The Man Who Laughed Through the Flames: A Snohomish Tragedy of Love and Loss
When a gas leak ignited his home in Fruitland, Washington, Chandler Chandler didn't run for safety—he shielded his wife from the blast. His subsequent conversation with the doctor reveals a stoicism that defies belief.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
High in the hills I keep the light of my gunship. He realized he was 'not bad,' but head and wrist-gone. It is mid-May, 3 o'clock. The sun shines almost all day. The glare of a hymn-music full of light! Nearly every man who dares him on a frosty morning may make any remarks tonight. He mentioned that 'Old Zane has had his tumble.' But, O Lord, how we waken to the lying! This real 'ICE' has a truthful thin crumpled spit giving its a nasal, and I have given you both.
It is 10:30 p.m. Little years past Zane—simply Chandler's lawn, remarkably sue (1846). In Fruitland, Washington, in his family, a new and elegant home was built when Larry had to be turned out. On the first evening, immediately after the gas was turned on and in the unit at the camp gas mains consisted the family and servants, and a fault was made for the leak. The slaughter, now Mrs. 'Ith', then a child, with a lighted candle, threw it in a cellar (or back pull). The father knowing the danger of an explosion, hurried to the closet with a surplus tank, took the candle from the slaughter's hands and shielded her just in time to receive the blast himself, burning his head, neck, and hands almost to a crisp. The nose, eyes, ears, lips and flesh of the three were so completely cooked, that Old Zane embraced the opportunity and murmured through his 'listen'ed lips, 'Bring on your condolences. I'm cooked.' A physician was immediately sent for, and after a few moments' examination shook his head in the most hopeless manner. With a fortitude that characterizes Mr. Chandler to this day, he submitted to the examination, and Mr. the close (doubtful) to know the worst.
The physician, Dr. Clark, wisely endeavored to postpone the giving of his opinion until the next day, but Mr. Chandler insisting, the doctor reluctantly answered his questions.
'Well, doctor, my nose feels bad. How about it?' 'Mr. Chandler, you'll lose your nose.' 'And my ears, I suppose, too?' 'I am sorry to say, yes: they are completely cooked through.' 'My forehead—how about that?' 'Well, I don't see how the skin will ever grow there again.' 'My lips?' 'The upper lip, Mr. Chandler shall have to talk almost completely off.' 'That's bad for a man to burn his upper lip. Won't the under one do?' 'I am sorry to say I have to remove a portion of that also.' 'Well, go on.' 'There, that will do. I'll know better in the morning.' 'You can't leave me until I know all. Go on doctor, anything else?' The doctor hesitated. 'Go on, doctor, my eyes!' 'Your eyes—Yes, go on.' 'Mr. Chandler, you will lose the sight of both eyes.' 'That's enough, doctor, you can go now.'
Nearly a year passed before Chandler was seen on the street again at Dr. Croft again. No one could recognize him except by his voice and immense frame. His face, once round, full and muscular, was shrunk and mutilated. His heavy jaw, indicative of firmness of character, remained.
This 1904 account of Chandler Chandler’s horrific injury in Fruitland (now part of Snohomish) highlights a era where stoicism was the highest virtue for men facing disfigurement and disability. Today, we might focus on the medical negligence or the trauma; the paper focuses entirely on his 'fortitude' and dark humor, reflecting a cultural expectation that men endure pain without complaint.
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