His dedication . . . gave Milliken a status closer to the medieval role of town crier.

They say “Red” Milliken was that rare kind of person whose death is a community’s loss. They say that not because he was a person of high social standing, a tireless volunteer or a wealthy philanthropist.

William (Red) Milliken was the window washer of North Figueroa Street.

It was a position that he created himself shortly after the end of World War II.

He held it through most of the ‘80s, which were also his 80s.

His singular dedication to his calling, and to the community of his childhood, gave Milliken a status closer to the medieval role of town crier than any modern idea of what a window washer is.

Each day, as Milliken made his rounds, he engaged those he met in opinionated conversation about the state of things in Highland Park.

“If there had been something in the paper or something he heard about, he would always have something to say about it, not necessarily good,” recalled Diana Barnwell, who in the early 1980s worked in the storefront office of the Highland Park Improvement Assn., a city program to revitalize the business district.

Barnwell got on the wrong side of Milliken’s views.

“He felt we were off in some sort of wrong direction,” she said. “Because Red Milliken was Red Milliken, I didn’t want to be disapproved of by him. I wanted his endorsement. I sought him out. I had to seek him out. It was his street. It was Red Milliken’s street. The rest of us were allowed to be there.”

They made peace and now she has forgotten the specific point of contention.

That’s exactly how people remember Milliken-- more for his force of personal character than a specific point of view.

At Milliken’s funeral the other day at the Little Church of the Flowers at Forest Lawn, a thoughtful eulogy was given by his nephew, James Milliken.

He recalled that his uncle graduated from Garvanza Elementary School and later Lincoln High School, supported his mother during the Depression, missed both world wars because of his age and had three enduring passions in life--motorcycles, his wife Jane and Figueroa Street.

“On the Avenue, as he called it, was where Bill made his mark, both personally and on the community,” his nephew said. “Rising every morning at 3:30 or 4 a.m., he would be the first one out working on the Avenue. Over the years, he met, befriended or fought with almost all of the characters and straight citizens that passed his way. . . .

“The Avenue was a forum for him to develop and refine his own philosophy on life. He acted out in his real life what he stated he believed in. He was a major champion of the little guy. His views in life reflected his deep belief in the importance of honesty, integrity and human kindness.”

Somehow, I failed to notice Milliken back in the 1960s when I spent many a listless hour waiting with other young men in Lou’s barbershop. Milliken would have been in his 60s already, and not the kind of presence an adolescent would notice.

I missed him again as a reporter checking in on Highland Park’s travails, such as stationery store owner Bill Warren’s efforts to keep the Highland Park Symphony alive. Contemporary reporting has pretty much replaced the old way of hanging out on the streets with something more akin to high-altitude pinpoint bombing and, in consequence, often misses the nuances of a community’s social structure.

I was able to learn more about Milliken, finally, from Danny Howard, my cross-country teammate at Franklin High School in 1961. Howard stuck close to his roots all these years. He lives in Eagle Rock and writes historical books.

He’s just completed one for Highland Park realtor Donna Harnsberger. It’s called, unblushingly, “Harnsberger and the Winners Presents a History of Highland Park, Mount Washington and the Harnsbergers.”

Howard interviewed Milliken twice and found room in his book for anecdotes such as this:

“Led by Red Milliken, local youngsters Buster McCoy, Louie Burgermeier and Bill Cannell would all ride their bicycles over the Pacific Electric bridge over the Arroyo Seco in the early 1900s, making sure to avoid any oncoming trolley cars.”

Aside from making mischief, Milliken also mowed lawns in the neighborhood and sold the clippings to chicken farmers for 5 cents a gunnysack, Howard said.

I’ve also learned that Pat Samson of the Highland Park Heritage Trust interviewed Milliken on video for the organization’s 30-minute documentary, “On the Avenue.”

Along with lore about the swimming hole in the arroyo and about moving Anderson’s card store seven times, it shows his contentious nature.

“He just had strong opinions about the people in charge being too big for their britches,” Samson said.

I regret having never met Milliken.

And I think that his loss is more than Highland Park’s alone.

The world needs people who measure their turf by how far their feet will carry them and make it better by force of personal character.