REBORN on the 4th of JULY

 It was the Storm That Changed Everything.

MY BROTHER CHRIS WAS A ROYAL PAIN when I was growing up. He and his friends taunted me incessantly, and as the next elder sibling in the Miller food chain, he made sure I knew that he was the boss, as many older brothers often do.

I could go on and on about the childhood traumas: he pushed me in a pile of dog manure; he broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball — and then blamed me; and once, he even poked me in the eye with a stick. When my Mom brought me home from the hospital, Chris tried to tell me how cool I looked with a patch over my eye, to avoid getting in any further trouble.

“You look like a PIRATE,” he exclaimed with all of the thespian might he could muster.

“The patch is WHITE,” I replied angrily. “Have you ever seen a pirate with a WHITE eye patch?” 

He just smiled.

Chris knew that his bullying had to end soon, but he persisted for as long as he could. He had an eerie knack for stopping his evil acts just before being caught-in-the-act by mom. By the time she walked around the corner, his little devil-face would magically transform — and his cherubic demeanor would miraculously re-appear.

God, I hated that.

By the time I turned 13, however, I was growing — rapidly. I had developed a far more athletic build than my brother, and suddenly, we were the same size. 

The era of being the taunted sibling had come to a close.

CHRIS’ LAST ACT OF CHICANERY came on July 4, 1969 when he stole my brand new outfit: a pair of black bell-bottom pants and a new striped pullover shirt. As I prepared to leave for the Independence Day fireworks at Lakewood Park, I noticed that my sweet new clothes were missing. 

Chris had somehow slipped into my clothes, slipped out of the door and was long gone.

I’m sure I cursed at him under my breath — and I know for certain that I created quite a stir with my Mom about the injustice of it all — but the bottom line was that I would have to leave for the fireworks without my spiffy new outfit. So I stopped by a friend’s house and we began our walk to Lakewood Park a few miles away.

By 1969, Lakewood had developed into a huge inner-ring suburb and was full of kids — and the 4th of July fireworks were always spectacular. It had been a picturesque day in Northeast Ohio and we were looking forward to meeting up with friends and enjoying the evening.

We were about five minutes from Lakewood Park when the sky turned from a beautiful blue to jet-black — in less than two minutes’ time. Without notice, my friend and I were suddenly caught in the grip of the most furious storm either of us had ever experienced. Make no mistake, we were scared to death. Trees were snapping all around us. Huge tree limbs were being flung with unfathomable force. The temperature dropped rapidly and so much rain drenched us that we were suddenly shivering. It was dark, the street lights were out, and we were frightened and dazed.

And then there were the power lines; live electrical power lines that buzzed and danced in the flooded streets. 

It was the storm that changed everything.

It took about an hour to get home, as my friend and I made our way through a jungle of downed trees and flooded roads in the darkness. Lakewood — and indeed all of Cleveland was without electrical power. We saw dozens of cars smashed by trees, windows blown out of businesses and even a few people injured by flying debris. 

When I finally walked in the door, my Mom and Dad gave me the look of joy and relief that only a parent can truly understand. The living room of our humble home was lit by flickering candles, but it was easy to see how grateful my parents were to see me. A small transistor radio was on the mantle, and was reporting the bad news: 100 mph winds had slammed into Cleveland and Lakewood with brutal force; people had died, including some who had been electrocuted by power lines like the ones my friend and I had dodged. Scores were injured; hundreds were missing on Lake Erie — and the hospitals, all on emergency power, were under a terrible strain.

As I began to recount my saga to my family, the phone rang. 

The call came from Lakewood Hospital: and they informed us that my brother Chris was in the emergency room. My parents rushed to the car and somehow made it to the hospital, despite the trees and the power lines and the flooded streets. When they phoned a few hours later they told us point blank: “Chris is in critical condition — a priest has given him his last rites — and and it doesn’t look like he is going to make it. Pray for him.” 

Sobbing uncontrollably, I ran to the darkness of my bedroom and began to pray. . .and pray. . .and pray. “If you let him live, Lord,” I said, “I will never fight with him again. I-WILL-NEVER-FIGHT-WITH-HIM-AGAIN.” I repeated this mantra hundreds of times, begging and pleading and crying all the while.

Over the coming hours and days we learned that a tree of more than four feet in diameter had crushed my brother Chris. We also discovered that the very same tree that had struck my brother so violently had killed Gretchen Schwartz, the sister of one of my friends and classmates. 

We learned of the heroism of volunteers and emergency workers who risked their own safety to free my brother, who had been trapped in the middle of the tree after it splintered around him. And we learned that once Chris had been freed from the clutches of the tree how the volunteers and ER workers carried him to a makeshift triage in a garage nearby the Park in an attempt to save his life.

Today is the 55th anniversary of that day.

Twenty five years ago, on the 30th Anniversary I drove to Lakewood Park before all of the festivities began — and just sat quietly. Then I picked up my phone and dialed.

I told the person on the other end that thirty years prior I had made a promise to God that if he would spare the life of my brother, I would not fight with him ever again.

“It’s been thirty years,” I said. “And do you realize that we’ve never had so much as a disagreement?”

On the other end of the phone, my brother Chris sobbed. Since the accident, his life has been one of unbelievable twists and turns — of challenges and faith — and of real-life drama.

Yet, fifty five years later I am happy to report that my prayers were answered — on that night when the storm changed everything.

“Some of you say, 'Joy is greater than sorrow,' 
and others say, 'Nay, sorrow is the greater.'
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come — and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”

-Kahlil Gibran, #TheProphet

_
Art: "Lake of Sorrows" by #Intao
© intao #KahlilGibran

REBORN ON THE 4th of JULY

 

• 54 Years Ago Today, a Tornado Hit Cleveland. Not Everyone Got Out Alive.

MY BROTHER CHRIS WAS A ROYAL PAIN when I was growing up. He and his friends taunted me incessantly, and as the next elder sibling in the Miller food chain, he made sure I knew that he was the boss, as many older brothers often do.

I could go on and on about the childhood traumas: he pushed me in a pile of dog manure; he broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball — and then blamed me; and once, he even poked me in the eye with a stick. When my Mom brought me home from the hospital, Chris tried to tell me how cool I looked with a patch over my eye, to avoid getting in any further trouble.

“You look like a PIRATE,” he exclaimed with all of the thespian might he could muster.

“The patch is WHITE,” I replied angrily. “Have you ever seen a pirate with a WHITE eye patch?” 

He just smiled.

Chris knew that his bullying had to end soon, but he persisted for as long as he could. He had an eerie knack for stopping his evil acts just before being caught-in-the-act by mom. By the time she walked around the corner, his little devil-face would magically transform — and his cherubic demeanor would miraculously re-appear.

God, I hated that.

By the time I turned 13, however, I was growing — rapidly. I had developed a far more athletic build than my brother, and suddenly, we were the same size. 

The era of being the taunted sibling had come to a close.

CHRIS’ LAST ACT OF CHICANERY came on July 4, 1969 when he stole my brand new outfit: a pair of black bell-bottom pants and a new striped pullover shirt. As I prepared to leave for the Independence Day fireworks at Lakewood Park, I noticed that my sweet new clothes were missing. 

Chris had somehow slipped into my clothes, slipped out of the door and was long gone.

I’m sure I cursed at him under my breath — and I know for certain that I created quite a stir with my Mom about the injustice of it all — but the bottom line was that I would have to leave for the fireworks without my spiffy new outfit. So I stopped by a friend’s house and we began our walk to Lakewood Park a few miles away.

By 1969, Lakewood had developed into a huge inner-ring suburb and was full of kids — and the 4th of July fireworks were always spectacular. It had been a picturesque day in Northeast Ohio and we were looking forward to meeting up with friends and enjoying the evening.

We were about five minutes from Lakewood Park when the sky turned from a beautiful blue to jet-black — in less than two minutes’ time. Without notice, my friend and I were suddenly caught in the grip of the most furious storm either of us had ever experienced. Make no mistake, we were scared to death. Trees were snapping all around us. Huge tree limbs were being flung with unfathomable force. The temperature dropped rapidly and so much rain drenched us that we were suddenly shivering. It was dark, the street lights were out, and we were frightened and dazed.

And then there were the power lines; live electrical power lines that buzzed and danced in the flooded streets. 

It was the storm that changed everything.

It took about an hour to get home, as my friend and I made our way through a jungle of downed trees and flooded roads in the darkness. Lakewood — and indeed all of Cleveland was without electrical power. We saw dozens of cars smashed by trees, windows blown out of businesses and even a few people injured by flying debris. 

When I finally walked in the door, my Mom and Dad gave me the look of joy and relief that only a parent can truly understand. The living room of our humble home was lit by flickering candles, but it was easy to see how grateful my parents were to see me. A small transistor radio was on the mantle, and was reporting the bad news: 100 mph winds had slammed into Cleveland and Lakewood with brutal force; people had died, including some who had been electrocuted by power lines like the ones my friend and I had dodged. Scores were injured; hundreds were missing on Lake Erie — and the hospitals, all on emergency power, were under a terrible strain.

As I began to recount my saga to my family, the phone rang. 

The call came from Lakewood Hospital: and they informed us that my brother Chris was in the emergency room. My parents rushed to the car and somehow made it to the hospital, despite the trees and the power lines and the flooded streets. When they phoned a few hours later they told us point blank: “Chris is in critical condition — a priest has given him his last rites — and and it doesn’t look like he is going to make it. Pray for him.” 

Sobbing uncontrollably, I ran to the darkness of my bedroom and began to pray. . .and pray. . .and pray. “If you let him live, Lord,” I said, “I will never fight with him again. I-WILL-NEVER-FIGHT-WITH-HIM-AGAIN.” I repeated this mantra hundreds of times, begging and pleading and crying all the while.

Over the coming hours and days we learned that a tree of more than four feet in diameter had crushed my brother Chris. We also discovered that the very same tree that had struck my brother so violently had killed Gretchen Schwartz, the sister of one of my friends and classmates. 

We learned of the heroism of volunteers and emergency workers who risked their own safety to free my brother, who had been trapped in the middle of the tree after it splintered around him. And we learned that once Chris had been freed from the clutches of the tree how the volunteers and ER workers carried him to a makeshift triage in a garage nearby the Park in an attempt to save his life.

Today is the 54th anniversary of that day.

Twenty years ago, on the 30th Anniversary I drove to Lakewood Park before all of the festivities began — and just sat quietly. Then I picked up my phone and dialed.

I told the person on the other end that thirty years prior I had made a promise to God that if he would spare the life of my brother, I would not fight with him ever again.

“It’s been thirty years,” I said. “And do you realize that we’ve never had so much as a disagreement?”

On the other end of the phone, my brother Chris sobbed. Since the accident, his life has been one of unbelievable twists and turns — of challenges and faith — and of real-life drama.

Yet, fifty four years later I am happy to report that my prayers were answered — on that night when the storm changed everything.

YUAN FEN

DON’T TELL MY MOM I SAID THIS, but someone once told me — in the strictest of confidence — that my mother “fell in love every month” until she met and married my Dad. Having waited until I was “mature enough” to get married — only to get divorced a few years later — I guess I can understand how even my Mom could have enjoyed years of fickle feelings before having her heart set ablaze by my father. It seems like human nature, especially in the radically different context of relationships in the 21st century.

Of course, once Mom made a decision, that was that. There would be no looking back. Sixty-plus years later, Mom and Dad remained true to their vows. . .and very much in love until my father’s passing over fifteen years ago.

Many of our Moms and Dads — members of “the greatest generation” — have enjoyed similar longevity in matrimony. Today, though, with marriages lasting between 6-7 years on average, one must ask if the “Me Generation” is able to keep such a commitment.

This uneasy, chronic dissatisfaction is all around us. I was having dinner with a very successful, affluent, female medical doctor a few years ago when the conversation shifted to relationships. “What is it with men, “she asked, “and why is it that you are all unwilling to get married?” She outlined her experiences very directly, beginning with, “Men don’t want companionship; they want control,” before adding that “men won’t marry a powerful woman with a great career - especially if they make less money than a woman.” 

“Is it really that, Doctor,” I recall asking. “Is it that men are afraid of powerful women? Perhaps. Or is it that we live in this ‘Me’ centered universe, devoid of loyalty and unconditional love? Could it be that we live in an age where few have the patience, the tolerance, or capacity to forgive — like children forgive their parents on a weekly basis? Could it be that we are living our lives as if life is always greener on the other side of the mountain?”

As she contemplated my questions, she seemed conflicted and perplexed — and we went on like that for hours. Maybe something resonated with her, as 8-10 months later she reported back that she had indeed found her man, and was engaged to be married.

Thus, is there anything more beautiful — or maddening — than love? We see it portrayed in movies, television, books and magazines all of the time, of course, but while they do justice to the word in an imaginary, Hollywood-kind-of-a-way, do we really know what the reality of love is?

I wonder.

I must admit to you that I have cried at the line “You had me at ‘Hello,” (from the movie Jerry Maguire) every single time I’ve heard it spoken. I think it must touch some raw nerve of unfulfilled love within me. But is it ONLY because of ‘Hollywood magic’ that this takes place? Am I being manipulated by the cold orchestrated efforts of the media machine to go see the next Cameron Crowe movie? Again, perhaps.

Yet when this moment-of-awakening occurs, it highlights that those feelings within me, no matter how glorified or artificial they may appear in Hollywood, do indeed exist. Is it because Renee Zellweger’s character is so willing to accept Jerry Maguire, a man full of vanity and failures and flaws, at his lowest ebb?

If we are looking for love at all, that seems to be what keeps many of us in the game; believing that there is at least one perfect woman/man out there in the Universe. It is the unconditional, solid-as-a-rock notion that “I will stand beside you always…even when you are broken…” that keeps we humans coming back for more.

The Chinese have a concept called “Yuan Fen,” for which no direct translation exists in the English language. It is a visual, contextual combination of destiny, tried-and-true effort and, well, luck. Yuan Fen is a karmic phrase meant to illustrate the importance of fate and diligence in our lives. For a relationship to work, they say, one needs both “yuan,” the fateful, pre-destined meeting of a man and a woman that creates the possibility of lasting love — and the “fen,” the action of sharing and working toward fulfilling that destiny together.

I think it is a lovely concept. While yuan fen acknowledges the deeper meaning of events in our daily lives, it also highlights the need for shared energy and commitment to make “the dream come true.”

Therefore, there can be no “fen” without “yuan.” Without hard work - and perhaps a little luck - there can be no yuan fen. This, it would seem, is the part of the equation which alienates those of us in Western cultures, because let’s face it—if things get tough in relationships, most of us seem to cut-and-run. 

Our lack of commitment — our unwillingness to stand shoulder to shoulder during difficult times — is probably the simplest reflection of this life in the material age; this society built on instant gratification.

IT IS NOW NEARLY 29 YEARS since my first-and-only wife divorced. We definitely did not experience ‘yuan fen,’ but I love and admire her just the same. She was the bearer of many laughs - and many lessons. I am grateful to her.

As another Valentine’s Day arrives, I still believe the idea that fate, destiny and karma could deliver yuan fen some day, if it is meant to be. Some of you may think that my beliefs make me naïve. Maybe so .. but I believe that love will complete the circle. . .for all of us.

My prayer is that you will find your “yuan fen” as well, if that is truly what you seek. . .and that you will be willing to work for your blessings, like so many in “the greatest generation” did before us.

Happy Valentine’s Day. . .and peace to you all.

###

_

#YuanFen #ValentinesDay

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES

THE YEAR WAS 1987, and over a decade had passed since the Vietnam War had ended. I was three weeks into my first foreign foray as a filmmaker — and I was hurting — and hurting badly.

Our trip began innocuously enough, fueled by a curious mix of anticipation and discovery. We were six thousand miles from home, but my friends on the production crew helped me celebrate my 30th birthday as the clock struck midnight in Bangkok. Eighteen hours later we landed in Hanoi, and before long we bounced along an endless series of dirt roads in the back of an old Russian school bus that served as transport to our hotel, far outside the city and near the Gulf of Tonkin. 

I had moved back to Cleveland a few years prior, after living in Boston for five years, but my NBA loyalties still lie with the Celtics. As the sun set over Hanoi it became uncharacteristically chilly, so I put on my luminescent Celtics jacket, in all its’ Kelly-green glory, to fight off the brisk wind blowing from the South China Sea. Within minutes, as I braced myself on the back steps of the bus, I heard children cry out, “Larry Bird. . .Larry Bird,” which made me smile and wave enthusiastically to the smiling natives. 

“Not bad,” I recall thinking. “I get to enjoy my birthday in both Thailand and Vietnam. What a way to ring in a new decade of life. Not bad at all.”

Little did I realize what awaited me in the days and weeks ahead.

THIS WAS ALL VERY ODD FOR ME, as I suppose it would have been for any American. I was on a historic journey, of sorts, as we were among the first 200 U.S. citizens allowed to visit Vietnam in the post-war years. For a kid from Cleveland, this was pretty ethereal stuff. 

One of my brothers had served near the DMZ, or “de-militarized zone” in DaNang. All I knew of Vietnam came from scratchy audiotapes sent home by Martin during the war, from my hero Walter Cronkite, and now, from a group of Vietnam vets who had decided to tackle their demons by heading back to the belly of the beast: Vietnam.

I was about to confront some ghosts of my own, thousands of miles from where I first experienced their inescapable and indelible impact.

I GREW UP AS A WHITE middle-class beneficiary of the greatness of America, in a time and place when all of my peers seemed to enjoy stable families and live in homes built in the 1920s and 30s. My place in the Miller hierarchy was second-last-of-seven kids, and while growing up, I had never truly known what it was like to live life on the edge. This was partly due to my own cluelessness about money or the challenges of balancing a budget while raising seven children, but it was also partly attributable to the seeming dearth of “poor people” living around me during those years.

That would change when I got my first real job in the 1970s, popping popcorn for the tens of thousands of rabid Cleveland Browns fans at Cleveland Stadium. I was 14 at the time, and as I walked down from the bus towards the Stadium, I literally stumbled on a group of men who greeted me with vacant eyes and tattered clothes. The smell of urine pummeled me with such overwhelming power that it lodged in my senses. . .and to this day I still recall the smell of the misery that was unveiled to me that day.

As I have described elsewhere in this blog, however, I was born with an innate, inquisitive nature — some might call it naïve. . .so I stopped to talk to the men who were huddled together on that very cold November day. One of the men had ice-blue eyes that popped out from shrouded and wrinkled skin. He spoke very softly and asked, “what are you doin’ down here, kid?” When I replied that I worked at the Stadium, he muttered, “well good for you, kid. Maybe you can bring me somethin’ to eat.”

Uncertain — and perhaps even frightened — I had no idea how to respond. So I took off and sprinted down to work. When I reached the concession area, I told my boss, “Big Jim,” a wonderful African American man in his 50s, about my experience. “There’s lots of them down here now, son,” he said with a measure of both sadness and disgust. “Lots of them since the steel plants closed. You be mindful, now…some of them are crazy on liquor.” 

It was the first time I had confronted poverty with my own eyes. . .and it left a mark. Week after week I would see the poor gather outside St. Malachi’s Church near the Stadium. Week after week I would talk to the men on the streets. And week after week, “Big Jim,” one of the kindest men I have ever known, would help me forage for hot dogs and coffee after work, often by asking favors of some of the vendors, even though he was concerned about his young lilly-white employee and his rather idealistic notions about “helping the men on the streets.” 

BACK IN VIETNAM IN 1987, all of those emotions came flooding back. It hit me hard when we entered DaNang, where my brother Martin had fought some 14 years before my arrival. It was the first time I saw the sons and daughters of American servicemen. . .the ones who were left behind. Forced to live on the streets because they were “illegitimate children of the enemy,” or because they were not “pure blooded” Vietnamese, AmerAsian children scoured garbage cans for food and begged for whatever they could sell on the black market.

By this time, I was living on my own, trying to get noticed as a writer and filmmaker, and I had a better grasp of what the men and women on the streets back home encountered on a daily basis. I had lost some of my youthful naivete — I was struggling as well — but I felt like a millionaire compared to the horror of DaNang. Though I had only $50 in my pocket, I felt tortured by my wealth. Over the final two weeks of the trip, I gave away literally everything to children from DaNang to Saigon. My Walkman, my shoes, an earring, cigarettes, toiletries, and pads of paper — you name it. 

I gave it all away.

FOR SIX WEEKS, following my return trip home, I was as melancholy and depressed as I have ever been in my life. What had I learned about poverty — and wealth? What was my purpose in experiencing all of this?

What I finally realized is that the prologue of my adult life came as a teenager in living in a suburb on the border with Cleveland. The events I witnessed — and the people I met during that time, monumentally changed me. The recognition of poverty among us — and the challenge to do something meaningful about it — shifted me away from the carefree life of a 13 year old and morphed me into the being I have become. As a 30 year old — emotionally lost in Vietnam — I returned to the memories of the men on the streets of America. . .and realized that they were one and the same as the AmerAsians wallowing in poverty in Vietnam.

TWO YEARS LATER, IN 1989, STILL HAUNTED BY VIETNAM, I decided to try to affect change. I was working for my dear friend Ron Copfer, a philanthopist in his own rite, who allowed me to produce my first film for a non-profit agency based in Cleveland. KIDS IN CRISIS was the result, a mini-documentary about poor children in the city of Cleveland. One of the lines I remember most from the film catapulted me, once again, to the fateful days of meeting the men on the streets of Cleveland as a teenager. “The number of poor children in Cleveland,” the speaker said solemnly, “the number of children who go to bed hungry every night, could fill Cleveland Stadium. That’s 87,000 kids.”

Through KIDS IN CRISIS I also received a wondrous message by winning a Silver Medal at the New York International Film & Telelvision Festival. The reminder was not the lovely award, but the fact that I could indeed affect change. . .and so I have tried earnestly to do so ever since, by utilizing all of my God-given talents and blessings for a higher purpose.

I followed KIDS IN CRISIS with a fundraising video for the Cleveland Foodbank, which helped garner 15 million pounds of food from area residents, along with hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash donations. Then I turned my sights to the homeless — including homeless war veterans — in my film THE PROMISED LAND. More awards, but more importantly, nearly $1 million in donations from Cleveland area residents, money that was used for job training and temporary housing for homeless families.

In the years to follow, there were more fundraising videos for the National Veterans Foundation, and many others.

YEARS LATER, a wealthy salesman-turned videomaker castigated me for my beliefs, and the fact that I had refused to produce numerous videos for him that did not align with my idealogy. “You could be wealthy,” he said, rife with condescension, “but no…you are some idealist who expects the world to conform to you. I’ve got news for you: it won’t.”

Today, the notion that many of us are “one paycheck away from poverty” is much easier to grasp — and there’s unfinished business here in the land of the free. Millions of seniors have lost their pensions, their retirement nest eggs, and their security. Countless others teeter on the brink of disaster, victims of their faith in the gods of capitalism.

Meanwhile, “How the Other Half Lives” is no longer a testimonial to the sins of the past century. Rather, it is the prologue of what has become the worst of realities for people throughout America and the rest of the world.

Perhaps my cynical critic was correct — I may never be the next Michael Moore, a filmmaker who enjoys $10 million budgets. But for me, that was never the point anyway. 

I have lived a good life; replete with the joy and sadness of miracles and devastation that life brings every day to scores of unknown people throughout America…and lands beyond our borders. 

As a filmmaker, I have, on occasion, dined with the wealthy and been given uncommon access to the powerful. But my Brethren, it would seem, will always be the least among us. . .the men and women who deperately cling to the hope that we as a People will see our way through the madness long enough to care for our fellow humans, and to afford them them chance to eat and drink from an inclusive economy of dignity and goodwill. 

So continue I shall, thankful for my epiphany. . .and grateful for the hard lessons I learned on the streets of Cleveland — and from the faraway faces of children in DaNang.

REBORN ON THE 4th of JULY

54 Years Ago Today, a Tornado Hit Cleveland. Not Everyone Got Out Alive.

MY BROTHER CHRIS WAS A ROYAL PAIN when I was growing up. He and his friends taunted me incessantly, and as the next elder sibling in the Miller food chain, he made sure I knew that he was the boss, as many older brothers often do.

I could go on and on about the childhood traumas: he pushed me in a pile of dog manure; he broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball — and then blamed me; and once, he even poked me in the eye with a stick. When my Mom brought me home from the hospital, Chris tried to tell me how cool I looked with a patch over my eye, to avoid getting in any further trouble.

“You look like a PIRATE,” he exclaimed with all of the thespian might he could muster.

“The patch is WHITE,” I replied angrily. “Have you ever seen a pirate with a WHITE eye patch?” 

He just smiled.

Chris knew that his bullying had to end soon, but he persisted for as long as he could. He had an eerie knack for stopping his evil acts just before being caught-in-the-act by mom. By the time she walked around the corner, his little devil-face would magically transform — and his cherubic demeanor would miraculously re-appear.

God, I hated that.

By the time I turned 13, however, I was growing — rapidly. I had developed a far more athletic build than my brother, and suddenly, we were the same size. 

The era of being the taunted sibling had come to a close.

CHRIS’ LAST ACT OF CHICANERY came on July 4, 1969 when he stole my brand new outfit: a pair of black bell-bottom pants and a new striped pullover shirt. As I prepared to leave for the Independence Day fireworks at Lakewood Park, I noticed that my sweet new clothes were missing. 

Chris had somehow slipped into my clothes, slipped out of the door and was long gone.

I’m sure I cursed at him under my breath — and I know for certain that I created quite a stir with my Mom about the injustice of it all — but the bottom line was that I would have to leave for the fireworks without my spiffy new outfit. So I stopped by a friend’s house and we began our walk to Lakewood Park a few miles away.

By 1969, Lakewood had developed into a huge inner-ring suburb and was full of kids — and the 4th of July fireworks were always spectacular. It had been a picturesque day in Northeast Ohio and we were looking forward to meeting up with friends and enjoying the evening.

We were about five minutes from Lakewood Park when the sky turned from a beautiful blue to jet-black — in less than two minutes’ time. Without notice, my friend and I were suddenly caught in the grip of the most furious storm either of us had ever experienced. Make no mistake, we were scared to death. Trees were snapping all around us. Huge tree limbs were being flung with unfathomable force. The temperature dropped rapidly and so much rain drenched us that we were suddenly shivering. It was dark, the street lights were out, and we were frightened and dazed.

And then there were the power lines; live electrical power lines that buzzed and danced in the flooded streets. 

It was the storm that changed everything.

It took about an hour to get home, as my friend and I made our way through a jungle of downed trees and flooded roads in the darkness. Lakewood — and indeed all of Cleveland was without electrical power. We saw dozens of cars smashed by trees, windows blown out of businesses and even a few people injured by flying debris. 

When I finally walked in the door, my Mom and Dad gave me the look of joy and relief that only a parent can truly understand. The living room of our humble home was lit by flickering candles, but it was easy to see how grateful my parents were to see me. A small transistor radio was on the mantle, and was reporting the bad news: 100 mph winds had slammed into Cleveland and Lakewood with brutal force; people had died, including some who had been electrocuted by power lines like the ones my friend and I had dodged. Scores were injured; hundreds were missing on Lake Erie — and the hospitals, all on emergency power, were under a terrible strain.

As I began to recount my saga to my family, the phone rang. 

The call came from Lakewood Hospital: and they informed us that my brother Chris was in the emergency room. My parents rushed to the car and somehow made it to the hospital, despite the trees and the power lines and the flooded streets. When they phoned a few hours later they told us point blank: “Chris is in critical condition — a priest has given him his last rites — and and it doesn’t look like he is going to make it. Pray for him.” 

Sobbing uncontrollably, I ran to the darkness of my bedroom and began to pray. . .and pray. . .and pray. “If you let him live, Lord,” I said, “I will never fight with him again. I-WILL-NEVER-FIGHT-WITH-HIM-AGAIN.” I repeated this mantra hundreds of times, begging and pleading and crying all the while.

Over the coming hours and days we learned that a tree of more than four feet in diameter had crushed my brother Chris. We also discovered that the very same tree that had struck my brother so violently had killed Gretchen Schwartz, the sister of one of my friends and classmates. 

We learned of the heroism of volunteers and emergency workers who risked their own safety to free my brother, who had been trapped in the middle of the tree after it splintered around him. And we learned that once Chris had been freed from the clutches of the tree how the volunteers and ER workers carried him to a makeshift triage in a garage nearby the Park in an attempt to save his life.

Today is the 54th anniversary of that day.

Twenty four years ago, on the 30th Anniversary, I drove to Lakewood Park before all of the festivities began — and just sat quietly. Then I picked up my phone and dialed.

I told the person on the other end that thirty years prior I had made a promise to God that if he would spare the life of my brother, I would not fight with him ever again.

“It’s been thirty years,” I said. “And do you realize that we’ve never had so much as a disagreement?”

On the other end of the phone, my brother Chris sobbed. Since the accident, his life has been one of unbelievable twists and turns — of challenges and faith — and of real-life drama.

Yet, fifty four years later I am happy to report that my prayers were answered — on that night when the storm changed everything.

Chris (L) and Kevin (R)

REBORN ON THE 4th OF JULY

MY BROTHER CHRIS WAS A ROYAL PAIN when I was growing up. He and his friends taunted me incessantly when I was little, and as the next sibling above me in the Miller food chain, he made sure I knew that he was the boss. 

I could go on and on about the childhood traumas: he pushed me in a pile of dog manure; he broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball — and then blamed me; and once, he even poked me in the eye with a stick. When my Mom brought me home from the hospital, Chris tried to tell me how cool I looked with a patch over my eye, to avoid getting in any further trouble.

“You look like a PIRATE,” he exclaimed with all of the thespian might he could muster.

“The patch is WHITE,” I replied angrily. “Have you ever seen a pirate with a WHITE eye patch?” 

He just smiled.

Chris knew that his bullying had to end soon, but he persisted for as long as he could. He had an eerie knack for stopping his evil acts just before being caught-in-the-act by mom. By the time she walked around the corner, his little devil-face would magically transform — and his cherubic demeanor would miraculously re-appear.

God, I hated that.

By the time I was 13, however, I was growing — rapidly. I had developed a far more athletic build than Chris, and suddenly, we were the same size. 

The era of being the taunted sibling had come to a close.

CHRIS’ LAST ACT OF CHICANERY came on July 4, 1969 when he stole my brand new outfit: a pair of black bell-bottom pants and a new striped pullover shirt. As I prepared to leave for the Independence Day fireworks at Lakewood Park outside of Cleveland, I noticed that my sweet new clothes were missing. 

Chris had somehow slipped into my clothes, slipped out of the door and was long gone.

I’m sure I cursed at him under my breath — and I know for certain that I created quite a stir with my Mom about the injustice of it all — but the bottom line was that I would have to leave for the fireworks without my spiffy new outfit. So I stopped by a friend’s house and we began our walk to Lakewood Park a few miles away.

TEENAGED ANGST AND ALL, my friend Robin and I were looking forward to the fireworks. Lakewood had developed into a huge inner-ring suburb and was full of kids — and the 4th of July fireworks were always spectacular. It had been a picturesque day and we were really looking forward to the evening.

When we were about five minutes from Lakewood Park, the sky turned from beautiful sunshine to jet-black — in less than two minutes’ time. Without notice, Robin and I were suddenly caught in the grip of the most furious storm either of us had ever experienced. Make no mistake, we were scared to death. Trees were snapping all around us. Huge tree limbs were being flung with unfathomable force. So much rain drenched us that we were shivering, and the temperature felt like it had dropped by twenty degrees in just a few minutes time.

And then there were the power lines. . .live electrical power lines that buzzed and danced in the flooded streets. 

It was the storm that changed everything.

It took about an hour to get home, as Robin and I made our way through a jungle of downed trees and flooded roads in the darkness. Lakewood — and indeed all of Cleveland was without electrical power. We saw dozens of cars smashed by trees, windows blown out of businesses and even a few people injured by flying debris. 

When I finally walked in the door, my Mom and Dad gave me the look of joy and relief that only a parent can truly understand. The living room of our humble home was lit by flickering candles, but it was easy to see how grateful my parents were to see me. The transistor radio was on — and was reporting the bad news: 100 mph winds had slammed into Cleveland and Lakewood with brutal force; people had died, including some who had been electrocuted by power lines like the ones Robin and I had dodged. Scores were injured; hundreds were missing on Lake Erie — and the hospitals, all on emergency power, were under a terrible strain.

As I began to recount my saga to my family, the phone rang. 

It was Lakewood Hospital—my brother Chris was in the emergency room. My parents rushed to the car and somehow made it to the hospital, despite the trees and the power lines and the flooded streets. When they phoned a few hours later they told us point blank: “Chris is in critical condition — a priest has given him his last rites — and and it doesn’t look like he is going to make it.” 

Sobbing uncontrollably, I ran to the darkness of my bedroom and began to pray. . .and pray. . .and pray. “If you let him live, Lord,” I said, “I will never fight with him again. I-WILL-NEVER-FIGHT-WITH-HIM-AGAIN.” I repeated this mantra hundreds of times, begging and pleading and crying all the while.

Over the coming hours and days we learned that a tree of more than four feet in diameter had hit Chris. We also discovered that the very same tree that had struck my brother so violently had killed the sister of one of my classmates. 

We learned of the heroism of volunteers and emergency workers who risked their own safety to free my brother — who had been trapped in the middle of the tree after it splintered around him. And we learned that once Chris had been freed from the clutches of the tree how the volunteers and ER workers carried him to a makeshift triage in a garage nearby the Park in an attempt to save his life.

Today is the 49th anniversary of that day.

On the 30th Anniversary I drove to Lakewood Park before all of the festivities began — and just sat quietly. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

I told the person on the other end that thirty years prior I had made a promise to God—that if he would spare the life of my brother that I would not fight with him—ever again.

“It’s been thirty years,” I said. “And do you realize that we’ve never had so much as a disagreement?”

On the other end of the phone, my brother Chris sobbed. Since the accident, his life has been one of unbelievable twists and turns — of challenges and faith — and of real-life drama.

But forty-nine years later I am happy to report that God did indeed answer my prayers — on that night when the storm changed everything.