Rachel McMillen

June 25, 1945- March 19, 2025

Quote from Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White:

“It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and also a good writer.”

Where does one begin to write about a fearless Aussie woman who, larger than life in every way, had more adventures than Indiana Jones, and never wore anything on her size twelve feet but flip-flops?

I met Rachel McMillen in the Guadalajara bus station in February 2014. A mutual friend, Gayle Meyers, who some of you will remember, confirmed Rachel was busing to the writers’ conference in San Miguel Allende and why didn’t we join forces? What does she look like I asked? Gayle said, “she is very tall and never wears anything but flip-flops.” And so, it proved to be. I had no trouble spotting her on a bench in front of the Subway. By the time we reached San Miguel six hours later, we were fast friends. Rachel had a gift for drawing people to her with her smile and her genuine interest in others. Everyone was captivated by her huge heart and expansive personality.

I admired Rachel for many reasons: she was an accomplished writer. She published five Dan Connor mysteries set in the Pacific Northwest and her last book, still in revision, The Colour of Love, was a literary novel set partly in Afghanistan, partly in Canada. She had a wide range of interests which included birding, weaving, and orchid cultivation.

Rachel’s life was full of drama, full of joy and full of sorrow. She met her husband of 34 years, Bud, on the wharf in Darwin, Australia. Together they sailed up and down the Pacific Coast, which gave her material for her Dan Connor mysteries. Rachel and Bud had three children. The oldest, Ben, a helicopter logger, died suddenly and unexpectedly in 1997, leaving behind two children. Among the three children, she had seven grandchildren whom she and her husband adored.

Nothing much fazed Rachel. If there was one incident that typifies Rachel’s approach to life it is being held in solitary confinement for two weeks in a Bulgarian prison until rescued by the American consulate. It is fair to say that Rachel is the only woman I know who would have survived the experience unbowed. What she couldn’t survive was pancreatic cancer. It took a vicious cancer like that to take her out.

Bud died in 2002 from cancer just as they were preparing to retire aboard their newly purchased boat. Once again, Rachel had to re-invent herself as their plan for retirement would not work solo. She decided to become a writer and move to Mexico. Rachel had had a lot of practice adapting to hardship – when she was 14 her mother died, when she married Bud and moved to Canada, and when she lost Ben.

This February, our writing group from Colima spent five days with Rachel in a rented house in Ajijic. She was having mobility problems and used a walker. Her back hurt but notwithstanding, she was cheerful, undemanding, hard-working, and fiercely independent. She planned to return to Ajijic next year, to visit old friends. Four weeks later she was dead. The Irish have an expression, “May you have a long life and a short death.” Rachel had both.

Rachel lived in Ajijic for 14 years and left a huge mark on the community. Of her many contributions she was on the Board of the Lake Chapala Society, editor of their newsletter, Connections, and taught several creative writing classes. She belonged to the Orchid Society and a dog rescue organization.

Last year, she pulled up stakes and returned to Canada to live with her daughter Virginia in Penticton, B.C. Rachel liked change and when she made a decision, she jumped in with both feet. The choice to be with her family was her last decision, another dramatic change but a successful one.

I will conclude with a fable which, as a Buddhist, I hope would please Rachel.

A Chinese emperor, depressed and grieving, bid his official poet to compose a poem for him of great happiness. The poet returned with the following:

The Grandfather died,

Then Father died,

Then Child died,

Then the Grandchild died.

The emperor was angry and accused the poet of disobedience. Then he thought about it and realized, yes, this is the way life is supposed to be. And that is mostly the way it was for Rachel. But how we miss her and the slap of those flip-flops.