Nancy Whitcomb Weber
November 22, 1947 to December 29, 2009
My mother Nancy Weber came into this world in Clovis, NM. She was a late third child of Anne and Thomas Evans. When she was 2 years old, her father died in a commercial airliner crash. Her upbringing thereafter was difficult and its effects marked all of the years of her life.
When she was a teenager, she attended a Catholic boarding school popular with wealthy Mexican families. She learned Spanish while at the school and used it professionally in her work as a chemical dependency counselor.
My mother was beautiful, charming, witty and compelling. She had a formidable command of the language and depending on the situation, she used it to elevate or decimate.
My mother first met my father when she was a child. Their families lived several streets apart at the same house number and her brother Tom and my father both became geologists. When my father came back home to visit after college, they began a romance. I was born when she was 26 years old. They were divorced two years later. My mother retained custody until I was five years old. At that point, my father won custody and from my sixth year to my 13th year, I didn’t see her.
When I did, she had gotten sober and married Jim Whitcomb, the love of her life. They lived in Chelan, Washington. He was a drug and alcohol counselor and she was studying to become a drug and alcohol counselor. They were together until his death on Valentine’s Day, 1991.
My mother was a dynamic leader and though she deeply mourned his death — I was living with her at the time and was there to see how it hurt her — she eventually built an outpatient drug and alcohol treatment business and did very well. She loved her work and, I think, was relatively happy.
She remarried in 1994 and continued to work in her business and at the state level in drug and alcohol issues. She had been sober for many years at this point. During this time, she took trips to faraway places like Africa and brought back exotic artwork which she still had when she died.
In 1997, she was in a devastating head-on car crash. She almost lost her foot and had to fight her way back to walking. She was, I think, never the same after that. She and her husband, who was dealing with mental health issues, moved to Spokane. She worked as a CD counselor in a prison there and met Barbara Peterson, who remained her close friend literally to the end of her life.
My mother had a huge heart and loved animals. In whatever community she lived, she was known for this and people would seek her out when they had animals in need of care. She loved to travel and brought back art from Africa and scarves from Harrod’s in London. She lived large, well and kindly during this period, and that I will always celebrate.
After my mother divorced her last husband, she began struggling with alcohol again. Her last decade was a terribly difficult one and when she died, it was a release of sorts. She spoke frequently of wanting to be with Jim, and I pray with all my heart and soul that she’s in a better place with him now.
When she was a teenager, she attended a Catholic boarding school popular with wealthy Mexican families. She learned Spanish while at the school and used it professionally in her work as a chemical dependency counselor.
My mother was beautiful, charming, witty and compelling. She had a formidable command of the language and depending on the situation, she used it to elevate or decimate.
My mother first met my father when she was a child. Their families lived several streets apart at the same house number and her brother Tom and my father both became geologists. When my father came back home to visit after college, they began a romance. I was born when she was 26 years old. They were divorced two years later. My mother retained custody until I was five years old. At that point, my father won custody and from my sixth year to my 13th year, I didn’t see her.
When I did, she had gotten sober and married Jim Whitcomb, the love of her life. They lived in Chelan, Washington. He was a drug and alcohol counselor and she was studying to become a drug and alcohol counselor. They were together until his death on Valentine’s Day, 1991.
My mother was a dynamic leader and though she deeply mourned his death — I was living with her at the time and was there to see how it hurt her — she eventually built an outpatient drug and alcohol treatment business and did very well. She loved her work and, I think, was relatively happy.
She remarried in 1994 and continued to work in her business and at the state level in drug and alcohol issues. She had been sober for many years at this point. During this time, she took trips to faraway places like Africa and brought back exotic artwork which she still had when she died.
In 1997, she was in a devastating head-on car crash. She almost lost her foot and had to fight her way back to walking. She was, I think, never the same after that. She and her husband, who was dealing with mental health issues, moved to Spokane. She worked as a CD counselor in a prison there and met Barbara Peterson, who remained her close friend literally to the end of her life.
My mother had a huge heart and loved animals. In whatever community she lived, she was known for this and people would seek her out when they had animals in need of care. She loved to travel and brought back art from Africa and scarves from Harrod’s in London. She lived large, well and kindly during this period, and that I will always celebrate.
After my mother divorced her last husband, she began struggling with alcohol again. Her last decade was a terribly difficult one and when she died, it was a release of sorts. She spoke frequently of wanting to be with Jim, and I pray with all my heart and soul that she’s in a better place with him now.
