Wladislaw 'Wally' Mueller (1923 - 2016.)
We used to take long walks along the Chapman River. Along narrow tracks of clay-brown dirt, and wider, rough-hewn roads of orange gravel. Ben, the Jack Russell with a steroid problem, would yelp and bark wildly, and Grandad would command him back. And he would come, too, unless he spied a goanna. In a flash, he'd be gone, and with a deadly-quick crack and twist, so too would the goanna.
The water, brown and silvery, gave us something to follow. So we followed and explored. We walked and we talked. About swimming, and dogs, and Poland; all those little baubles of life that Grandads have in abundance, which so fascinate little boys.
On the day Grandad died, Dad reminded me just how tough Grandad's first few years in Australia were. It's one of those facts you can know, but never fully grasp. If he could have walked back to Europe, Dad said, he would have. Anyone who has spent anytime in WA's mid-west in the middle of summer knows just how brutal that climate can be. Take away the air-conditioning and running water, and add hot tin and precious little else, and imagine what kind of determination it must've taken to persevere through those kinds of challenges. I will never fully comprehend the struggle that he and Nana faced. But face it they did. I am the proof. I am here.
When I think of my Grandfather, I think of a proud man, with a proud goatee-beard, correctly known as a 'bird' in its accented incarnation. I think of a resourceful man, with a toughly-made barbecue for cooking sausages; I see clean-lined jarrah tables, made with a keen eye and raw craftsmanship. I think of emu export, whiskey, and biscuits in the fridge. Cousins at Easter, duplexes, Mistubishi Sigmas, and swimming at the river mouth.
Despite his small stature, Grandad was a tough man; toughened by a life comprised of key events beyond his control. He was a survivor, when surviving was by no means certain. He was a provider, when there was frequently little to go round. He was a man of principles, goals, restraint and discipline. A man who valued pride and respect, but who loved his children and grandchildren for who they were. He loved to dance. He loved a chat. A trip to the bookie-shop? Well, why not, eh?
The very definition of a self-made man, he was a Polish migrant from a war-torn land. They seem to be getting some unfairly bad press, lately, these immigrants. It's a bit hard to see why, if I'm honest. This one had four children: a Professor; an Electrician; A Navel Seaman; A Teacher. And he had nine grand-children, amongst them: teachers, a ferry-driver (amongst other things!), a journalist, farmer, a psychologist, musicians, a dancer, technical innovators, and whatever it is Nick Mueller actually does. And great-grandchildren. So many! Eleven and counting. He loved them all. The future is flourishing, because the foundations were strong.
Grandad and me, we followed the river. We didn't choose its path. We saw lots of things along the way, and we talked and laughed together. This is the Granddad I will remember. And the story of the man above; that's the one I will try to honour, with the life I am so lucky to lead.
And I'll miss him. Because he was my friend.
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