It seems in every neighborhood there is a kindly old couple that knows every neighbor and enjoys visiting with them as well. They are there to celebrate good comings and they are there when the family needs a shoulder to lean on. They wave to the children that pass by on the sidewalks and the children wave back knowing who they are. That couple in our neighborhood was Jake and Emma Miller.
Jake and Emma Miller lived across from us on Center Rd in Saginaw Township, Michigan. They lived in a blonde brick ranch style home with sea-green colored shutters and trim. If I think hard enough I can picture him riding his yellow and white lawn mower out of his attached garage and mowing around his house while his wife attended to the garden off to the side.
Jake was born in Russia and came to America as a young man. He told us of a story of when he was a little boy he remember soldiers breaking into his home and taking his father away and his father was never heard or seen from again. Right away I got the impression that Russia was a horrible place to be. Being older and knowing the dates I realized it was during The Great War and turmoil was all over Russia at that time.
Emma was a bit shy and quiet. She mostly kept indoors but occasionally she would escort her husband to visiting the neighbors. I just remember her being a small lady with dark curly hair and glasses. At time they would visit with my mom and sit down watching my sister, brother and I play around the yard or while we were shooting some hoops.
Every year we would expect a special visit from Mr. Miller toting a few jars of his homemade dill pickles made fresh out of his garden. We would see him on the side of the road waiting to cross the busy street. Someone would shout the news that Mr. Miller was on his way carring the jars of pickles. Then we would cringe. We appreciate his kindly gesture of sharing his homemade pickles but his pickles were not the best tasting. We were used to eating the kind of pickles with the stork on it bought from the store. Those were good. These pickles had a dull dill flavor to it.
Soon there was a knock on the door. We happily invited him inside and we all gathered into the kitchen. Mom would place the large jars on the counter and talk with Mr. Miller for a moment. Then she would open the jars and hand my sister, my brother and I a large pickle all the while telling Mr. Miller how much we enjoyed his pickles and looked forward to them every year. That was pretty much our cue to eat the pickles faking our delight in them. We mmm'ed and ahhh'ed over them but deep down my sibilings and I were thinking these are awful.
After some time he would head back home leaving the jars of pickles behind. We would sit and stare at them as if the pickles were some nasty medicine we were forced to take. Eventually we did eat them all. Mom would serve them up with dinner and we groan as we were forced to eat one. We were taught to be thankful when someone would give a gift and to use it kindly. It was a hard lesson to learn.
Jake Miller passed away September 28, 1992 at the age of 83. We moved away a year after that and later learned his wife ended up passing away October 24, 2001 at the age of 89. I am thankful that the Miller's were a part of our lives and memories even if it was a small part. I had never had homemade pickles after that but there are times when I would love to have a bite of his pickles just to bring back that fond tradition and kindness a neighbor gave to us.
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