3rd of 5 children of CARL JOHN CLEMENS & NOREEN ELLEN CHATFIELD
aka: ELIZABETH ANN "BETTY" CLEMENS
Died: at age 64; lung cancer
Married: Feb 1, 1958, ANTHONY LEO DUCHI, Jr., Whittier, Los Angeles Co., California
Four children:
1. private
2. private
3. private
4. John Robert DUCHI
1966 - 2017
==============
Oct 10, 2004, The Press-Enterprise:
DUCHI, ELIZABETH 12/03/39 - 10/08/04
Elizabeth Ann Clemens, age 64, was born in Watsonville, CA. to Carl Clemens and Noreen Chatfield Clemens, the third of five children. After graduating in 1957 from Willow Glen High School in San Jose, she moved to Whittier, CA. There she met her husband Tony Duchi, and they were married on February 1, 1958. Elizabeth was very well-read, enjoyed crossword puzzles, and had a passion for boating with her husband and family. Over the years they owned five sailboats and three trawlers on which they traveled extensively, including a year-long sailing voyage with their school-aged children in 1978. More recently, Liz and Tony cruised Mexico, the Pacific Northwest, the East Coast, and the Great Lakes and canals. Liz was a stay at home housewife until the age of forty, at which time she started her first of numerous businesses. Her favorite was the buying and selling of antiques, as she made many interesting friends in the process. A Fallbrook resident since 1985, she and Tony have lovingly restored their 1920's home to its era. Liz died of lung cancer on October 8, 2004, and is survived by her husband, Anthony Leo Duchi, Jr.; her four children .... She is also survived by her brother, Gordon Clemens and his wife, Marian and their children; her sister Carleen Albertson and her children; Catherine Sevenau and her children; and her sister-in-law Julie Timken and her children. She was interred at the Fallbrook Masonic Cemetery. There will be no services at her request.
==============
FINAL MIGRATION
My sister Liz knew everything about everything, and what she didn't know—she made up. Her library was lined with books from architecture, antique lamps, and art nouveau to tomes on history, the human body, and Henry VIII. She also had every field-guide on flora, fauna and all things feathered.
Liz was an avid birder and the aristocratic and ancient crane was her favorite. A "craniac," she could tell you everything about their habits and habitats, their migration patterns and courting rituals. She even recognized their mating calls. The birds inspired her, weaving their nests into her daily living. A life-size bronze crane stood sentry at her front door. A delicately feathered watercolor flew on her plaster walls. Cranes perched on her shelves, danced on her Japanese robe, and winged across her glass lampshade.
Every fall, thousands of greater sandhills streak across the Pacific Flyway, migrating in families to feed and roost in the safety of the Central Valley wetlands near the Sacramento River.
In February, Liz was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. In September, she had experimental surgery at UC Davis Cancer Clinic in Sacramento. Two weeks later she came to stay with me. Pneumonia set in and I took her back to the hospital. Three days later, she died.
Just after she took her final breath in that cool early morning, her husband Tony stepped outside to call the family. Dialing his cell phone, he heard an overhead cacophony of long drawn out bugling and clanging so loud he was unable to converse. Looking up, his irritation turned to slack-jawed wonder. A feathered cortege of two hundred greater sandhills passed directly over his wife's top floor hospital room in single and V-line formation—first one string, then another and another, necks extended, legs and tails outstretched, the slow rhythmic beating of their wings vibrating the crisp October sky, incessantly declaring: GAROOO-A-A, GAROOO-A-A.
As is their nature, the whole flock trumpets most raucously when concerned or alarmed. As was her nature, Liz was probably disturbing their flight pattern on her way out. Or maybe she was joining them on their migratory trek. Or perchance, the winged ones knew she was ready and arrived to escort their friend in style—blessing my sixty-four-year-old sister with an exquisite tribute and a final accompaniment.
==============
by Catherine (Clemens) Sevenau, Oct 2004
aka: ELIZABETH ANN "BETTY" CLEMENS
Died: at age 64; lung cancer
Married: Feb 1, 1958, ANTHONY LEO DUCHI, Jr., Whittier, Los Angeles Co., California
Four children:
1. private
2. private
3. private
4. John Robert DUCHI
1966 - 2017
==============
Oct 10, 2004, The Press-Enterprise:
DUCHI, ELIZABETH 12/03/39 - 10/08/04
Elizabeth Ann Clemens, age 64, was born in Watsonville, CA. to Carl Clemens and Noreen Chatfield Clemens, the third of five children. After graduating in 1957 from Willow Glen High School in San Jose, she moved to Whittier, CA. There she met her husband Tony Duchi, and they were married on February 1, 1958. Elizabeth was very well-read, enjoyed crossword puzzles, and had a passion for boating with her husband and family. Over the years they owned five sailboats and three trawlers on which they traveled extensively, including a year-long sailing voyage with their school-aged children in 1978. More recently, Liz and Tony cruised Mexico, the Pacific Northwest, the East Coast, and the Great Lakes and canals. Liz was a stay at home housewife until the age of forty, at which time she started her first of numerous businesses. Her favorite was the buying and selling of antiques, as she made many interesting friends in the process. A Fallbrook resident since 1985, she and Tony have lovingly restored their 1920's home to its era. Liz died of lung cancer on October 8, 2004, and is survived by her husband, Anthony Leo Duchi, Jr.; her four children .... She is also survived by her brother, Gordon Clemens and his wife, Marian and their children; her sister Carleen Albertson and her children; Catherine Sevenau and her children; and her sister-in-law Julie Timken and her children. She was interred at the Fallbrook Masonic Cemetery. There will be no services at her request.
==============
FINAL MIGRATION
My sister Liz knew everything about everything, and what she didn't know—she made up. Her library was lined with books from architecture, antique lamps, and art nouveau to tomes on history, the human body, and Henry VIII. She also had every field-guide on flora, fauna and all things feathered.
Liz was an avid birder and the aristocratic and ancient crane was her favorite. A "craniac," she could tell you everything about their habits and habitats, their migration patterns and courting rituals. She even recognized their mating calls. The birds inspired her, weaving their nests into her daily living. A life-size bronze crane stood sentry at her front door. A delicately feathered watercolor flew on her plaster walls. Cranes perched on her shelves, danced on her Japanese robe, and winged across her glass lampshade.
Every fall, thousands of greater sandhills streak across the Pacific Flyway, migrating in families to feed and roost in the safety of the Central Valley wetlands near the Sacramento River.
In February, Liz was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. In September, she had experimental surgery at UC Davis Cancer Clinic in Sacramento. Two weeks later she came to stay with me. Pneumonia set in and I took her back to the hospital. Three days later, she died.
Just after she took her final breath in that cool early morning, her husband Tony stepped outside to call the family. Dialing his cell phone, he heard an overhead cacophony of long drawn out bugling and clanging so loud he was unable to converse. Looking up, his irritation turned to slack-jawed wonder. A feathered cortege of two hundred greater sandhills passed directly over his wife's top floor hospital room in single and V-line formation—first one string, then another and another, necks extended, legs and tails outstretched, the slow rhythmic beating of their wings vibrating the crisp October sky, incessantly declaring: GAROOO-A-A, GAROOO-A-A.
As is their nature, the whole flock trumpets most raucously when concerned or alarmed. As was her nature, Liz was probably disturbing their flight pattern on her way out. Or maybe she was joining them on their migratory trek. Or perchance, the winged ones knew she was ready and arrived to escort their friend in style—blessing my sixty-four-year-old sister with an exquisite tribute and a final accompaniment.
==============
by Catherine (Clemens) Sevenau, Oct 2004
3rd of 5 children of CARL JOHN CLEMENS & NOREEN ELLEN CHATFIELD
aka: ELIZABETH ANN "BETTY" CLEMENS
Died: at age 64; lung cancer
Married: Feb 1, 1958, ANTHONY LEO DUCHI, Jr., Whittier, Los Angeles Co., California
Four children:
1. private
2. private
3. private
4. John Robert DUCHI
1966 - 2017
==============
Oct 10, 2004, The Press-Enterprise:
DUCHI, ELIZABETH 12/03/39 - 10/08/04
Elizabeth Ann Clemens, age 64, was born in Watsonville, CA. to Carl Clemens and Noreen Chatfield Clemens, the third of five children. After graduating in 1957 from Willow Glen High School in San Jose, she moved to Whittier, CA. There she met her husband Tony Duchi, and they were married on February 1, 1958. Elizabeth was very well-read, enjoyed crossword puzzles, and had a passion for boating with her husband and family. Over the years they owned five sailboats and three trawlers on which they traveled extensively, including a year-long sailing voyage with their school-aged children in 1978. More recently, Liz and Tony cruised Mexico, the Pacific Northwest, the East Coast, and the Great Lakes and canals. Liz was a stay at home housewife until the age of forty, at which time she started her first of numerous businesses. Her favorite was the buying and selling of antiques, as she made many interesting friends in the process. A Fallbrook resident since 1985, she and Tony have lovingly restored their 1920's home to its era. Liz died of lung cancer on October 8, 2004, and is survived by her husband, Anthony Leo Duchi, Jr.; her four children .... She is also survived by her brother, Gordon Clemens and his wife, Marian and their children; her sister Carleen Albertson and her children; Catherine Sevenau and her children; and her sister-in-law Julie Timken and her children. She was interred at the Fallbrook Masonic Cemetery. There will be no services at her request.
==============
FINAL MIGRATION
My sister Liz knew everything about everything, and what she didn't know—she made up. Her library was lined with books from architecture, antique lamps, and art nouveau to tomes on history, the human body, and Henry VIII. She also had every field-guide on flora, fauna and all things feathered.
Liz was an avid birder and the aristocratic and ancient crane was her favorite. A "craniac," she could tell you everything about their habits and habitats, their migration patterns and courting rituals. She even recognized their mating calls. The birds inspired her, weaving their nests into her daily living. A life-size bronze crane stood sentry at her front door. A delicately feathered watercolor flew on her plaster walls. Cranes perched on her shelves, danced on her Japanese robe, and winged across her glass lampshade.
Every fall, thousands of greater sandhills streak across the Pacific Flyway, migrating in families to feed and roost in the safety of the Central Valley wetlands near the Sacramento River.
In February, Liz was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. In September, she had experimental surgery at UC Davis Cancer Clinic in Sacramento. Two weeks later she came to stay with me. Pneumonia set in and I took her back to the hospital. Three days later, she died.
Just after she took her final breath in that cool early morning, her husband Tony stepped outside to call the family. Dialing his cell phone, he heard an overhead cacophony of long drawn out bugling and clanging so loud he was unable to converse. Looking up, his irritation turned to slack-jawed wonder. A feathered cortege of two hundred greater sandhills passed directly over his wife's top floor hospital room in single and V-line formation—first one string, then another and another, necks extended, legs and tails outstretched, the slow rhythmic beating of their wings vibrating the crisp October sky, incessantly declaring: GAROOO-A-A, GAROOO-A-A.
As is their nature, the whole flock trumpets most raucously when concerned or alarmed. As was her nature, Liz was probably disturbing their flight pattern on her way out. Or maybe she was joining them on their migratory trek. Or perchance, the winged ones knew she was ready and arrived to escort their friend in style—blessing my sixty-four-year-old sister with an exquisite tribute and a final accompaniment.
==============
by Catherine (Clemens) Sevenau, Oct 2004
aka: ELIZABETH ANN "BETTY" CLEMENS
Died: at age 64; lung cancer
Married: Feb 1, 1958, ANTHONY LEO DUCHI, Jr., Whittier, Los Angeles Co., California
Four children:
1. private
2. private
3. private
4. John Robert DUCHI
1966 - 2017
==============
Oct 10, 2004, The Press-Enterprise:
DUCHI, ELIZABETH 12/03/39 - 10/08/04
Elizabeth Ann Clemens, age 64, was born in Watsonville, CA. to Carl Clemens and Noreen Chatfield Clemens, the third of five children. After graduating in 1957 from Willow Glen High School in San Jose, she moved to Whittier, CA. There she met her husband Tony Duchi, and they were married on February 1, 1958. Elizabeth was very well-read, enjoyed crossword puzzles, and had a passion for boating with her husband and family. Over the years they owned five sailboats and three trawlers on which they traveled extensively, including a year-long sailing voyage with their school-aged children in 1978. More recently, Liz and Tony cruised Mexico, the Pacific Northwest, the East Coast, and the Great Lakes and canals. Liz was a stay at home housewife until the age of forty, at which time she started her first of numerous businesses. Her favorite was the buying and selling of antiques, as she made many interesting friends in the process. A Fallbrook resident since 1985, she and Tony have lovingly restored their 1920's home to its era. Liz died of lung cancer on October 8, 2004, and is survived by her husband, Anthony Leo Duchi, Jr.; her four children .... She is also survived by her brother, Gordon Clemens and his wife, Marian and their children; her sister Carleen Albertson and her children; Catherine Sevenau and her children; and her sister-in-law Julie Timken and her children. She was interred at the Fallbrook Masonic Cemetery. There will be no services at her request.
==============
FINAL MIGRATION
My sister Liz knew everything about everything, and what she didn't know—she made up. Her library was lined with books from architecture, antique lamps, and art nouveau to tomes on history, the human body, and Henry VIII. She also had every field-guide on flora, fauna and all things feathered.
Liz was an avid birder and the aristocratic and ancient crane was her favorite. A "craniac," she could tell you everything about their habits and habitats, their migration patterns and courting rituals. She even recognized their mating calls. The birds inspired her, weaving their nests into her daily living. A life-size bronze crane stood sentry at her front door. A delicately feathered watercolor flew on her plaster walls. Cranes perched on her shelves, danced on her Japanese robe, and winged across her glass lampshade.
Every fall, thousands of greater sandhills streak across the Pacific Flyway, migrating in families to feed and roost in the safety of the Central Valley wetlands near the Sacramento River.
In February, Liz was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. In September, she had experimental surgery at UC Davis Cancer Clinic in Sacramento. Two weeks later she came to stay with me. Pneumonia set in and I took her back to the hospital. Three days later, she died.
Just after she took her final breath in that cool early morning, her husband Tony stepped outside to call the family. Dialing his cell phone, he heard an overhead cacophony of long drawn out bugling and clanging so loud he was unable to converse. Looking up, his irritation turned to slack-jawed wonder. A feathered cortege of two hundred greater sandhills passed directly over his wife's top floor hospital room in single and V-line formation—first one string, then another and another, necks extended, legs and tails outstretched, the slow rhythmic beating of their wings vibrating the crisp October sky, incessantly declaring: GAROOO-A-A, GAROOO-A-A.
As is their nature, the whole flock trumpets most raucously when concerned or alarmed. As was her nature, Liz was probably disturbing their flight pattern on her way out. Or maybe she was joining them on their migratory trek. Or perchance, the winged ones knew she was ready and arrived to escort their friend in style—blessing my sixty-four-year-old sister with an exquisite tribute and a final accompaniment.
==============
by Catherine (Clemens) Sevenau, Oct 2004
Inscription
In Loving Memory
Beloved Wife, Mother, Sister,
Grandmother and Friend
Forever
In Our Hearts
