Helen Ann Jones

Helen Ann (Holzhueter) Jones, age 83, hung up her well-worn gardening gloves for the final time on Tuesday, February 3, 2026. She approached each day of her life with an unshakeable joy in living life to the fullest, particularly in the year since her diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.

If you knew Helen, you knew sunshine. You knew the warm laugh as she shared her stories, the strong hands that could coax beauty from stubborn soil, and the spark in her eyes that promised adventure: up a mountain, down a river, or into a patch of untamed wildflowers. Before you read on, take a moment to hear her voice in your head one more time. A few years ago, she wrote down this recollection in her own words:

“Harmon liked to recite different poems from memory, or sometimes he would look in his college literature book for poems and read them out loud. We were married 20 years or so when he first revealed a poem that immediately affected me. It is my favorite and the only poem I can recite today. He said it was a poem his dad would recite to his mother, and he felt it had deep meaning. Five years after his death, I found a copy of the poem in a box of his dad’s things. I still feel nostalgic when I think of the picture in my mind the first time I heard it.

Deep in the garden of my heart

I found a flower that grew apart

A flower that glistened with the dew

Of love and friendliness for you;

Someway I thought that you might care

To know I found that flower there.

from the writings of James W. Foley”

Helen’s story began on a Wisconsin farm, mentored by her Aunt Sally, she showed cattle and sewing projects at the fair and won a coveted place on the queen’s court of the State Farm Bureau contest. But she always set her sights on a career in nursing, so off she went to Methodist Hospital for her diploma program to become an RN. Upon completion of the program, she embarked on a working tour of the world, traveling first to Seattle followed by a planned stint at a hospital in Germany. Her plans changed when she met a debonair mountain climber in Washington, Harmon Jones, who convinced her to marry him and settle permanently near the Cascades.

Helen shared many adventures with Harmon’s sons, Edward and Blake: hiking, climbing, camping, and canoeing through the wild corners of western Washington. The journey grew richer after her daughter Annalisa arrived, and Helen juggled her nursing career, growing family, and a small business sewing custom tents for alpine travelers.

The call of the north beckoned and Helen and Harmon started to explore river travel. On their first attempt down the Stikine River, disaster struck. The canoe overturned in the silty rush of water, and the pair were swept onto a lonely sandbar in the middle of the river. They spent days there, cold and stranded, waiting for rescue with nothing but a few wild onions to calm the hunger pangs. Helen used the time on the sandbar to craft a willow basket, creating a positive souvenir instead of a dark memory. Most people would have walked away from river travel forever, but Helen saw the experience as part of the story. She returned again and again to northern British Columbia and the Yukon, exploring those remote landscapes by canoe, raft, and rugged backcountry roads.

Hungry for space and a more rural lifestyle, Helen and her family moved to Samish Island, where she could have a little ranch and raise poultry, livestock, and produce. She also started work at St. Joseph’s Hospital, where she built a tight community of friends (including the Dream Team) who were her partners in late-night mischief racing gurneys and dressing up for holidays. Missing some of that tight camaraderie and adrenaline, Helen joined Samish Island’s volunteer fire department after retirement, continuing to help people when they needed it most.

After Harmon’s passing, men at every gas station stopped to tell her how awesome her VW camper van, Heinrich was. She teamed with her niece Heidi Judd, daughter Annalisa, and several classmates to gather memories like wildflowers on winding journeys through western Canada and the blue highways of America.

Even during the pandemic, when the world shrank, her garden grew into a riot of blossoms and produce tended with young gardeners she mentored, culminating in a spectacular wildflower picnic with 80 guests for her 80th birthday and thousands of pink and red poppies that stopped traffic during her final summer.

Helen was an effervescent and positive presence for those around her. She loved that her granddaughter Holly came to stay with her during the pandemic, and was excited for each performance her grandson Kai was in. She had a close cadre of friends who supported her as she aged in place as they were rewarded with her wisdom and infectious zest for living. No one was around Helen long without breaking into a smile, enjoying her warmth and charisma.

Helen loved a good party and didn’t want to miss her own memorial service, so she held a living wake before her death. To honor Helen, consider planting something beautiful (a patch of wildflowers, a single bloom, anything nurtured by the light). Let it remind you of a woman who spent her life making things grow. You can share your images (of flowers or Helen) to her Instagram @SamishFarmer. If you prefer to make a donation, the Samish Island Firefighters Association would be able to use the funds to help the Island she loved so much. They are a non-profit 501(c)(3) corporation recognized by the IRS, EIN 81-1922698. Donations are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law. Donations can be mailed to: Samish Island Volunteer Firefighters’ Association; 10367 Halloran Road; Bow, WA 98232.

Helen was loved by all and built a warm loving community of friends her entire life, encompassing family and schoolmates in Wisconsin, classmates in nurses’ training, climbers and hikers from her years exploring the beauty of the Pacific Northwest, healthcare professionals from her career in nursing, and neighbors from her 37 years on Samish Island. She left this world ready for the next chapter, knowing she had used every bit of the time she was given. And though we miss her, we take comfort in her reminder: she “never wished her life away.” The next time you feel sunshine on your face, smile as you remember her warmth and love for everyone in her community.