Bom-Wrapper

Dorothy Miller
In Memory of
Dorothy M. "Dottie"
Miller (Wilkerson)
1934 - 2018
Memorial Candle Tribute From
Colonial Chapel Funeral Home & Crematory
"We are honored to provide this Book of Memories to the family."
View full message >>>
Memorial Candle Tribute From
Jason (Sammy) Freeman
"Delivered Saturday, May 12, 2018 at Tinley Park United Methodist: Church As m"
View full message >>>
Memorial Candle Tribute From
Mary lou Palos health
"I had the gracious gift of knowing your mom. I truly adored her . She has touche"
View full message >>>

Candles

Colonial Chapel Funeral Home & Crematory
We are honored to provide this Book of Memories to the family.
2018-04-16 17:00:41
Jason (Sammy) Freeman
Delivered Saturday, May 12, 2018 at Tinley Park United Methodist: Church As most of you in this room are intimately aware, Grandma and grandpa had a special name for everyone. My mom, Meryle, was Nan. My oldest brother Norm was RIP. My brother Brett was Peanuts, and my little brother Tim was either Tim Man or Turkey, depending on which grandparent was speaking to him. Me? I was Sammy. That’s a people name. And although I loved it, I always wondered why everyone else got these cool, quirky nicknames, and mine was just a run-of-the mill name you’d find a hundred times over in a phonebook. I only learned why they gave me that name a few years ago. The three of us were talking over a cup of coffee, and I finally asked just what in the world they were thinking when they decided to call me Sammy. It’s a brief but funny story, but unfortunately, it’s not one I can repeat in church. But needless to say, it had something to do with my childhood hyperactivity and the fact I wouldn’t shut up for even a second. Anyone who knows me, especially when I was eight and sticking a tape recorder in everyone’s face during family gatherings, knows shutting up is not a skill I’ve ever been able to quite master. I’m a motormouth, as grandpa often called me. Yet when I first sat down to write this speech a few days ago, I was suddenly at a loss for words. How do you eulogize someone who was such a monumental and influential presence in your life? How do you summarize someone, and the relationship you had with them, in just a few paragraphs? The truth is, of course, you can’t. No one can be turned into human Cliffs Notes, especially not someone like Dorothy Miller, who lived as deeply as she loved. I’d need a few volumes just to scratch the surface. But I knew I couldn’t just sit up here and stare into the rafters. I had to say something, even if it was never going to be quite enough. I thought about the nearly seven years my particular branch of the Miller family spent living under her roof in the 1980s. I thought about how she was always there, from my earliest memories trouncing about the house in my diaper or babbling gibberish as I struggled to learn the English language. How she sat there for hours as I stubbornly refused to use the potty like a grownup, or how she helped teach me to walk, one awkward step at a time. How we’d sit together while my brothers were at school, catching up on the exploits of Cord and Tina on “One Life to Live” or watching whatever mystery Angela Lansbury was solving that week on “Murder She Wrote.” How she’d encourage me to go outside and write my stories beneath the terrace in her back yard, or record my one-man radio show in the basement, or draw my crudely drawn comic strip at the kitchen table. How she filled the house with wonderful smells of homecooked meals, and how she made sure I ate every last bite on my plate. How she listened patiently as I adamantly went on and on about whatever crazy creative endeavor I was currently undertaking. How she and grandpa always had a radio playing, which instilled in me an abiding love of music I still cherish to this day. How proud she was of me when I did well, and how lovingly she set me straight when I crossed the line. How she instilled in me a sense of right and wrong, of how to treat people, of how to get by in this crazy world without sacrificing your ethics. How from day one she was my second mother and loved me like I was her very own. But really, though, I’m not alone on that last one. She was a second mother to many of us – myself, my brothers, my cousins, even people she wasn’t related to. Mothering was the gift she gave to everyone, and she gave generously. I’m admittedly not much of a crier, but I cried in the days following grandma’s passing. I cried because she was gone, yes, but I also cried because I couldn’t stop thinking of all the times I could have stopped by for a cup of coffee, or called to say I love you. There always seemed to be something else going on in my life that took me away. I justified it all by convincing myself there’d always be another day, another chance to tell her how much she meant to me. But now the days are gone, and I can’t ever get them back. Grandma taught me countless lessons in my 39 years on this earth. But by far the most enduring lesson she taught me was to love the ones you love while they’re here, and never let a moment go by that you’ll never get back. But I don’t want to end this on a sad note, so I’ll finish with a simple story that I think best represents what grandma meant to me. I hate peas. I hated them when I was five, and I hate them now. Poison pellets, we’d call ‘em. But I absolutely loved my grandma’s split pea soup. Ham, seasonings, carrots … it was the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted. My mom’s chili and meatloaf are heavenly, but there was just something about grandma’s split pea soup that always kept me coming back for a second and third bowl. And that sums up Dorothy Miller for you. She took something I loathed and turned it into something I love. She had the uncanny ability to brighten even the darkest of circumstances, even dreaded poison pellets. It’s one of the reasons I loved her so much, and I’m sure it’s one of the many reasons you did, too. I have a feeling grandma is here somewhere, arm draped around grandpa as they listen to me talk, wondering just when I’m finally going to stop being a motormouth and let someone else talk for a change. So for their sake, and for yours, I’ll wrap this up. Before I go, though, I just want to thank all of you for letting me talk about this wonderful woman and what she meant to me. Wherever you are this morning, grandma, know that Sammy loves you very much.
2018-05-12 20:20:26
Mary lou Palos health
I had the gracious gift of knowing your mom. I truly adored her . She has touched so many lives on such a beautiful way that I can't even describe. She always made me feel special no matter ...What was going on with her..She was a treasure to me and I will always remember her loving heart .And her true beauty. She was a pleasure to me each time I visited. May all of you keep her close to your hearts.. Mary Lou Palos health
2018-04-17 23:10:38
Share by: