Stan was a Pepsi man and he had the belt buckle to prove his years of service. He also had a soda fountain on the back deck, supplied with a seemingly endless stream of that sweet dark liquid. On a hot, dusty summer afternoon that soda fountain was like an oasis of sugar and caffeine. During the harvest season the air was perfumed with the sharp smell of deisel, sun baked pear trees, the clank of ladders and the songs of the crew as the ripe fruit found the quickest route into the wooden bins lined between the rows. And there would be Stan, white-haired and shirtless, a barrel-chested whirling dirvish on a Massey Ferguson with bucket forks. He could work the throttle and brodie knob like a maistro, expertly threading the forks under the bins and forming perfect stacks on the flatbed. After the corner irons were cinched on the last load and the dust had settled, there was nothing like a tall cool glass from that fountain. I'm not sure if it was the smell of the diesel or the angle of the setting sun, but a sip of Stan's Pepsi was like nectar from the gods.
 
At family reunions, Stan was the one who was there from first light until the last of the embers went out on the fire. He always took pride in providing the meat for the feast. After the sky shifted to auburn and drained to the horizon and the lights in the barn cast long shadows, Gentleman Jack would make his way around the fire and the stories would start to flow. I learned a lot about this wide-ranging family of ours around that fire, and the most vivid and colorful stories always came from Stan. He was an astute judge of character and did not suffer fools gladly. Telling tales of driving the cattle over the hills to the summer pasture, double-clutching the old red GMC over the siskiyou pass,  he was our family's Herodotus, passing down our history to the generations to follow. With sadness we are forced to acknowledge that with Stan's passing those stories will fall silent.
 
Stan, we will miss you.

A pillar of our family fell last week. As long as I can remember, I remember Stan. He was an integral part of our family. Every family event, every significant moment was more complete with the charismatic twinkle in Stan's eyes.

We always called him “Uncle Stan,” but in reality he was my grandmother’s cousin. Our connection goes back five generations to Thomas and Amelia Ferns, who came from Iowa in 1897. I believe their pioneering spirit lived on in Stan. This family tree is like a Bartlet left un-pruned, it’s branches wandering this way and that. But we all draw from the same source. When it is nurtured it produces the succulent fruit that sustains our connection.
 
Stan and Bonnie's orchard shared a fence line with my parent's on the border to the South. Bonnie was a hair dresser and for many years she would cut our hair. When I was in grade school I would follow the well-worn path to the spot in the barbed wire fence where you could slip through without ripping your shirt. I would meander through the orchard and eventually end up in the barber chair at Stan and Bonnie's. While Bonnie cut my hair I could hear the sound of the TV and the rolling belly-laughs coming from the living room. Stan loved aold comedies. If the Three Stooges was a fine wine, Stan was a connoisseur. To a young boy that was pretty amazing. It wasn’t until much later that I realized what Stan had figured out. It’s not wealth and power or fame and fortune, but a genuine appreciation for those simple moments in life that feeds your soul. Giving a child his first ride on a tractor, working that stubborn rusty bolt with WD-40 and a cloud of profanity until it finally breaks loose, or finding humor in three grown men slap each other silly, the eyes of the world’s billionaires squinting at their piles of gold could never shine as brightly as Stan’s.

I will remember Stan with a smile. 
I enjoyed the stories of a life lived in another time in the valley.  They were funny and numerous. He seemed to know everyone!  I’ll always appreciate his enthusiasm and generosity in preparing for our annual family reunions. I loved that man❤️  God bless his soul🙏

OBITUARY

Stanley Lovell Ferns

August 2, 1930 – March 3, 2020

Rogue Valley Funeral Alternatives

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