Hugh Fancher Gary Fancher Khym/Pye/Venus/Elrond
Ring Dedications Groundties Dedications
Maxine Fancher, beloved friend and active member of the South King County community for the past 60 years, passed away on Sept. 15, 2002. Her unexpected death was a result of post-operative complications.
Max did it all. She bore six children, helped develop and run the family-owned business, Fancher Flyways, traveled, camped, stitched, taught school and music, flew planes...but most of all she sang. Exquisitely. Anyone touched by her lilting soprano tones was changed forever. A premier soloist of the Renton United Methodist Church choir for decades, she lifted many a heart with her sensitive renditions of such works as Suffer the Little Children and Oh, Promise Me.
Max had no time for the negative, and that joy of all life's offerings enveloped everyone who met her. But she was a realist as well. She spent years as an active member of the Juvenile Court, doing her best to help guide lost youths back to their community. In many ways, she saw the worst life had to offer, but she never let it undermine her inherent optimism and faith.
Maxine's life was a symphony of love and joy and happiness. Her children, Ted, Chip, Lynn, Jane and Roger, and grandchildren, Kim and Jeff, invite all who knew and loved her to join in a celebration of that life, this coming Saturday afternoon, Sept. 21. The memorial service will be held at First United Methodist Church in Renton, following a private inurnment. The choir will provide the music and invites all former members to join them in this tribute to one of their most faithful members. Rehearsal will be at 1:00 Saturday, prior to the services.
Memorials may be made to Wesley Homes Foundation in DesMoines, WA, the warm and generous community within a community where she spent the last years of her life.
If Max were here, she'd throw out her arms and embrace you all, and say, with that immortal twinkle in her blue eyes, "See you later!"
Obituary. Written mostly by brother Ted, with a bit of editorial assistance from yours truly
|When God created the Heavens and Earth, He needed a messenger
to explain the meaning of a Silver Lining. He must
have chosen Mom because the skies are darker since she's
gone. I don't worry, though. When the heavens are
light again we'll knowshe's back on the job.
Thinking of Mom, it was the continuing symphony of loving thoughts, caring actions, and compassionate results that stood out as her song of life. Though there were many crescendos that punctuated times of extraordinary joy, it was that never ending melody of goodness with which she so naturally filled the ordinary that I feel made my mom without equal in this world and second only to One in the next.
The value of a life is measured in many ways. If one is weighed by the gifts one gives, our mother's value was beyond estimation. She gave unstintingly of herself, physically, emotionally and spiritually, to any in need, especially to those of us privileged to grow up under her gentle, firm hand. She was an extraordinary role model, whose vocabulary was short on "can't" and "shouldn't", and long on "do it" and "try it". She left us with many, many wonderful lessons, but these are the ones I treasure the most. She conveyed the implicit message that life is about opportunity and exploration, not about boundaries and limitations.
This will teach me to procrastinate....If I were to choose a word to describe Mom (a word my siblings haven't already swiped) it would be whimsical. For all she was as grounded in reality as anyone I've ever known, a passing butterfly never failed to catch her attention. She's known for her moving renditions of Suffer the Little Children and Oh, Promise Me, but I'll remember most her voice dancing lightly over such hidden classics as The Lilac Tree, Little Yeller Dog, and one of her favorites: My Grandfather's Clock. When I visited her room last Sunday morning, I was not the least surprised to discover that her grandmother's clock had stopped at 6:20 . . . the moment she left us to join the celestial choir.
Mom: The one who was always there for us. The one who always had our interests in mind. The last word in hospitality. The encourager. Always had a hug. I think of Proverbs 31: 10-31, which begins: Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above all rubies. And ends: Give her the fruit of her hands and let her own works praise her in the gates.
Mom Fancher was the joy of all who had her in their midst. The consummate mother and grandmother she loved he family beyond compare and she loved being a part of that family no matter what they were doing. She has left us in body but will be with us in spirit always.
Maxine was laughter and kindness, unmitigated and unqualified. Firelike, she never diminished herself in sharing warmth with another. She spread her light to people she never met, and left us lucky ones her memories Maxine in the garden, Maxine on the seaside, Maxine enjoying the world. I'm one of her 'adopted' kids, and I'm forever glad of the privilege.
You are all that is
good in this world.
Love, Kim & Jeff
The above written by her children and grandchildren for the memorial program.
On December 26 I will be eighty-seven years old. There
is nothing more I want to do, even
Thus begins the personal memoirs of Hugh Lansing Fancher, a pioneer in the world of General Aviation in the Pacific Northwest. On Tuesday, March 11, 2003, a little more than two years after beginning that letter to his children, and following a long battle with deteriorating health, Hugh passed away quietly in his home in Ellensburg, Washington.
Born in Ainsworth, Nebraska, his life was that of an entrepreneurial risk-taker. From his early days on his father's cattle ranch, through the years of the depression which found him driving logging trucks in Oregon, to a stint in the Navy during the war, he displayed an independent streak which led, ultimately, to owning his own flight school on Renton airfield.
But the road to Fancher Flyways, Inc was at times the stuff of adventure novels.It began innocently enough: a welding job at Pacific Car and Foundry, a shift to Pan American's pre-war cockpits, and in 1943, when the Navy took over PanAm and its ships, Hugh went with them. As a mechanic in the Naval Air Transport Command, his flights took him all around the Pacific, from weather-enshrouded Alaska to balmy Hawaii.
Following the war, he (along with fellow dischargee, Al Knechtal) began his first business, buying up war surplus planes and certifying them for civilian use, a noble goal . . . which failed miserably. Later endeavors would prove far more successful.
From the (now extinct) Issaquah Sky Ranch, to the depths of British Columbia's beautiful wilderness to three different locations on Renton Airport, he He went to work as an airplane mechanic at the now-extinct Issaquah Sky Ranch airport. Here, and in less than a year, he at last got his pilot's ratings: Single & multi engine land, ATR Commercial in single and multi engine sea, and instructor rating in all of the above. Of his time as Sky Ranch, Hugh notes:
We were first to start fire patrol: that was flying looking for fires and dropping supplies to fire fighters on fires. Before then they used lookouts on high mountain peaks. They had started using old war planes to haul water on to the existing fires.
This exciting flying requires lots of low and precise flying, also lots of flying alone over the mountains just looking for fires and following trains, which started lots of fires climbing over the mountains.
This scouting technique is now standard across the United States and the many articles written by reporters who accompanied Hugh on some of these flights glow with praise of Hugh's piloting skills.
In 1949 Hugh went to work for Smith Aviation (owned by the Smith Brother's of Smith Brother's Dairy) on the Renton Airport. While at Smith's, Hugh attained his examiner rating for the FAA, empowering him to give federal flight tests to aspiring applicants for licences. Thanks to him, Smith (later Renton) Aviation was one of only five facilities in the eleven Western states capable of certifying pilots.
During this time, he also became the official pilot for Bill Studdert's Gang Ranch in British Columbia, moving men, equipment and visitors around the ranch's four million acres. Among those he shepherded about this largest ranch in the world were Gary Cooper and his stand-in Slim Talbot.
In the late 1950's, Hugh and Bill Studdert bought Smith Aviation and renamed it Renton Aviation. In the following years, Renton Aviation became a major player in the blossoming general aviation industry. It was a full service facility which combined aircraft sales with flight instruction, charter flights, air ambulance service, maintenance and fuel and oil sales.
At the yearly air shows on Renton airfield, Renton Aviation's (and later Fancher Flyway's) displays and free scenic flights helped introduce a whole generation to the wonders of flight. Hugh's thespian side found outlet at these shows as from cowboy to long-haired hippie, he "won" a very public free hour of "flight instruction." The instructor would, of course, be "called away," just after starting the plane leaving his "student" with his foot on the brake. Naturally, the plane would get away leading to a thrilling few moments of precision flying as the plane wove and dipped its way into the air and was, eventually, talked down.
In 1964, Hugh sold his share of Renton Aviation and went on to start his own flight school on Renton Airport. For many years, Fancher Flyways carried on the tradition of training outstanding pilots, summer Forest Service surveillance and community awareness.
Typically, when age forced his retirement from the airport business, he started a new career, returning to his first love: horses. He bred a trained a AAA racing quarter horse, and having succeeded to his satisfaction in that field, retreated to Thorp, Washington (near Ellensburg) to raise and train cutting horses, where, to no one's surprise, he both fielded champion horses and undertook a leadership role in the Northwest Cutting Horse Circles.But even the most active lives must, eventually, slow, so in his final years, Hugh developed yet one more hidden talent. Electrician, mechanic, builder, he added exquisite woodworking to his resume, turning out stunning, handcrafted wooden bowls, some of which grace various establishments in Ellensburg.
In the fall of 2000, increasingly confined to his house by stroke and a failing heart, he began his memoirs, a charming, anecdotal letter to his offspring, revealing yet another accomplishment: humorist.
When I dedicate a book, I try not to be too cryptic about why I've chosen to publicly acknowledge the individual in question, but it's really impossible to do them justice in the tiny space available. .If you have enjoyed the books, please take a moment to meet those who helped make it possible.
The Groundties Books
I submitted Groundties to Warner in the form of an acknowledged rough draft thirteen months after I started writing, and based on that rough draft, they bought the entire three book series. Over the course of the next two years, I was writing and rewriting constantly, refining those books, learning as I went along. Brian Thomsen, my editor at Warner, seemed to realize the best thing he could do for me was stay out of the way. He graciously granted me the time I needed to get the manuscripts to the point I declared them ready and then put them into schedule. One of the most frequent comments I get on my work is that it's different, that it's unlike anything else out there. If that's true, I believe part of the reason is that Brian and Carolyn between them encouraged me to find my own answers rather than to point me toward some easily accessible median.
Barclay Shaw was the artist for all three Groundties books, and I
mean that dedication very literally. He tried so hard to give me the covers I
wanted. It wasn't his fault the PTBs at Warner fouled his every effort.
Carolyn's inclusion in this dedication should be obvious. I'd never have even tried writing without her prodding, and any stumbling block I met along the way, whether it was grammatical or motivational or plotting, she was there to ask the questions that helped me find my own answers.
Finally, the bannik in the shower. Carolyn had been working on the Rusalka books during the first year I was writing. The bannik is a ... Russian bathhouse muse, if you will. You feed him vodka and he helps you predict the future or suggests answers to your dilemmas. It became the standing joke that when I was stuck, I'd go take a shower and come running out dripping, searching for a pen to start taking notes. This is not, I assure you, a pretty image. But it worked. Since I've moved away from that house (the Great Move of 1997) the new shower has just not proven quite as magical. I still find my answers, but I have to work harder to find them.
Dance of the Rings
Ring of Lightning:
and a lot less fun.
And to Betsy
The Writers' group from hell has all of three people, Carolyn, Lynn Abbey and myself. While not an officially acknowledged "writers' group", we read each others' manuscripts and subject them to very intense scrutiny. It's a bit harder, now Lynn has moved to another state, but we continue to learn a lot from one another. At the time I wrote the dedication, there were several people on the convention circuit talking with great enthusiasm about the writers' groups to which they belonged where they had all these rules for behavior...rules to which, had we adhered, we'd never have gotten anything significant done.
It's possible sweetness and light and endless "I'm OK, you're OK" bolstering is the best way for some people to prepare for daily life, though I question that as well, but published life is a whole different ballgame. In my opinion, there reaches a point at which the gloves must come off, particularly if you're writing speculative fiction about significant topics. Part of learning to be a published writer is learning to take spirit blows not only from strangers who don't care one way or the other if they destroy you, but from friends who care but for one reason or another come out with some negative observation with the power to cut to the quick because they're your friend. Rather like an overly-protective parent, if your nurturing group works too hard to protect you from their honestly held opinions they're failing to help you exercise that most necessary of muscles: true self-confidence, the kind that comes from facing the hard questions about your work and discovering you have the answers for them.
Betsy Wollheim is my editor at DAW. After my disastrous experiences at Warner, she believed in me, gave me the contract for Lightning, and even promised me good-looking guys on the cover. The original concept for the cover didn't quite work, but if you look on the spine, there they are. Deymio's not how I picture him (I'll post my sketch of him one day soon), but he's properly ruggedly good-looking, Khyel is quite, quite nice and Nikki is far more... Nikatious than anything I've ever been able to do of him.
The Ring books are a study of that very special relationship, good and bad, that develops between people who grow up under the same roof. I get tons of mail extolling the believability of the brothers', and such insights as I have into that singular dynamic come from being part of a similar, (though far from identical) one.
I am blessed with five great birth-sibs. The eldest, Gary, studied General Science back before the various special interests groups moved in and phased out the degree. He went on to teach flying, a career that ultimately took him to Alaska. Brother number two, Ted, flies for United Airlines and lives with his terrific family in the San Francisco area. Allen (Chip) builds superlative houses in the Seattle area. He taught me to drive a stick shift, to appreciate Ayn Rand and to crack the marvelous mysteries of video and audio electronics, a skill that has carried me smoothly into the computer era of the electronic 3D puzzles. My only sister, Lynn, whose phenomenal word skills kept me firmly on the art side of the creative table for three decades, teaches Biology and Genetics and Botany in the Chicago area, and last but not least, Roger, a security guard during the work day, is a wonderful amateur actor with a rich, full voice and sparkling on-stage eyes. He also writes some wonderfully demented filkish songs.
Those I've acquired along the way are somewhat more numerous in number, and their strength and friendship have given me a different mirror from which to examine the differences between extremely close and wonderful friends and birth-sibs. I will avoid trying to list them for fear of leaving someone out, but there are a handful of people throughout the world who have become very special to me thanks to Groundties, Rings, and the internet.
|Ring of Destiny
In Loving Memory:
Gary Lansing Fancher
Venus d'my Luv
Elrond the Magnificent
This was, without question, the most difficult of all the dedications to date. There were so many events that shaped me during this difficult three year period. In the end, I confined myself to those personal treasures I lost during the final year of writing Destiny, but there are many I could have added to the list.
To name the two most dear, my aunt Jan, who died after a courageous battle against cancer, and Pye, Mr. Khym's younger sister, the most beautiful silver Persian ever bred---just ask her.
Less immediately related, but part of my community family, were the victims of the Oklahoma City bombing, and the two huge tornadoes that ripped through the city during the time I was working on this book. I doubt any of us who survived these events will ever hear thunder in quite the same way.
I hope with time to add proper dedications to all the names actually listed in the book, but for now:
Gary Lansing Fancher: the eldest brother I referred to above. Below is a piece I wrote to be read at his memorial as I couldn't simply make it there in person.
Venus d'my Luv. April 3, 1969-November 17 1998. My first horse's first offspring. Her picture has been on the page from the beginning. More will appear soon. For thirty years she taught me patience and loyalty and courage.
Dustbunny. She was with us too short a time. Silver Persian with the sweetest personality you can imagine. She was a dwarf ... I don't think she ever topped three pounds, but for three years she was a breath of gentle young spirit in an increasingly geriatric household.
Mr. Khym, Carolyn's fuzzy Persian companion for 17 years. We lost him the same week I lost Venus. We'd lost half-sister Pye two years before, and Dustbunny was from the same cattery. They were all marvelous personalities and taught a confirmed snout person to appreciate how beautiful a Persian face can be.
Elrond the Magnificent. The final piece below is a piece I wrote just after he made his exit from this life. He had touched lives throughout this country, and I was glad to be able to reach most of those people through the internet. The piece has been used by more than one person to help a friend or group through difficult times. If you think it will help, please pass it on. Rondo would be glad to know he's still helping soothe wounded spirits
Gary: In Memoriam
We all make a difference, each in our own way. Some of us make lots of money, some of us raise the next generation, some make world changing policy. Most of us quietly affect each other without ever quite realizing in what manner.
Gary was a teacher. He taught me to fly. Or at least, he gave me what instruction I managed to find time for. But what he truly taught me was not to think too much. Out of that handful of hours, the event I most remember was this detailed description of how and why a plane stalls out. Before he began the explanation, I thought I knew exactly what to do: I mean, itís simple, right? Plane stalls, nose drops, you pull back on the "steering wheel", add a bit of power and the nose comes up.
But then, he explained all about airflow and speed and pushing the nose down to gain speed and....But wait! But wait! That means you add power and push the nose down, right?
Fortunately, I didnít kill us and my big brother didnít kill me once we got down.
He did laugh. Hard. And said, in effect: Donít think too much. Donít make things more complicated than they are. Good advice at the time, better advice the older I got, great advice to the maturing "editor" in me.
Gary was a teacher and a "pusher". The best kind. He loved knowledge, and dreaming. He loved to read and his joy in reading was infectious. Many of the authors who became my favorites and role models I first tried thanks to Gary.
And he was a storyteller of the old school. Manyís the night heíd entertain us with stories of his adventures. Deliveries to oil companies became Morning in Prudhoe Bay with plane tires flattened by the cold. Running out of gas became a glide worthy of Indiana Jones dodging trucks and power lines to land on an Alaskan highway. He could describe the firefighting planes swooping out of the sky to scoop up lake water in terms neither florid nor common but in a way that made you feel you were inside the plane itself, holding it steady against the shifting forces.
How much he personally experienced and how much he created was never an issue. The magic was. The humor and the excitement, the feeling of being Right There.
Gary was good at that. In the "biz", we call it view-pointing, and Gary was a natural. We tried to get him to write these experiences down, but we were never able to talk him into it. In the end, I believe his instincts were right. He was a living resource, and his stories contained a magic not meant to be trapped in a single mode of expression, but to be re-tailored for each audience.
Iím a writer now, and not, at least according to my personal belief, by some accidentóthough at the time all of the above was happening, it was the furthest career from my mind. Garyís quiet influence was part of that journey for me, and one of my greatest sources of joy (and relief) since I took up writing is that my books got Garyís official stamp of approval.
The wheel turns, the cycle begins again.
Gary, rest in joy and adventure. May your skies be cloudy enough to make the flying interesting, the wind always fill your sail before you have to start the trolling motor, and I promise you, the third Ring book will be done by summer.
Click on the lovely furball go to
Dear family and friends,
Yesterday afternoon I said a final goodbye to my old friend, Elrond. Many of you knew him, most of the rest of you knew of him. For those who don't, he was my feline buddy for 20 years. In those 20 years, the longest we were ever separated was the three weeks after he was born and before I returned home to Pullman WA to meet him.
Even then, he was mine: I was out of town when my previous fuzzy friend was hit by a car. My sister, Lynn, (everyone should be blessed with such sibs) immediately scoped out the neighborhood possibilities, learned of a calico cat about to "hatch" and knowing that calico mixes, like Siamese, usually "default" to the requisite black, claimed first dibs on any black male that might result.
There was one. The runt of the litter. He came home with us one day short of six weeks, feisty and full of pins...and for the next three months was known as "Itty Bitty" for all he'd been named "Elrond" for his beautiful, wedgy-elvish face since we saw him.
Long after his litter-mates were in full plush adult coat, Itty-Bitty held onto his kittenish size and fur...well, not exactly. It was literally wearing off on the sides when he finally started to get his adult hair---which came in first in a Mohawk down his spine. His kitten hair had been rather rough and short, his adult coat came in soft and medium length. He kept his Mohawk for several weeks before finishing the "renovation".
Again, my cat was the joke of the apartment complex. But in the end, he had the final laugh. Almost over night, "Itty-Bitty" blossomed into this incredibly elegant, beautifully coated adult cat. Never has the release of a childhood nickname been easier. One day, sis-Lynn and I just sort of looked at one another and said, he's not itty bitty any more, and that was it. I don't think before that day I'd ever called him Elrond. After that realization, "Itty Bitty" was the furthest thing from my mind.
From Scruffy Itty Bitty to Elegant Elrond to Hedonist El-Rotundo to Rondo: King of all he surveys and finally L'il 'ol man on steroids tough guy, he was one amazing cat. He traveled more than most people, being born in Pullman Wa, moving to Wappingers Falls, NY with me, then back to Seattle and finally to Oklahoma. There are very few states he didn't "see" at least as we drove through. He flew in jets and small planes, traveled in a car without any need for restraint. He made most of the trip down here to OKC sitting on the truck seat between Carolyn and me, ensconced on the "goodie" bag that held sodas and veggies---and cold packs. For all the cab was insulated, the sun was hot. He found the best seat in the house and watched the world go by.
He was good at that---at finding the most economical, most hedonistic most practical solutions for his life. As he got older and jumping became out of the question, I'd make little "stair-steps" to his favorite spots. He'd scope this out within moments of entering the room---despite his cataracts.
He was probably the smartest/canniest animal I've ever known. I never had to worry about letting him outside, never had to worry about him doing anything remotely self- or environmentally-destructive. He was aware of things beyond his immediate scope in a way I find quite unique. He---made connections, appearing to be very "into" causality.
I could relate thousands of stories---as any loving pet-owner could---but my favorite has to do with an episode that occurred in the first year we were down here in OKC.
He'd been leery of Carolyn for months. She was "owned" by the two established rulers of the house, Khym and Pye, and as such had to be approached with caution. Well, one day, Carolyn was trying to figure out the melody to a song in a book and dug out her flute (for the first time in years) as the easiest way to do this.
Elrond was...enthralled. He couldn't stay away. He approached her chair slowly, then stood on his hind legs, front paws on her lap. Finally, he couldn't stand it. He jumped up in her lap, staring...then started to pat her arm...then her mouth. She stopped. laughed and we wondered if he'd repeat the performance for the camera.
We dug out the video-cam, and sure enough, we got something like that on tape. Then we went into my office to view the tape. Foolishly, we weren't prepared for the next step, though you'd think years of living with this lad would have warned me. As we were playing the tape, Elrond came in, stared at the TV, stared at CJC, back at the TV ...then jumped up in her lap and started patting her mouth.
To the last, he trusted me completely. I could take him anywhere, do anything with him, and he never panicked or refused...well, except the one time I tried to bathe him in the bathtub....He was a favorite of every vet or groomer who ever had to work with him. Instead of cowering in his cave, he'd lean against the bars and reach out to snag the hand of those going by, drag it to him to get a pet or a scratch.
I knew when I left for World Con, to be gone for 10 days, that time was getting short. He'd been in a gradual decline for months, but seemed to have rallied this summer. Still, I worried about leaving friends with the responsibility of caring for him. But thanks to that little cheering squad and his own loyalty, he held on until I got home safely.
He was very weak when I got home, barely managing to raise his head, and his hind legs weren't working much at all. I knew he hadn't been eating properly even before I left, and he was pretty dehydrated. I took him to our wonderful vet and he gave him saline subcutaneously a couple of times. This flushed his system and by morning he was able to make his customary trek to my pillow to wake me up.
But it was temporary. We both knew that. And yesterday afternoon, after a sizable spoonful of cream cheese and a lot of loving, he went to our wonderful vet and fell asleep one last time. He was very quiet, calm, even purring as the vet found the vein. You can't go much better than that.
We buried him next to Khym, under the leaves and near the dock where he used to go and sleep on the boat as it rocked in the waves. And last night, we had our first sunset in two months---and it was a doozy. Obviously, Khym and Pye and Venus were setting out the welcoming mat.
Oh, and that song Carolyn was working out? The title was: The Cat Who Warps by Her(Him)self: a Science Fiction song about a star-hopping, galaxy-roaming cat.
I can only imagine what causality Elrond is checking out now.
Catch a few cosmic butterflies for me, old buddy.
Love to all, and more later,