Baltimore writer Leslie F. Miller eulogizes her famously outspoken father Harvey Miller —  his mischief, his quirks, his immense generosity.

The rabbi asked the mourners to share a piece of my father — a memory, a story, a saying.  I was first to break the grief-stricken silence. “I am in one lane!” The parlor room at the Pikesville Hilton erupted with relieved laughter.

Of my father’s faults, bad driving was the worst. By the time of his death at age 75, he had dinged, chipped, dented, crashed, scratched, or totaled most of the following: a red Cadillac, a purple Valu-Vend station wagon, a silver LTD II, a gold Thunderbird, a black Lexus, a purple Lexus convertible, a black Mercedes, another black Mercedes, a white Audi, a black Murano, a white Mercedes, every General Motors car ever made, and an assortment of foreign sports cars, including a midnight blue Corvette, an MG, and an Austin Healey. His only auto regret was that he never got to damage a BMW.