Here’s a story of a life told in pieces from different years and different times. They are the kind of family legends people use to remember loved ones.
Roland Mueller (he’s our hero) is working in his garage in Bellingham. A mechanic by trade, he’s also been a fireman and served in the Navy. Most people around town say he’s too honest to be a mechanic or sell used cars. But back then reputation meant a lot
A cry of “Bees, Bees” comes up from the backyard. Roland’s son, now my father-in-law, bolts for the garage. He runs like an oversized chicken. I’ve seen it. Roland thinks fast and pulls down the door just as Rickey dives inside. The windows turn black with angry insects. Roland always looked out for his family.
Decades later, after a few heart attacks and a touch of cancer, Roland stands on his son Scott’s property line, arguing with a belligerent neighbor. Against everyone’s better judgment, Roland, always tough, holds his ground.
The man once built his own boat. He was part of a generation of Americans that did things like that. He began the project in his basement. “It was a great boat,” he once told me. “Only one problem,” he added, laughing. “When it was done, I couldn’t fit it through the bulk head.”
Life takes some interesting turns. When still a young man, Roland decided he and his family were moving to Florida. The allure of palm trees, oranges, and warm weather were too much to resist for a man who was always cold. Not long after, they are down south and the kids are swimming in a pond. All seems perfect.
A man comes along and tosses a cinder block attached to a rope into the water and pulls it back in. He does this three times. Roland has to ask. “Alligators,” the man says. “Chasing away the gators.”
“We were back up in Massachusetts two days later,” Roland told me. But then he says with a smirk, “Still, you end up regretting what you didn’t do more than what you did.”
Retirement never meant slowing down. With his wife, Roland set out to “see it all.” From Massachusetts they drove everywhere you can drive, putting tens of thousands of miles on the odometer. There’s the Alaskan highway and the Grand Canyon, Nashville and San Francisco. He’s the kind of guy who would drive to Iowa to see the world’s largest ball of twine. “Why not?” he used to say.
Roland, known to everyone as Grandpa, eases back after sneaking a piece of cake. He’s supposed to be on a strict diet. This could be any holiday gathering. I watch him, one of the few people on the planet I respect. He smiles and winks at me. Grandkids and great grandkids like my son run around.
There was always a lot of asphalt ahead of Roland. As the years went on bad news from doctors became routine. He’d been down before but always rallied, ready for another trip to Disney World. So when he died last week, coming home from Florida, I was shocked. I’m sad but it seems right that he’d leave this world while traveling with his bride and only stopping when he’d reached the absolute unquestionable limit of his endurance.
I explained this to a friend and he said, “It sounds like he did it his way. I admire that.” Me too. Thanks for all the stories Grandpa.
This column originally appeared in The Sun Chronicle