River Valley Will Miss its Scrapyard Poet

by Nick Coleman – Star Tribune

You could say that Morrie Miller was a bear of a man but you’d only say that if the bear you had in mind was Gentle Ben. Morrie was a friendly giant who towered over other men and had the build and the athletic grace of an NFL linebacker. Give him a sword and shield and — with his curly locks and his powerful frame — he would’ve looked like a proud Jewish warrior right out of a Biblical epic. But underneath all those muscles was the soul of a happy poet.

Morrie Miller was the only doctor of education I’ve ever known who made a living running a scrapyard. Most people don’t prepare for a career crushing wrecked automobiles by studying for a Ph.D. at the University of Minnesota. But Morrie made it work for him when he returned from the groves of academia to his family’s salvage yard in Winona. It might not have been Morrie’s first choice, but choice had little to do with it: His mother needed help running the business.

Morrie put away his professor’s sweaters and put on his work boots and his hard hat. He never looked back, but the university’s loss was Winona’s gain. Never has there been a more erudite scrap man.

He showed me around the yard once, explaining how this or that machine could shred how many tons of steel in how many minutes. He had bemused affection for the scrap business and when he explained how it worked, he could make it sound like the most fascinating business on Earth. Then he’d smile the big, goofy smile that was his trademark and let you know he really didn’t take scrap — or himself — too seriously.

The scrapyard was the family business and it didn’t have to be prestigious. It supported the family, it was honest work and it was good enough for Morrie. But Morrie’s soul could not be contained behind the fences of any scrapyard.

Morrie was an enthusiast who loved life and lived the life he loved. He liked to talk about politics and things that were going on in the world and his mind was open to new ideas as it was inquisitive. He could play touch football with the zest of a fraternity boy and he knew how to party like one, too. He made friends fast and they often remained fast friends.

Morrie liked to take his friends on tours of old Winona, pointing out the places where speakeasies and bordellos operated when Winona was less sedate than it is today. He would tell the city’s story in a can-you-believe-it? tone of voice that conveyed his own charming naivete along with the history.

More than most people in an age when loyalty to a place is out of fashion, Morrie Miller’s life was rooted in a place: in Winona and along the bluff-lined valley of the Mississippi.

It is impossible to think of Morrie Miller without conjuring up the images of the river. Morrie loved the river. He lived at its edge, the river flowing just outside his back door and the wooded bluffs across the channel rising in splendor before him. Morrie took his tranquility from the unceasing rhythm and power of the Mississippi and let himself be enchanted by its moods. Often, he would jog to the crest of the bluffs that loomed up behind his house and gaze down on what he considered the cradle of God’s loveliness in Minnesota.

After he met Cindy Ferguson, Morrie chose to announce their marriage by sharing his passion for the river with all of the couple’s friends. One exquisite May evening, when the setting sun set fire to the river valley, Morrie and Cindy chartered a paddle-wheeler to carry their celebration along the river, casting their pledge and the promise of their lives together on the flowing waters.

It was a beautiful voyage. But for Morrie, it is over. He died Wednesday at 45, his proud athlete’s body worn out by a struggle with a rare form of cancer. Behind him, at the river’s edge, he leaves Cindy and two young children, Sarah and Jacob.

It’s no use wondering why bad things happen to good people. Too often, they do. Morrie knew that. So when a friend dies, all you can do is offer your prayers. That, and celebrate the goodness that was in him and the magic and love that a person like Morrie shared with those whose lives he touched.

They will miss Morrie Miller along the banks of the Mississippi, and they will miss his humor and his gentleness in the scrapyard. I will miss him, too.