One for the Art Books

Last weekend, brother John and I headed up the highway toward  the upper peninsula of Michigan for a long overdue visit with  our uncle, Benhart Miller. He is one of two living siblings from our dad’s clan of seven brothers and sisters.  And, the only one left of three that were known as artists. Dad may have flirted with being a Savo, but as artists, they were the Miller boys.

After a six hour drive from Milwaukee, we reached Lake Linden, almost as far as one can go in this isolated area that collides with the cold, uncompromising stretches of Lake Superior.  It was worth it; the cozy, tidy towns dotted an area of beautiful, dense and colorful countryside.

Separated from lower Michigan by the vastness of another Great Lake, the locals of upper Michigan are often referred to as “Yoopers”.  There is no question as you drive from one town to the next that the Finnish have conglomerated in this region as a result of ancestors who decided that the “U.P.” would be their home away from home. You can imagine the Finnish immigrants purposefully deciding, “Hmmm, let’s settle in the coldest, snowiest and most bitterly harsh section of America where daylight is limited and there’s plenty of wood for stoking Saturday night saunas”. Hello, Finland.

And so we arrive at the home of one of the entrenched Finns of the U.P., Uncle Benhart Miller. He has lived down the same road so long that the street has been named after him. “Miller Rd” is on the map. As we pull up to the house, he  is standing in the doorway of the modest house he and his wife, Anna, have lived in since 1951. It has been a very long time. Too our great delight, our cousin Betty Ann showed up to meet us too. When she heard we were coming, she wanted to be part of the welcoming committee.

Feeling welcomed didn’t take long. Anna served up moist blueberry coffee cake and lemonade, followed by a dish of strawberry ice-cream for each of us as we reminisced. Benhart was ready for me; the collection of his paintings were packed in  two boxes on the living room floor along with the many that were on the walls. Here was a treasure trove of all his life’s work which I proceeded to document with camera and notes.  I look forward to sharing all of this through Savo Gallery.

It is hard to be brief with so much gleaned from our visit. I came in search of art, but found even more than that in the enduring bonds of family and Benhardt’s place within it. On the coffee table strewn with a stack of items that had collected over time  was an Echo harmonica box. Rarely afraid to investigate, I pulled the harmonica out and asked who played. Memories of my own dad playing the harmonica immediately came to mind.  With a chuckle, Benhardt affirmed that he used to play on occasion. Pressed to give us a show, he shyly consented. In my inept hands, this moment was recorded on camera.

Benhart Miller

Not to leave out a sampling of his art, below is a painting that I have had in my home for years. At his request, I brought it up to show him. He said it was one of his first paintings, done as a teenager, copied from a picture in a magazine.

By Benhart Miller, watercolor on paper, late 1930s

After several hours of catching up, we ended our visit with hopes of returning soon. Going down the gravel driveway of their 158 acre homestead, we stopped not once, but  three times, to grab perfectly ripe and rosy apples from the abundant crop that lined each side.  Like little kids who got away with something, we yielded to temptation, biting into the tart and juicy flesh as we turned on to Miller Road.