Some places are just buildings.
Others become chapters of your life.
The Roadhouse Story
For our family, the Roadhouse was never just a restaurant. It carried work and worry, laughter and loss, risk and routine under one roof. For nearly twenty-five years, our family poured time, energy, and imagination into this place, and in return, it gave us more stories than we ever expected.
As this chapter comes to a close and the Roadhouse passes into the care of someone else’s family, it feels important to pause and remember how it was held, and by whom.
How It Became Ours
The Roadhouse began in 1997 under Linda’s care. A few years later, she was ready to step away from her lease. At the time, my parents owned the strip mall where the restaurant stands. Faced with the choice between filling an empty space or stepping into the unknown, they did what they had always done best.
They stepped forward.
In 2002, McJac’s Roadhouse Grille became part of our family’s life.
The decision wasn’t calculated. It grew out of responsibility and possibility. Once the choice was made, commitment followed fully.
Builders, Dreamers, Doers
Design came naturally to my dad. (He redid the entire strip mall and added all the landscaping! When they bought the building, it was a typical flat roof, flat front, 70s box with not a plant in sight.) In 2008, when the Roadhouse expanded, his imagination took centre stage. Every corner, texture, and unexpected detail carried his signature. Nothing about it was polished or trendy. What it offered instead was personality, warmth, and an invitation to linger.
While running a full-time property management company and a design firm, my dad still jumped in wherever the restaurant needed him. He washed dishes, changed lightbulbs, fixed what broke, and added details simply because he thought they might make someone smile.
Most Christmases, he dressed up as Santa. He built the guitar fan in the entrance. A light made from a drum tucked into a cozy booth in the retro room. Piano tiles in the lounge. He personally scoured the Lower Mainland for every vintage table and chair. Details that didn’t increase revenue, but absolutely increased character.
My mom showed up differently, but just as faithfully.
She came in every day to work in the office, doing the books, sitting in the same seat in the lounge. She roamed the restaurant, checking on regulars, straightening pictures on the walls, and keeping underage staff from setting foot behind the bar. The women’s bathroom became her space, filled with Marilyn Monroe photos she loved, some of which slowly disappeared over the years (I can’t believe what people will steal). The men’s bathroom reflected my dad, complete with a handmade countertop and a one-of-a-kind car-themed light box.
Together, they made the Roadhouse feel lived-in and loved.
A Full Family Affair
The Roadhouse was never just my parents’ work.
Family involvement took many forms. My sister, Lise, worked alongside my parents for over a decade. Brother-in-laws worked on the construction. Nieces served tables. Great-nephews bused and washed dishes. Over the years, my own kids hosted, served, and cooked in the kitchen through different seasons of their lives.
Over the years, my parents took more risks. The Roadhouse grew through many different chapters. A bakery. A cheese shoppe. A catering business. Later, a speakeasy-style room, my mom called the Copper Room. Some chapters lasted longer than others. All of them reflected who they were.
They were willing to try.
Willing to risk.
Willing to imagine more.
Through it all, the Roadhouse remained the anchor.
Holding the Story Online
My role lived mostly in the background, online.
My part in the life of the Roadhouse unfolded gradually. The first website was launched in 2002, basic but functional. A blog followed in 2006, then social media in 2007. Long before it was expected, the digital space was treated as an extension of the dining room.
I answered messages personally. I read reviews carefully, both the generous ones and the hard ones. I explained changes and shared stories honestly, always with the same goal: to make the online experience feel like walking through the front door.
Familiar.
Welcoming.
Real.
In 2022, when my mom turned 80, my niece Jana stepped up even more, as general manager, carrying the work forward with care and competence.
When an arson fire damaged the space in 2024, my husband Dave helped repaint the walls. Another quiet act of family effort in a long line of them.
Loss, Time, and Choosing a New Season
My dad passed away on February 16, 2016. Nearly a decade later, his presence is still felt in the details, the design choices, the things that never quite make sense unless you knew him.
Loss changed the rhythm of the work. After my dad’s passing, the Roadhouse offered my mom something steady to return to each day. The years that followed brought some of the hardest seasons the restaurant had known, including two arson fires and a global pandemic. Loss layered on loss.
People showed up.
Family stepped in.
Staff stayed steady.
Faithful through adversity. That’s who we have always been.
Chef turns 65, and my mom turns 84 this year.
Time has a way of clarifying seasons.
And at noon on January 14, 2026, the Roadhouse passed into the care of someone else’s family.
A Handoff, Not an Ending
This isn’t a goodbye filled with regret. It’s a handoff shaped by wisdom.
Another family now carries the Roadhouse forward, adding their own routines, memories, and meaning to a place already rich with story.
Ours will always live in the walls, the details, the people who worked here, and the community that made this place matter.
Not bad lessons for a restaurant.
Or a life, for that matter.
The image above is of my mom, sitting in the lounge of the Roadhouse, with her 13th great-grandchild. She has 4 daughters, 13 grandchildren, and 16 great-grandchildren, with one more on the way.
It’s hard to type when your screen keeps going blurry… 🥹
