Remembering Peter Mills 

Beyond Just the Facts

Peter Mills, age 81, died peacefully Sunday, August 25, 2024 at his home in Holley, NY after a long illness. Born in New York City, to the late John and Betty Mills, Peter grew up in Rochester. After serving in the U.S. Coast Guard and attending art school, Peter returned to the Rochester area where he spent the rest of his life. This is how the obituary began (https://www.democratandchroni…) that appeared in the Rochester paper, The Democrat and Chronicle. It did not tell the whole story, for it is just the facts.

When I last visited Peter before he passed away, he tasked me, his cousin, with producing a suitable memorial for him. The goal was to  provide a well-rounded picture of Peter by editing together memories from friends and family  that might offer a more thorough picture of Peter -- a fun person, gifted artisan, successful businessman and the host of over thirty family Thanksgivings.  Once solicited, the memories poured forth. Some memories were serious and others funny, all clearly showed Peter's impact on the writers' lives. The voices were authentic and moving. The memories are given here, as they were submitted. Read on and see the Peter we knew and loved. If you would like to add your memories in your own voice feel free to submit them under the Memories tab.

From Janet  (JL) Mills, Peter Mills’ wife of 43 Years

Some of my fondest memories:

Peter’s gestures could be big or small but even the small were no less significant.

Falling in the big category was the billboard he had put up for me for our first Valentine’s Day. We drove into Rochester together at the time. And there bigger than life was this billboard to: Janet Lee (Chubby) My Valentine Love, Peter.

Or the time on one St. Patrick’s Day when he brought me a big white mum with a little green center and said it was for the little bit of Irish in me.

He also did things for others like the time he paid for a paved driveway for one of our employees or the time he paid for an overhead garage door for one of his closest friends.

Peter also loved coming up with nicknames for people. I can still remember when Peter first met my mother and as he was calling me Chubby, my mother looked at me and I just shrugged. (I was all of 117 pounds at the time. I guess his girlfriend before me was 105).

Some of the nicknames he had for friends and co-workers were Bullwinkle, Chipmunk, Pinhead, Bitsy-Boo, Lulabelle and Guinevere.

Family and friends were extremely important to Peter. He was always very supportive and loyal to those he loved.

He Loved his home and the life we made with our 4-legged fur children.

Peter was always looking for better ways to do things and he could visualize how things should be which was the qualities that made life easier in many ways and also why Ridge Road Station was such a success.

From John Mills, brother of Peter Mills:

I loved Peter because he was always around when I needed him. Even though I was older he would protect me. I miss him so much.

Peter had a voracious appetite. He would go to our neighbors’ houses and complain he was starving and they would give him chocolate bars or cakes. Mother was furious because it looked like she could not provide for her son. When Suzanne was cooking for Thanksgiving he would go to the fridge and eat half of what she had bought and she would yell at him and call him a MillsMan.

Peter started tickling me when we were both very young. He was always stronger than me and I was helpless, rolling on the ground, and he knew it. When my brothers and I had to stand together, tall and straight, for family photos, at the crucial minute Peter would always tickle me. He tickled me all my life, even when we visited him about three months ago and he was dying. Tickling is probably my strongest memory of Peter.

Peter was very good at metalwork and pottery. At school he made a huge pottery pig that sat in the classroom. When he had to leave school no one wanted the pig so he pushed it out the window, three stories high, and it smashed on the ground with all his schoolmates laughing. As with everything else in Peter’s life, most of the pottery bowls he made were also huge; his bowls have been used at every family Thanksgiving.

Peter was not academically minded and did badly at school. But business wise everything he did worked, and he was a shrewd businessman.

JL was the right person for Peter. They didn’t have kids, but they always had lots of dogs, big dogs.

Reminiscences from Suzanne Crowe, Wife of John Mills, Peter's Brother

I first met Peter and Janet in the mid 1980s. I was working at San Francisco General Hospital for a few years. They flew to San Francisco for the weekend. It was early in my relationship with John and I was nervous about meeting his family. The four of us were to have dinner together and I booked a restaurant. Peter walked up to us at the front of the restaurant, boomed “hello little girl” and lifting me high in the air, swung me round and round. We walked inside; it was a sushi bar. Peter looked at the menu and exploded “the hell, what is this shit”. I suggested we try a few things anyway but after one look at the plate of sashimi Janet went to the bathroom and threw up.

When I think of Peter so many stories come to mind. And Janet is part of all of them. It is still hard to believe that he won’t be at this Thanksgiving. I have never known a Thanksgiving without Peter. He would always collect John and me at Rochester airport, park illegally at the front entrance, jump out of his car and swing me around in circles, and then pick up John and swing him around as well.

The first time I celebrated Thanksgiving with the Mills family was in the late 1980s in the old house. We would gather out on the balcony if it weren’t snowing and drink sparkling shiraz in Peter’s crystal glasses. I think there were five mastiffs and a couple of rottweilers, all drooling and sprawled across the kitchen floor. And family. While cooking we would take giant steps over them to reach the oven or the sink. The cat was permanently in hiding.

Peter would get up early on Thanksgiving morning to put the turkey in the oven and make a Peter-sized bucket of stuffing. Maybe a dozen packets of dried bread pellets, God only knows how many jars of dried herbs and seasoning mix, onions, celery and water. I could never convince him to use fresh herbs so instead I would make an “alternate stuffing”.

Peter was in every way larger than life. And so were his turkeys. I used to tell my friends in Australia that we were eating a 40+ pound turkey. They were in disbelief. And when I said how tender and juicy it was that convinced them I was lying.

Those Thanksgivings were never complete without Peter pulling out a bottle of  Rumple Mintz, his deadly 100% proof headache-in-a-bottle where one sip would hit you like a truck. I quickly learned that if I rejected the offer, firmly, he would then pour me a glass of cognac or single malt whisky.

Thanksgiving lunch was always followed by a ritual: in the early days we would visit the toy store, seeing the latest train track that had been laid, with its beautifully crafted stations and trees, and coming away laden with wonderful Christmas ornaments. A second ritual was to go for a stroll in the snow, accompanied by dogs, with Michael leading the charge. We would head down the next road off Ridge Road West; now we walk around the lake. As he got older Peter liked this interlude as a quiet time for himself, using the excuse that he wanted to do the dishes.

Peter loved secrets. When his brother John was turning 60 Peter and JL flew to Australia to surprise John on the day. I had booked out a small Italian restaurant and invited thirty friends and my mother and sisters. Peter and JL went straight from the airport to my sister Helen’s home where they hid out until it was time for the surprise. We had decided on them making an entrance an hour after everyone had sat down for the meal. A few seconds before their arrival we silenced everyone by turning the CD player to high volume and blared out the Beatles song “They say it’s your birthday”. Then Peter and JL strode into the restaurant roaring “Happy birthday” and John was completely overwhelmed. Ten minutes later Christina (John's daughter) did the same, and then it was John's son Jason’s turn.

Peter’s Harley was always part of his life. He and Michael (Peter's brother) would do road trips together. Seeing Peter dressed up in his black leather jacket, leather vest, jeans, knuckle-duster rings, black leather belt, bespoke leather boots, and flowing beard was a terrifying sight. He convinced my mother Joanie to get on the back of his Harley, pillion-style, and go for a short ride with him.

One of the most lovable and memorable things about Peter was his generosity. He would give you the shirt off his back. And he noticed, oh indeed yes he noticed, when others were “tight” and generosity was not reciprocated. Peter was a straight shooter, you knew straight away if he liked something or someone, or of he didn’t.

Helen Crowe, sister of Suzanne Crowe Adds More Memories:

My sister Suzanne brought a taste of America into the lives of the Australian Crowe family when she married Peter’s brother, John. Suzanne was warmly embraced by the Mills family, and fell in love with Thanksgiving, traditionally hosted by Peter and JL. Suzanne was keen for the Crowes to experience this amazing celebration.

I was the next Crowe who could come to Holley, arriving at about 11pm after a very long flight from Melbourne, Australia, and a bit apprehensive about joining so many people I had never met. All concerns were immediately dispelled when I was met at the airport by Peter, picked up in a huge bear hug and swung around! What a welcome! The next few days were an amazing blur of activity, cooking, dogs, people, and updates on the size of the turkey. Peter oversaw the whole thing with amazing humour and a steely eye. I was so touched that he had found a very special bottle of Grange Hermitage, a treasured Australian wine, which he opened to welcome me! Then we did a late evening visit to the incredible Christmas store! It was the most wonderful introduction to the Mills family, and I also fell in love with Thanksgiving.

It was the first of quite a few Thanksgivings I came to, and Peter and JL always made me feel so incredibly welcome. Happily, another sister Judy, and our mother Joan also had the chance to experience a Mills Thanksgiving, with Peter terrifying us by putting Mum on the back of his Harley and taking her for a spin around the property. Mum loved it! And she and Peter became great mates.

I am so thrilled I had the chance to spend time with Peter and JL over the years. We kept in touch in between Thanksgiving trips with face time calls and cryptic emails from Peter. He has a very special place in the heart of all the Crowes.

From Another Side of the Family

From Peter’s cousin Amanda Watlington:

Remembering the Fun Guy and the Big Yellow Fungus

As my siblings grew up, we sought out opportunities to get to know our three cousins. One encounter still many years later brings a smile to my face. Here’s how it went down. Between my freshman and sophomore year in college, my eldest cousin, John Mills, got married in Massachusetts. We were invited to the wedding. It was a beautiful June wedding. My sisters and I very much enjoyed socializing with my cousins.

The middle brother, Peter, was the fun guy. At the time of his brother’s wedding, he had just finished his service with the Coast Guard and was returning to civilian life. The adjectives large, boisterous and fun-loving would all apply to him. We got along famously for the rest of his life. He was always the fun guy.

After serving in the military, Peter decided to go to art school. He was very talented. As a teenager he did very intricate glass enamel on copper craft work. He chose to go to art school in New York and while exploring his options came and spent about a week with my family. It was riotous. He was so big and strong that we could playfully pick me up with one arm and my younger sister, Maura, with the other.

He was also incredibly helpful. My mother asked him to vacuum the downstairs. The vacuum cleaner was a torpedo-shaped, drag-along Electrolux. My cousin made fast work of the task, startling my mother by asking what he should do when the vacuum got too hot to hold comfortably. My mother was quite concerned until she realized that my bearlike cousin had simply tucked the entire vacuum under his arm instead of leaving it on the floor and dragging it along by its hose. Both parties were relieved when she explained the usual mode of operation.

The visit was not all housework and hijinks. One afternoon my two sisters, Maura and Evadne, rode along with Peter and me in my VW bug. I don’t recall why or where we were going, but I do remember the ride. As we were rolling through the New Jersey backroads, Peter spotted a tree with a large sulphury yellow fungus growing on it. The fungus was huge and very bright yellow. He asked me to stop so he could look at it. I pulled over, and he jumped out and took off into where he had seen the big yellow fungus. Expecting him to return in a minute or two after looking at the fungus – no one else exited the car. Imagine my surprise when he returned with a piece of fungus approximately two feet tall and two feet wide. He wanted to take it with us for further examination.

Getting the fungus back to my parent’s house presented no small challenge. My very large cousin took up the entire front passenger’s seat. The fungus was too tall and fragile to fit in the front under the bonnet of the VW. We decided to put it in the open compartment directly behind the rear passenger seat. This was an awful decision. My two sisters were riding in the back seat. The fungus was malodorous and perfumed the car quickly. There were no rear windows to open, and even with the front windows fully open, the smell was pungent. My sisters leaned forward to gasp air from the open front windows. Unfortunately, this put their weight just right to set off fireworks at every bump along the way as the rear seat springs sparked against the battery. The bug had many idiosyncrasies and this was one of the most shocking.

The ride home felt very long, but my cousin enjoyed a merry time sketching the fungus once we got it home. My sisters were not pleased with the trip and were more than a little surly about the fungus. It seems for the rest of our lives Peter was always the fun guy. I will miss his zest for life and the fun.

From Malchus Watlington, Peter’s cousin by marriage:

Remembering Peter Mills

Recently, I saw an advice column that said, “everybody needs a friend they should probably not be allowed to sit next to at a serious function.” In my case, this was Peter Mills.

Family dinners with my wife’s family were joyous and chaotic affairs. Way too many pre-prandial cocktails were consumed prior to the arrival of any food. Major kitchen preparation took time, particularly at holiday dinners, so 3-4 pm was a typical starting time for the midday meal. By the time folks got to the table, the conversation level reached high decibel levels, with one family member or guest shouting over others in an attempt to be heard.

At one memorable dinner, I was seated next to Peter. Directly across the table, sat an unnamed guest, who wore clothing that could barely contain her ample bosom. She was seated in full view of Peter and myself. He looked at the overly-endowed dinner companion, mouth open and eyes bulging. I made the mistake of turning to look at Peter, trying to find out what had him so fascinated.

Catching my eye, Peter leaned over and asked me “How do you think she keep’s em up? Awning chains?” I followed his gaze, and immediately got what he was saying. Our laughter was simultaneous, loud and uncontrolled. Other members of the family started to glare at us, which only got us going again, even louder. For Peter and I, disapproval only acted as an accelerant.

This was not the only occasion when Peter and I were put together at a gathering, not a great idea. At my mother-in-law's burial, Peter, Amanda and her sister Christina and I shared a car to the cemetery. Peter and Amanda took this occasion to remind her much older sister that she was now not only an orphan (which Christina had not grasped until that sad moment), and the oldest living member of the family. She was visibly horrified, and once again, Peter and I looked at each other and started laughing. What we were not aware of was that we had arrived at the cemetery, and that when the funeral car door swung open, we began spilling out of the car, still laughing at a most inappropriate moment. Once again, disapproving glares from the rest of the funeral party followed us as we made our way to the grave site.

I miss Peter. He did not need anyone’s permission to be himself. In so doing, he freed those around him to act authentically, not take themselves or others too seriously and to see the humor in everyday living. That was his gift, and the gift he gave freely to those who knew and loved him.

From Evadne Giannini, Peter's Cousin:

On August 25th, a strong wind swept through Holley, New York, and took down a giant of a man. It wasn’t a gradual fall, like the deliberate cutting of a tree; it was more like a tornado, ripping the tree from its roots in one powerful motion, leaving behind a gaping hole. Now, as a family, we stand staring into that void, knowing it will never be fully filled.

Peter was larger than life, both in stature and in spirit. His warmth and ability to connect with anyone made him irresistible to be around. A conversation with Peter left you feeling truly heard, as if you mattered, and his compassion created a rare energy that drew people to him.

When Peter found a connection point with someone, he nurtured it into a lasting bond. As a child, I teased him with endless questions about the guppy babies in his aquarium—how he kept track of them, how he counted them. Little did I know Peter’s fascination with inventory would become a defining trait.

At his plumbing supply job, Peter naturally took charge of keeping inventory in order. Later, during his buying trips for Ridge Road, we bonded over our shared frustrations about supply chain issues and fulfillment concerns. Peter’s knack for seeing details to create a bigger vision was evident. I still remember the day he discovered personalized keychains. He recognized them as a perfect impulse buy but was hesitant—worried about reordering the popular names and being stuck with unsellable ones. Over coffee in the park, we worked through the inventory logistics. His instincts were right; the keychains sold well.

Peter’s approach to family was much like his view on inventory—every piece mattered. When he and JL decided to bring the family together, his meticulous attention to detail shone through. He understood that family unity wasn’t just about the shiny highlights; it required everyone, even the smallest pieces, to come together. Peter made calls, compiled lists, and ensured no one was left out.

Some 28 years ago, this commitment birthed our family Thanksgiving tradition. Every year, Peter fretted over who would attend. Around mid-October, I’d get the call: “What’s the count? What do you know?” Once pecan pie became my contribution, our conversations got serious. He told everyone about the pies. One year, I delivered ten pies the day before Thanksgiving. Another year, he sent me a five-pound bag of pecans with a note: “For the pies.” The same happened with the chutney—how many quarts would we need?

Our October-to-November calls became a cherished tradition for us, brimming with anticipation and planning. The pandemic disrupted this rhythm, and two years without the family gathering weighed heavily on Peter. In 2022, we reunited, veiled in the sadness of family loss. As the cracks in our family vase began to mend, I reflected on the Japanese art of kintsugi—where broken pottery is repaired with gold, transforming it into something stronger and more beautiful. Our family, too, found strength in shared resilience.

By 2023, joy had returned to our reunion. Peter’s October calls resumed. This time filled with plans for a special toast. True to form, he turned the ordinary into the extraordinary, taking Sam and Leo on a memorable spin around the ponds while we prepared the surprise.

In early August, Peter left me a voicemail. I couldn’t take the call immediately, but we connected a few days later. That conversation lingers with me. He shared his physical state, trusting I would understand the fragility of the situation. We had both faced death and understood the profound weight of burdening loved ones with the realities of a deteriorating body.

As we ended our conversation, Peter mentioned he was making calls—a personal inventory of over 200 people. He didn’t feel they needed to know what was happening to him; he simply wanted them to know they mattered and that he was thinking of them.

Now, as I peer into the void left by Peter’s absence, I marvel at his grace. In his final days, he didn’t retreat—he reached out. I’ve kept Peter’s last voicemail. Occasionally, I replay it, letting his voice remind me of his love and loss. “Hey Vod, it’s Peter. Call me.” If only I could.

From Leo A. P. Giannini, Evadne Giannini’s Son:

Peter’s memories keep sneaking up on me—the slot machine, the pups, the store, Rebel, seeing family, finding excuses to use his newest switchblade and then (to my mother’s anxiety) getting one in the mail, that crazy-looking rubbers poster in the garage that I didn’t understand until I was about 17, the smell of cooling turkey in the hallway where Peter would come out and grab a quick finger snack after dessert.

In the final year, especially as Michael (Peter and John’s brother) was dying and then as his own time was coming, he’d call me to “talk business.” We would dance between stories of my day, Ridge Road memories, and family. Suzanne gave him back his brother; Michael was “a smart shit” and, as summer turned to fall, “a tough shit,” Amanda “knew her shit,” and Emma was “good shit.”

The business—the “fun shit”—is the part where, for me, although the planet is gone, the gravity remains. It’s that image of Peter sitting at the table, surrounded by a mountain of Q4 invoices and catalogs, and JL coming in to talk numbers Friday evening after the first true day of Christmas shopping. The optimism and trust in your vision and your partner required to tamp down that stress while hosting a family too smart to fool must have been monumental. Peter and JL gave me a sightline for what a good partnership looked like and what family support looked like. I miss him like crazy and am so grateful to have been allowed a glimpse.

Not Just the Family

A former customers wrote this lovely note to JL on Peter's passing. He will be missed:

She writes:

Very few men are larger than life…like those who have a vision and then act on it for the benefit of others. Your husband was one of those men. From my understanding he was an honorable and principled man, and an asset to our community.

I met him only once, briefly, while shopping at Ridge Road Station many years ago with my young sons in tow. We had a lovely chat and he seemed truly happy that we loved the store. It was our go to place for gifts locally, and I was thankful when it opened. The impact the store had on the community and wider western NY area was incredible.

My husband who died 12 years ago, visited the store often and was inspired to make a huge train layout. It brought us great joy in the creating and there was never a shortage of ideas after a quick visit to the store.

You must know how many people have been and are touched every single day when they pass that great big flag waving brightly….we all knew someone important had passed when it began flying at half-mast, and everyone was so sorry to hear it was your husband. Many prayers were lifted for you and those who loved him.

A future without a spouse is not something anyone can prepare for, and I pray that you have loved ones to share your grief and the wonderful memories. If it brings any comfort, know that there are many unseen faces sharing in some small way your loss.

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