Opinion by Bonnie Henry: His legacy lives on

For 25 years, Lance Fairchild photographed the faces of Tucson, along with some pretty famous out-of-towners. Among them: Ronald and Nancy Reagan and U.S. Presidents George and George W. Bush.

He was the one who took the lion's share of photos, signed the portraits, carried his name on the business: Lance Fairchild Photography.

So when he died at age 48 last June following a seven-year battle with cancer, many assumed his business would die with him.

"Ten weddings were canceled. We lost $30,000 in business," says Pamela Fairchild, 38, Lance's widow and the mother of their 8-year-old son, Lance.

Also lost were a number of family portraits, traditionally shot in the fall for Christmas gift-giving. "That's down 20-25 percent," says Pamela.

Active in the business since her marriage to Lance in 1997, Pamela is determined to keep both the studio and her husband's spirit alive.

"Lance poured 100 percent of his life into this. Even when he was sick, he continued to work."

Just a month before his death, Lance Fairchild was the subject of an Arizona Daily Star profile, shooting away in his studio at 3100 N. Stone Ave.

"Lance was always upbeat. He just had a great attitude," says Pamela. "He never understood the concept of not working hard."

A quick tour through the studio bears her out. Hundreds of portraits line the walls. Outside sprawls a one-acre compound crammed with backdrops ranging from Old West to antique gas station, children's playhouse to gazebo.

"Lance was busy doing the barrio scene when he died," says Pamela.

Since her husband's death, Pamela has put out two advertising brochures and she's working on a mailing list.

Two-thirds of the weddings booked before Lance's death — 20 in all — were photographed as planned.

And she already has nine proms lined up — the same as last spring, when Lance was alive.

More than two years before his death, Lance hired photographer Taylor Anderson, who is carrying on the tradition.

"I learned the technical end of photography at the University of Arizona," says Anderson. "But all the rest I learned from Lance — the way he handled people, connected with every single person."

Lance and Pamela's connection began in the mid-1990s. It was on their honeymoon when the first symptoms appeared.

"He had some back pain," says Pamela. Two weeks past the honeymoon, Lance went in for X-rays, says Pamela. "The bones in his spine looked like Swiss cheese." Same thing for the ribs in his chest.

Four weeks later came the diagnosis: multiple myeloma.

Chemotherapy was ordered, along with the stricture: no children, since the toxic chemo could cause birth defects.

"Here I was, I could lose my husband, never have children," says Pamela. But soon, there was good news. "I got pregnant on the honeymoon."

By the time his son was born in 1998, Lance was getting ready to undergo an often-fatal stem-cell transfer. Six weeks later, he was back on the job.

But in 2000, the cancer came roaring back. "He did not let people know," says Pamela. "He had a titanium-steel rod put into his left arm where the bone had been eaten away by the cancer."

For six weeks he could not shoot. "I literally took the camera, set it up, took the shot," says Pamela.

Son Lance also gets photo credit for at least one shot. Before his father got too sick, young Lance would sometimes accompany him to work.

"He even pushed the button on one shot, and that's the one the family took because everyone was laughing," says Pamela.

After her husband's death, "a lot of customers wanted to come in and cry with me," says Pamela, who is still getting cards from charities indicating a donation has been made in Lance's name.

Ironically, some of Lance's staunchest customers may also be the ones holding back.

"A lot were so loyal to Lance it's hard for them to come back," says Pamela. "He did their portraits when they were children, then their senior portrait, wedding pictures, pictures of their children. But I know they will come back."

In the meantime, she will continue to run the business, continue to put her faith in God.

"Lance had something inside him that saw the beauty in people," she says. "His work is still alive."

Life in focus

Dorothy Finley's story

Dorothy Finley knows firsthand what it's like to take over the helm of a business after the husband has died.

When her husband, Harold, suddenly died in 1983, she was thrust into the family business, Finley Distributing Co.

The company, which distributes Miller and other beers throughout Southern Arizona, was started by the Finleys in 1948.

Although Dorothy sat on the company's board of directors, her most recent employment had been as principal of a Tucson elementary school — a job she quit just a year before her husband's death so the couple could travel.

After Harold's death, she threw herself into learning the ropes, relying on the expertise of the company's general manager.

"The best thing you can do when you have a trauma like that is get back to work," says Finley, whose company now numbers 250 employees.

Along the way, she turned down several companies who wanted to buy her out. "I wanted something to keep me busy," says Finley.

Two years ago, her son, John Finley, a physician, "decided to come down and help me," says Finley, 86, who now serves as chairman of the board.

These days, she uses the company as a springboard for sponsoring a variety of community causes, ranging from the Tucson Children's Museum to the Pima Air & Space Museum.

"You have to have a base in which to operate," she says. For her, the family business turned out to be just that.