He went to work as a draftsman for an aeronautics firm in Oakland. Then I was born. Then my brother. The aeronautics company folded, and he found himself waving signs at a gas station just to keep the lights on. But Jack had hustle in his bones. He saw opportunity in oil—leveraging a connection to my grandfather’s old distribution business—and built something out of nothing. In ten years they built stations, bought trucks, built a refinery. In twenty years: international crude deals and global travel. I grew up watching the world through a windshield, from hunting trips all over the world, to back-alley markets in Europe.
And then it all crashed. White collar trouble, you could call it—and dad spent a couple years “cooling off” in a federal facility out in the Mojave. But he wasn’t the kind of man to waste time. Out there, in the heat and dust, he remembered the leatherwork he’d learned as a kid at the Harry Rowell Ranch. No machines. Just hand-stitched belts, hat bands, wallets—sometimes edged with a woven seam he invented himself. His first item, a belt, was made from a rattlesnake he’d caught. He skinned it, and made a belt for the warden. That’s who my father was: “Start at the top of the food chain.”
From that belt, they gave him his own workshop where he hired other inmates to catch snakes, and made all variety of weight belts, wallets, belts, and hat bands.
By the time he got out, he was the richest guy in the place. And for the first time in a long time, we saw each other clearly. We reconciled. It was emotional. There was love under all that stubbornness. But now there were three of us out of work; dad, me and my brother. And oil wasn’t an option. So, we turned to leather.
We called our company Holland Sport, Classic Leather Cases. We didn’t know where to get a machine. Didn’t know how to sew. Didn’t even know where to buy leather. But we figured it out. We bought an old Singer machine for $600 and put it in the basement of our house. Dad stood behind us while we learned to sew. I cursed, fumbled, and sweated it out. But eventually, I got good. We cut everything by hand. Dyed hides on the floor with a mop. I still remember walking into the shop one morning and finding bird shit all over a fresh batch of dyed leather. We made gun cases, belts, and shooting bags, and eventually, travel bags.
The Origin Series is a marker. A waypoint. They tell the story of a man who built, fell, rebuilt, and taught his sons how to do the same. They are for people who go off-map. Who learn by doing. Who know that perseverance is the only real shortcut.
If anything ever breaks, tears, or gets worn down—we’ll fix it. Because legacy should be carried, not replaced.
The Origin Series. A commemoration. The reason why there’s a Mulholland Outfitters at all.