Stanley Perry

Stanley Eugene Perry, long time resident of Quesnel, passed away peacefully in G.R. Baker Hospital on August 25, 2004.

Stan was born on July 17, 1918, in Ilkley, Yorkshire, England, the son of a handsome Canadian soldier and his young British war bride. He arrived in Quesnel with his mother in June 1919, after traveling across Canada by train to Prince George and from there to Quesnel aboard the BX paddlewheeler.

Stan spent the rest of his life in the Cariboo, leaving school and home during the depression years to work at a variety of jobs until he retired in the 1970’s. Over the years he was employed as a rancher, prospector, logger, log home builder and cook. Over the past 24 years he became very well known in his neighborhood for the magnificent garden he planted, tended and harvested on his own, despite a severe visual handicap that grew worse with each passing year.

Stan was a “self-educated” man, a voracious reader, with an almost photographic memory. No one in the family dared to argue with him over a date, time, or place of any occurrence, because he was always right. He loved to philosophize and to write poetry in his spare time.

Stan was predeceased by his parents, Henry and Amy Perry, sisters Phyllis and Sylvia (Hendry) and brothers Robert and Calvin. He is survived by his brothers Brownie (Pauline), of Meldrum Creek, Bill (Dody) of Chase, Gordon (Marliss) of Quesnel, as well as numerous nieces, nephews, great-nieces and great-nephews. He will be greatly missed by all his family and his many friends. A Celebration of Life in Stanley’s memory will be held on Sun., Sept. 26th from 1-4 pm, at the Golden Centre, 451 Front St. Anyone wishing to make a donation in Stan’s memory may do so to the Quesnel & District Palliative Care Assn. – Hospice House.

The following poem was written by Stan in 1998 and pretty much sums up his life, in his own words.

The Land they call

The Cariboo

I was raised on venison and moose meat, along with a spud or two,

In this land they call the Cariboo.

I have dined on muskrat and beaver, porcupine and rabbit, they go lovely in a stew.

I’ve poached salmon on the Fraser River, by the moon’s pale light.

It was strictly illegal, and we did our thing at night.

I have hewed the spruce and worked the sluice on the Fraser River shore.

Rafted the river on an ice cake, drank my coffee from a can,

What man could wish for more?

I have heard the call of the coyote and the wolf as they huddled in the night.

I have heard the honking of the grey goose as he crossed the moon in flight.

I’ve ridden a thousand miles on horseback, snow-shoed a thousand more.

I’ve walked a thousand miles, along the Fraser River shore.

I’ve grown a garden where no respectable spud would grow,

And now it’s time to stop – to hang up my shovel and my hoe.

And I will go to rest here, where the skies are blue,

In this land they call the Cariboo.


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