It was our final “spin” together, the last of hundreds. I knew that soon the cancer would take him. As Bob and I drove towards Cross Creek on Route 107, the road to Juniper, I asked if he’d like to go to Half Moon.
Half Moon is a popular “put in” place for canoe trips down the Southwest Miramichi. Just upstream from Deersdale, it’s a peaceful, contemplative place, and I figured it would give Bob one last opportunity to see his beloved Miramichi River.
A popular destination for our mini road trips, Half Moon, is also a place we had canoed past numerous times. Visiting there always brought back good memories of those canoe trips, and the many others Bob, I and the other members of our canoe-trip brotherhood shared during our annual canoe adventures over more than 20 years. Some years we went in the spring; some years we went in the fall. Each year it was a different New Brunswick river.
I met Bob Miller in November 1980, the same night that Ronald Reagan was elected president of the United States. We were both working late into the night on a project for Fred Clarke, the son of the renowned New Brunswick author, Dr. George Frederick Clarke.
Fred owned a company called Fiddlehead Films, and I was fortunate enough to work for him as a scriptwriter. Without a doubt, “Fiddlehead Fred” was among the most colourful New Brunswickers I have ever met. Tall and powerfully built, with a silver mane of hair combed straight back, he looked like he just stepped off a Hollywood set. Like his famous father, Fred Clarke was a force of nature. He lived large.
That night, after Bob and I finished our work, and Fred had gone home to Woodstock, I opened the antique cabinet in Fred’s office, where he kept what he lovingly called his “black rum” and poured a glass for each of us.
Bob, who at the time was the head of audio-visual services at UNB, thought it was great that Fred was able to make a living in New Brunswick making films. As we poured ourselves another rum, he said he’d always dreamed of running his own film company.
A few years later, Bob, along with his wife at the time, filmmaker Daphne Curtis, realized that dream when they opened Atlantic Mediaworks, today, one of the region’s oldest and most respected film and video production houses. With two young children — Sarah and Ian — opening their own business was a big step for Bob and Daphne.
Bob and I never did make it to Half Moon that day. After asking him if that’s where he’d like to go, he replied, “I’m feeling pretty tired. I think I’d like to go home to my family now.”
I wanted to cry but thought that was the last thing Bob needed. Instead, I pulled my car into the Cross Creek Baptist Church, turned around and headed for home. I knew his wife, Colleen, whom he loved so much, was waiting.
On the way back, we talked about all that had happened in our lives since we shared our first glass of rum. We talked about our kids, our friends, the women in our lives and the fun we had over the years, including our canoe trips. “Remember,” I said, “when I dumped the canoe at Burnthill Rapids, and Joe and I went straight to the bottom of the Miramichi.”
Looking over at him, I could see a smile on his face, but his eyes were closed. He was so tired, his body so ravaged. Like a fast-moving river, I thought, as we crossed the bridge over the Nashwaak at Taymouth, life slips by quickly.
Bob’s gone now. The cancer he fought so hard against, finally took him. He was one of the kindest and most caring people I have ever known. After almost 40 years of making films and videos, he made a tremendous contribution to his province and country. Godspeed, Bob Miller, you are dearly missed.
In the spring, I’ll take a spin up to Half Moon some warm afternoon and toast my old friend and the memories he left behind with a shot or two of black rum. While I’m at it, I’ll drink a toast to Fred Clarke and Fiddlehead Films too.
