years ago, you were told you had six months to live. You told me the doctor’s diagnosis when we sat together one Sunday morning at Fuch’s Park, enjoying the lake, the greenery and the ducks.

The doctors had, by their diagnosis, condemned you to die. You made a death trip across the nation to Capistrano, California, to talk with a retired 75-year old physician, who told you “you aren’t as sick as they say.” He told you to change your diet drastically.

You came back on a “new life” trip, ready to try something new to help you to live. And that was the first of many new ideas we investigated, many of which you tried.

Although you didn’t have strong beliefs in some, you did accept them because I urged you. The effect of these unorthodox procedures helped you to live ten years, even though orthodox medicine had virtually no means to help people with this rare disease.

You were rare. Your conservative education as a nurse and your respect to physicians, made it difficult for you. You were willing to try the unorthodox and you were determined to live … the final ingredient that kept you here for ten years.

You were a jewel. So many devoted friends found you the ideal companion. I respected you so much for that, and marveled at how people were drawn to you.

I am nothing without you. The best part of my life is gone. I was the lucky one. I found you early, and was able to be with you for many years. Without you, I cry. I cry because you are gone and can no longer enjoy the friends and relatives, the cities of the world, the peaceful beloved countryside of Marshall, North Carolina. You were a crystal that shone … reflected goodness, joy and happiness. I love you so – more every year.

When you were in your final days and nights, I wouldn’t let you die. I had to have you alive. I poured strength into you. I made you live. But, in the end, I failed. I’m so sad, so sad. You won’t be here. It is your presence I need. I shall miss you. I need you. Fern, where have you gone without me? The best of my life has gone.

This eulogy was delivered by Ron Miller at the First Unitarian Church of Miami on August 17, 1979.

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