Being born into the Bolner family is a unique experience. My grandfather founded Bolner's Fiesta Products in 1955. A smashing success of a business, but also a man driven to build a large family. To this end he had seven children. I am the third child of the fifth child. I am one of eighteen grandchildren. I am the only one named after my grandfather, Clifton. A unique blessing that I cherish.
Clifton Bolner passed away earlier this year, January 10, 2023. Fortunately after his passing I was able to take a paternity leave — and amidst the hellfire and pace of a startup life with two kids under the age of three, I was able to reminisce about him, but also the direct impact of this man on my life.
He left an impossible legacy to live up to. Successful in business, successful in family, successful in philanthropy, and successful as a husband. There wasn't a person he could not befriend, a sale he couldn't close. "Always talk to people on the phone, so you can hear their tone... that's where the truth is," he would say. During afternoons in high school I had the opportunity to work for him and my uncles in the factory. The smell of spices permeating my clothing, the smell of garlic powder reminding me of his wisdom to this day — and the sweat of minimum wage.
Five of his children worked for his business at the time of his passing. He was checking invoices and reports even while his body failed him. He was thinking, and as a Roman Catholic, praying for his family daily. Waiting for our call so he could hear the latest news. His joy in meeting our daughter, and his joy in learning we would have a baby boy.
I had the fortune to call him and share my own struggles with growing TestFit. He was aghast that we would raise $22M to build technology the world had never seen on little more than a whim and a prayer. His advice was normally curt and clear. He helped me to feel secure in my decisions, but was also quick to question them. He was a singular force. Like gravity or inertia. A universal law that an empire grew around.
Growing up I didn't think it strange to stand at a table and pack dozens into bags, and then pack those bags into boxes, and then pack those boxes into pallets. It was the family business. I certainly didn't love doing it, but it taught me what minimum wage meant, and how hard real hard work is. I remember the delight of him finding me in the plant to mercifully take me to lunch — often pimento cheese sandwiches on Butterkrust bread.
When starting my career, he was the model to me. A singular man able to do everything with absolute competence. As I failed and failed, I learned that I had a lot to learn. I played to my strengths, and to the strengths of my co-founder. I ignored improving my weaknesses.
In my early thirties, I am blessed to have his name, but also blessed to have my own journey — built with a co-founder, investors, and a board of directors that keep me accountable, a bulwark around my own weaknesses. I am not a singular force. I am not gravity. Popo, I love you, and I miss you. I miss your gravity.
Missing the man is one thing, but after the past several years of full time labor bringing a vision to reality, I wish I had asked the man one simple question: "How did you run a founder-led business for 65 years?" I know his answer is simple: God and Family. Thus I bring myself to the end of this post and ask myself one question: What could I do with TestFit if we continue to grow for the next 59 years?