In Other Words with Dave

His name was Winfield Miller, and even after 50 years, Father’s Day still brings back vivid memories — his little black Corvair with red interior, building model tanks and airplanes together, laughing over the Sunday comics, and the heartbreaking progression of Lou Gehrig’s disease. I was 14 years old when he died. 

I was adopted as a newborn, but I never once questioned whether I belonged to him. I always felt completely and unquestionably like his son. 

Even after my parents divorced, our time together mattered to him. We went to movies, played chess at his apartment, visited parks, and threw Frisbees. When I got bullied at school, he taught me how to box. He told me stories about serving in Korea, some funny, some frightening, and we laughed a lot together. We loved watching Abbott & Costello. 

As I grew older, though, I watched him disappear a little at a time. First, he moved more slowly. Then came the cane, then crutches, then the wheelchair, and eventually the hospice bed. 

One memory has stayed with me all these years. My dad wanted to take me to see Jaws. We arrived late because by then, he could barely walk. I remember us moving slowly through the crowded theater while people squeezed past. Before we reached our seats, he fell. I stood there, embarrassed, sad, angry, and scared all at once while strangers helped him into a theater seat. That was our last outing together. My father died at just 48 years old. 

I didn’t fully understand it then, but years later, while helping raise a stepdaughter, two godchildren, and then a granddaughter, I realized what Winfield truly gave me. He taught me what love looks like. He modeled steady, intentional love that shows up, stays present, and makes a child feel wanted. As an adopted son, I would say that was the greatest gift he could have given me. And it became the example I carried into my own life and family. 

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.