Like father, like son or daughter

Husband-and-wife journalists Bob Miller and Callie Clark Miller use this space to offer their views on everyday issues.

SHE SAID: "You're just like your father," my mom says.

She's been saying it -- usually in exasperation -- for about 26 years now. I smile every time, because there aren't many people in this world I'd rather be more like. But it took me quite a few years to come to that conclusion.

My dad isn't the most educated man I know, but he's the most intelligent. Not because he's well-versed in Shakespeare or knows the quadratic formula, but because he understands the way things work. He understands machines -- the mechanics that make the world go 'round. And more importantly, he understands people, and what makes them go 'round, too.

My little brother and I have a running joke: When our parents get old enough to need special care, we'll divide them up. Scott gets Mom; I get Dad. But even before that idea surfaced, it was always that way: Scott and Mom, me and Dad. I admit it: I'm a daddy's girl.

He taught me to hunt and fish, and in doing so showed me the wonder that is nature and how to appreciate it.

He taught me how to stack a cord of wood and dig post holes, and in doing so ingrained the value of a hard day's work.

He taught me to help those who can't help themselves and in doing so instilled a burning desire to make the world a better place.

He taught me to take care of myself, to avoid taking the easy route, and in doing so, helped me find pride in my heritage.

There was a time in my life when I was embarrassed by him. Aren't all kids -- usually around the teenage years -- embarrassed by their folks at some point? Those feelings morphed into admiration many years ago, but I'm still ashamed that I had them in the first place. Was it Winston Churchill who said that when he was 16, he didn't think his parents knew anything, but when he turned 21 he was amazed at what they'd learned in five years?

Dad, I'm still amazed at how much you know. Happy 50th birthday.

HE SAID: When I was a child, I would have given anything to be able to say my dad wielded a chain saw and spent days in the hot forests driving big ol' machines called skidders. I'd loved to have bragged about how my dad's leg got run over, but that he didn't even break a bone. Didn't even cry.

"My dad's tougher than your dad," I would have said.

My father was and is, however, a preacher. And a preacher's son doesn't always want to be known as a preacher's son. Some PKs (preacher's kids) run so far away from their fathers' identities that they get into any kind of trouble they can find.

I wasn't that way, but I certainly dreaded the question: "What does your dad do?" At least that's the way it used to be. Like Callie, I was embarrassed, long ago, to admit who my father was. Now, I'm only embarrassed of my father's horrible jokes. My son tells me I've inherited that bad joke-telling trait from my father. So it goes.

I've seen my father do great things. I've seen him help people when no one else would. I've seen him wake in the middle of the night to go to the hospital to counsel a worried or grieving family. I've seen him embrace abused children. I've seen him tend to the elderly. The Bible, I now see, is my father's chain saw. And he knocks down walls, lifts up the cross and builds up relationships. This is not to say I always agree with my father's views or my father's way of handling things, but my dad will have made a larger impact on more people's lives than I will ever have.

Now I have two fathers. One who works with his hands. One who works with his heart. Both of them are great men, honest men, hard-working men. And both of them celebrated birthdays this week.

Happy birthday, Dads.

Bob Miller is the Southeast Missourian managing editor. Callie Clark Miller is the special publications managing editor for the Southeast Missourian. Reach them at cmiller@semissourian.com and bmiller@semissourian.com.