Canzano: A skyscraper of a life

Brandon Hellervik always came up big.

Brandon and Carrie Hellervik in Seaside.

Brandon Hellervik owned and operated a successful crane company. We became friends years ago, stayed in touch with frequent texts and occasional calls, and met a few times a year to catch up.

“Groovy” is a word he used often.

Years ago, Brandon and I were sitting in the Starbucks at the PacWest Center in downtown Portland. He looked up in the lobby of the 30-story building on SW 5th Avenue and said: “You know, we built this thing; our cranes erected this skyscraper.”

The guy always came up big.

Brandon and his wife, Carrie, ran High Caliber Millwrights and Crane Services. They also sponsored a line of local charities and had a soft spot for kids. He liked to send text messages wishing me “Happy Thanksgiving” and “Hope you enjoy Father’s Day my friend.”

By now, you’ve probably picked up that I’m talking about Brandon in the past tense. He died last weekend at the age of 52. He’d been diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer in late March and given six months to live. He didn’t tell me. And Brandon only made it a couple of weeks before he suffered a stroke that took his life.

Carrie, Brandon’s sixth-grade crush, told me: “This was all very sudden and absolutely devastating for me.”

I’m heartbroken for his family. Brandon loved them and spoke frequently about their milestones and accomplishments. He loved celebrating holidays, making anniversary plans, and attending family birthday parties. We all wrestle at times with work-life balance, but Brandon had it down.

At Thanksgiving in 2019, he joked via text message: “Doing my first turkey and prime rib. I hope Domino’s Pizza is open.”

In June of 2020, he wrote: “Sometimes I want my kids to return to little ones. Our girl is going to be a senior in high school this year and our son is having a daughter in late August. Cherish these times brother!”

Then, in September, he provided an update: “Hey brother, wanted to let you know Carrie and I are grandparents… baby girl… Jasmine!”

He loved becoming a grandfather.

Brandon loved the Kansas City Chiefs, too. The NFL franchise won him over as a kid during the Derrick Thomas era. I root for the 49ers. When our teams met in the Super Bowl for the first time a few seasons ago, he suggested a friendly wager.

“My Chiefs vs. your Niners… $10 straight up?”

When I handed him the $10 bill Brandon was giddy. He folded it, placed it in his wallet, and said he might frame it. As we parted ways that day he said: “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of sports expert?”

Brandon faced obstacles, sure. He limped, badly at times. When I asked him about his gait once he brushed me off and mumbled something about one leg giving him problems. We never spoke of it again. He didn’t like ruminating on negativity.

In the summer of 2022, Brandon informed me that he was going in for eye surgery. He’d gone legally blind in his right eye. Surgeons tried to help by removing some blood vessels, but it didn’t help. Amid the issue, Brandon never complained to me. Not once. And when I’d bring it up and ask him how he was, he brushed me off.

“I’m doing great,” he’d say, even if he wasn’t.

Did I mention that Brandon is a terrible golfer?

Maybe the worst I’ve ever seen.

Don’t worry. He’d laugh if he read this. His High Caliber-sponsored team played in our annual Bald Faced Truth Foundation Celebrity Golf Tournament. The 501c3 organization helps children participate in art, music, education, and athletics programs. Brandon and Carrie never missed the tournament.

He would put together a foursome and play. She would bring a dozen (or more) close friends, put up tents, play music, sit on their sponsored hole, serving cold beverages. The Hellervik tee box turned into a festival of joy and humanity.

One year, my foursome arrived at that hole to find Brandon still standing there alongside Carrie, slapping backs with friends and telling stories. The rest of his teammates were 200 yards ahead in the fairway, shouting at him to catch up.

Brandon texted me one year during the golf tournament: “I think you should put up a trophy for the team that has the most lost balls.”

The Shoe Mill stores heard about this and decided to start a fun tradition. They now gift free shoes to the foursome with the worst score. Guess what? Brandon’s team may have been consistently terrible in the annual scramble, but it owns a closet of stylish footwear.

“My last-place team loves those shoes,” he told me.

Brandon believed in the good of people and often moved to help others before they asked. I heard a story this week on that front. A couple with a young child was going through a contentious divorce. It was messy. There were court dates, restraining orders, and lawyers involved. Brandon and Carrie were family friends, and when Brandon heard the mother was struggling he reached out.

“He treated me like family,” the woman told me on Sunday. “They were a constant place of refuge. He’d have taken us in and let us live with them if it came to that.”

Brandon had no use for nonsense.

Particularly with a child involved.

Another story involves a distressed local business. A few years ago, Brandon heard a mattress store was going under. He didn’t know a thing about the mattress industry, but stepped in as an investor to keep it afloat. He lost money on the deal, and chalked it up to “a lesson learned.” But this is who he was.

What lesson comes from a life that ended too soon? I ask myself that when I see a news story about a young person dying. Brandon made his 50s but had more to offer the world. I’m sad he’s gone. But he was a man who lived deep and sucked the marrow of life. You know, like Henry David Thoreau told us to do.

The PacWest Center is home to the radio show I’ve hosted for the last 17 years. I now work from a home studio built before the pandemic, but Brandon got a kick out of knowing that 750-AM’s signal originates from that skyscraper his cranes raised toward the clouds.

The crane company became the title sponsor of the show a few years ago. To this day, the opening of every radio show announces: “…from the PacWest Center… presented by High Caliber Millwrights...” I asked Brandon once why a crane company wanted to sponsor a sports radio show. After all, he’s not selling heavy machinery to the public.

“I know,” he told me, “but I want my employees to hear it and feel a sense of pride.”

He always came up big, that guy.

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