Obituary of Lauretta Joanne Harford
Lauretta Joanne Harford ~ August 15, 1939 to February 27, 2018
A Celebration of Life will be held for Lauretta on Saturday October 20th, 2018 at 11:00 AM in Clayton's Event Hall, 582 Front Street, Quesnel with a reception to follow at Clayton's immediately after the service.
It is with much sadness that Lauretta's family announce her passing on February 27, 2018.
Lauretta passed away at G.R. Baker Memorial Hospital after a lengthy struggle, and she is now at peace.
She is remembered as a loving wife to Stan, a caring and patient mother, a doting grandma, a wonderful aunt and a great friend.
She loved her little blue house, her flowers, her berry bushes, her chickens and her garden, and with all of those close by, she was always happiest, especially if a Root Beer and Teen Burger were on the lunch menu.
Lauretta also loved animals and was an avid supporter of a number of animal rescue groups. In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to the Quesnel and District Branch of the SPCA in her memory. *See the link below.
The Eulogy as written and read by Lauretta's son, Bruce Harford, at the service
Good Morning!
When I was asked to to put this together, I knew it would be a challenge; not in finding things to talk about, but rather, making the difficult decision on what to leave out, and still provide a fitting tribute. How do you sum up nearly eight decades in just an hour? What? Oh, Christopher didn't tell you? I get to talk for an hour!
Lauretta – Mom - called herself a hillbilly farmer, but I think she was selling herself short. She was, above all, a Redneck, long before being a Redneck was fashionable. Not the non-PC Larry the Cableguy take-a-fat-girl-home-joke kind of Redneck; despite having a great sense of humour, Mom couldn't tell a joke to save her life. And certainly not the yucky, creepy, Ned Beatty, Deliverance inbred banjo-playing kind of Redneck. Nope, she had all the good Redneck qualities; she was life smart, she was hard-working, resilient, resourceful, thrifty, strong-willed, she could cook anything, grow anything, fix anything. She knew how to make a whistle from a willow branch, and how to get aspirin for your toothache from that same willow bark. She knew all the berries and mushrooms and wild green things that were safe to eat, and how to gut out a deer and smoke salmon over an open fire and make bannock. And she loved to teach these things.
Mom and her siblings grew up dirt floor poor in Nazko, and as it does for most of us, her childhood served to shape her entire life. She was never big on talking about it, but the bits she did share over the years told of a tough go for a lot of reasons, some perfectly natural and understandable given the locale and the era, and some really scary. It wasn't all bad, though; she actually enjoyed telling stories about swimming in the Nazko River – it ran right behind their farm – gathering mushrooms, grouse hunting, riding horseback, catching trout, picking saskatoons and huckleberries in the summer, ice-fishing and sledding down the slope to the river in the winter. She was proud to have guided new BC Provincial Police constables and later, RCMP members through the valley - the Mounted Police actually did mounted patrols out of Quesnel into the mid 1960s. She met Dad when he and his band of brothers were building the Nazko Road, and I reckon that it was pretty much love at first sight....Mom was happy to meet any guy remotely close to her own age whom she wasn't related to, especially a good looking exotic foreigner, and Dad would have been overjoyed that a girl would actually pretend to appreciate his flirting. They got married and moved into a little cabin in Red Bluff and then built, by themselves, almost entirely by hand and without ever taking out even a smidgen of a mortgage, our family home. Mom loved her her little blue house on Short Road – according to her, that was the real name, when that dead-end gravel strip goat trail was the ONLY road in the area. Mom and Dad originally owned all of the property on the north side side of Short Road down to the swamp – past what is now Elm Street - while our Uncle Gordon – Dad's brother – laid claim to the same strip on the south side.
As Christopher mentioned, this Celebration was originally scheduled for August, because that is when Mom would have wanted it, given that it was her favourite time of year, and it would have been a good time for everyone else, but alas, Mother Nature won out. However, as you look outside, this is a pretty spectacular day, one that Mom would also have loved. She'd be grumbling, though, wishing she'd left her carrots and turnips in the ground just a bit longer. She loved her garden and if she could grow it, we never bought it. Her flora included a carefully cultivated opium poppy plant, and, until she found out what they were, a small collection of pot plants taking up space in her beloved greenhouse. She doted on her fruit trees and berry bushes and roses and pansies, and her chickens – she'd get separation anxiety leaving them alone to go shopping. And over the decades, she loved her chinchillas, rabbits, geese, ducks, guinea fowl, turkeys and peacocks. She loved, protected and cared for a vast adopted menagerie....turtles and rats, pigeons, meal worms, mice, ferrets, guinea pigs, hummingbirds, goldfish, dogs, starlings, doves, snakes, parrots and frogs and bluebirds and crows. There was incredible gentleness in her with animals, especially baby critters...to see those rough, strong, work hardened hands feeding a day old chinchilla or fledgling robin with an eyedropper was simply magical. But her love for those wild creatures ended the moment they became a threat to her garden...she fully intended to kill that bull moose that was eating her new lettuce one early autumn morn...how she planned to accomplish that with only her favourite broom, I have no idea, but evidently the moose believed it, judging by his hasty exit. And if a stray dog or cat, or a fox or coyote were after her chickens? Mom proved that she and her trusty old Cooey .22 from Simpson-Sears were indeed one, usually to the chagrin of our nearby neighbours, and occasionally that of her friend, Jim Lawrence, the Game Warden.
And she loved Stan, her husband of nearly sixty years. She groused about him, she groused at him, they groused at each other...but that was their thing; it is what they did, but the love was always there, very deeply. To see that, we only have to remember the thought, care and effort Mom put into putting together Dad's 85th Birthday bash, and then repeating it for his 90th. Mom moved Heaven and Earth to make sure that absolutely everyone – family, extended family and friends - that was important and dear to them was there for those two events; again, a tribute to Mom's love for Dad, and her skills of persuasion and organisation. And as time moved forward and things changed, no matter what else was going on in their world, Mom refused to be parted from him. She loved her granddaughters Phoebe and Jose, and her grandsons, Shawn and Mathew....more-so when you were young, I think, guys. Probably cuz Grandma thought you were cute when you were little. Mom loved Sherry-Lynn, and she experienced the highs and the lows, the joys and the sorrows, of the nursing career she sacrificed, through her daughter. She loved Greg, her son-in-law, because he exhibited a patience and warmth for her that was special and unique, and brought out the teenager in her. And you could smoke together, right Greg? She loved her daughter-in-law Elsa; they fought like cats and dogs, but Mom knew she could be herself, be open and honest and absolutely contrary – about pretty much anything and everything, just for the sake of being contrary, cuz she enjoyed it - and always still be cared for, loved and protected. She loved Will and Leanne, who were her stand in kids in her later years, who looked after her and Dad and faithfully got hem out to the Alamo Grill on a regular basis. Brandon, who was her dutiful major domo, groundskeeper and chicken wrangler. “World's Greatest Boss” mug, eh, Brandon? And she loved her extended family, brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces, and her many, many lifelong friends.
She hated unions – they protected the lazy and the useless, she said; long hair and beards on men – not the men themselves she would point out, just the hippie hair – professional sports, liars, thieves, louts and layabouts – EVERYBODY could work if they really wanted to! She hated bullies, wimps and whiners, and moose meat. She was firmly convinced that no matter the child, no matter the transgression, a swat with her wooden spoon and some hard work would fix everything.
She hated living in Vancouver, but stood by her decision even so, knowing she had made the right choice for her and Dad. She was grateful for the care she and Dad received, the many new friends they made, the new things they got to enjoy and for the extra year of quality life it gave her. But that never stopped her from telling the world that she didn't like it
Mom loved mushrooms, especially the local wild shaggy manes. Store bought mushrooms were an expensive luxury when we were kids, and we were treated to them but seldom....on those perfect cool spring and summer mornings, Mom would rouste us out of bed and send us on a trek to that special spot in the middle of the neighbour's hayfield....we'd do that day after day, ensuring that we had mushrooms for dinner, but also buckets of them in Mom's freezer. It broke Mom's heart when that patch of field was churned up and a house built there.
She mistrusted organized religion and Sunday morning television, and detested most politicians, with our current Prime Minister being at the top of her current list, apparently, as recently as a month before she died, judging by the earful I got. Premier Dave Barrett was one exception, and one of Mom's proudest moments was meeting him, and thanking him for the raise he gave government employees. She had been friends with Alex Fraser since childhood, and a phone call from her to him would ensure that Short Road was smooth and dust free in the summer, and sanded and plowed in the winter.
As I said, Mom loved and cared for her family, that was always clear in her endless sacrifices and dedication, but she was not romantic – much to Dad's dismay, given his amorous nature - and was never a cuddler or a hugger. Indeed, she was always uncomfortable with any physical closeness, and she was never one for that mindless “I love you” prattle. She wasn't big on sympathy or empathy or coddling; we'd come to her scratched and bleeding, or with a small amputation or a concussion, she'd clean us up with rubbing alcohol, throw a bandaid on it, and punt us back out the door with a swat to our bottom, the ultimate “get back on the horse stiff upper lip” philosophy.... Christopher mentioned that she had wanted to be a nurse? She always laughed when I told her that she might've been a better Nurse Ratched – she quite enjoyed “One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest” - than a Florence Nightingale, but her toughness rubbed off, and was yet another invaluable lesson that served us well and helped us survive. I think about all the scraps I got into over the years, and I know it was always Mom in the background pushing me to win.
She had absolutely dreadful taste in Chinese food - Elsa and I simply gave up. Except for vegetables; her and Dad discovered that they loved bok-choy, which is essentially an Asian spinach, and with seeds smuggled from China – at her insistence – she grew better bok-choy than anything found in the stores.
Mom loved music, though in her own words, she “couldn't carry a damn tune in a bucket”, as the dust covered guitar behind the TV and abandoned electric organ attested to. She was passionate about both kinds: Country and Western, especially the early Golden Age of Country, the Bakersfield sound, and Outlaw Country. Every weekday morning, from 0 5 Ugly on, she would have Gil McCall on the old scratchy AM band CKCQ cranked, and she could – most of the time quietly, thankfully – sing along to every song by Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Ferlin Husky, Charley Pride, Tammy Wynette, Porter Waggoner, Bill Anderson, Hank Williams, Marty Robbins, the list went on and on and on. Mostly by dint of pure saturation, everyone in the house knew the words to “Coal Miner's Daughter”, “The Battle of New Orleans”, “A Boy Named Sue”, “Made in Japan” and “Tall Dark Stranger”. She didn't love ALL country music; “The Rodeo Song” and MacLean and Maclean's version of “Delta Dawn” didn't go over very well at all; apparently you don't mess with country music in general, and Tanya Tucker in particular. And Mom knew every single detail about every single artist. She could recite, blow by blow, the trials and tribulations in Johnny Cash's and June Carter's marriage, or Waylon Jenning's criminal escapades.
She embraced very seriously the notion of The Day The Music Died, and took the loss of every music icon as a personal one. She'd get tears in her eyes telling of Johnny Horton's car wreck or Patsy Cline's plane crash, as if they'd happened just yesterday.
And it went a bit beyond just listening on the radio. She knew – and introduced us personally to – Wilf Carter, one hot dusty summer day when he played the Wiliam's Lake Stampede, back when it was the rodeo event in Western Canada, before that passing fad thing in southern Alberta. And Stompin' Tom...who knew that she knew him? We chatted with him on the CB radio – y'all remember those, right? - as he came into town for a show, and then went to see him backstage at the old Quesnel Arena. And she was right..he WAS grumpy in person.
She grumbled about how loud I played The Beach Boys and Elton John and the American Graffiti soundtrack, but she'd play those records – and later, when she caught up with new technology, the cool new 8 tracks and cassettes – when nobody was around. Twisted Sister and The Sweet...aaaah, not so much. And later, she loved The Eagles and Billy Joel. I even caught her listening to LL Cool J one day. And Toby Keith, and his Taliban Song.
Alas, despite her aversion to travel, she had one unfulfilled dream....she always wanted to visit the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville.
Mom also had an artistic bent, and was actually quite a talented sketch artist; she always dreamed to one day have the time to develop that talent, but once again, if it came down to a choice between a pencil or a hoe, Mom always picked the hoe. Her talent did not extend to painting, alas; her idea of a masterpiece was a paint by number set of a horse – or horses - from Spencer Dickie Drug Store. And needlepoint....there was not a single pillowcase, bedspread or tableloth in the house that didn't display her work...it was pretty cool.
Mom was deep, and knowledgeable – and bear in mind, this was our uneducated Redneck mother...she knew an incredible amount about so many current and past events, no matter the era.....she talked about the FLQ crisis, and predicted, correctly, that Pierre LaPorte would be murdered. She still mourned the assassination of John F Kennedy, and spoke of the folly of the Bay of Pigs invasion, the risk of the Cold War, and the fear of nuclear attack by the Soviet Union. She lamented the waste of the Vietnam War, the idiocy of the Chicago Seven, celebrated Apollo 11 landing on the Moon, and she shed a tear for a friend who died in the collapse of the Second Narrows Bridge. She spoke wistfully of The Summer of Love and Woodstock like she was actually at Ashbury and Haight or in that muddy field in New York; ironic, considering her views on hippies. She cried when Challenger exploded, and when Judy Garland died, and was angered at the senseless loss of life on 9/11, and the changes that were wrought of the world. She cheered the successes of Viola Desmond and Martin Luther King, and likened their struggles to that of her friend, Quesnel's very own Constable Dhillon, and his fight for religious freedom in the RCMPolice. Today it is fashionable and everyone needs to know that you support minorities, you stand tall for First Nations rights by blocking streets, you protect the weak and marginalized by posting inarticulate ramblings on social media and waving a rainbow flag. Mom was an advocate as a matter of course, and without ever having an agenda....she was always the first to tell everyone that it was the Nazko “Indians” who were her best friends and her community. And most of those invisible street people down along the Fraser River? As recently as a year ago, she knew them by name, and she knew their families and histories.
It was the 60s in the Cariboo, and in backwoods, Redneck Quesnel, we were perhaps more open-minded than most...as a child, I knew there were while folks, i knew there were First Nations people, and I knew there were Chinese people – this was norm, given our local history and demographics and social circle. But, imagine my shock one day...I had only ever seen black people on TV – We all quite liked “The Mod Squad” and “Room 222” – but there, coming from Mrs. Irwin's farm one morning, were the Burgess boys. Mom kind of 'harrumphed' and said “they're the same as anybody, go be friends with them”. Discussion. Over. Those simple words spoke volumes. A few years later, I discovered Elton John, and loved his music, until one day I heard the awful news....ooooh...he was one of those new homosexual people. Mom harrumphed again. “So? What difference does it make to his music?” Again...end of discussion, and another clear message, well before its time.
Mom hated having her photo taken. Somehow, by intent or happenstance, she managed to make every picture of her and Dad look like a grumpy version of the farmer and his wife from American Gothic. All that was missing was the pitchfork.
Mom was not a huge fan of TV; it was still a new , temporary thing, it was frightfully expensive, adjusting the roof top antenna in the winter was a pain, those black white images weren't realistic, and it wasted a lot of time...after all, most of the best shows were on when it was optimum hour to be weeding the garden or feeding the chinchillas, for example. But she did have her guilty pleasures, and again by virtue of the fact that she was – again - in charge, the household's tastes followed. No matter what else in the world was happening, 3:30 every weekday afternoon was time for “The Edge of Night”. Thanks to Mom, we were the only kids in Dragon Lake Elementary who really did know what happened to Nancy and Mike, just like the song says. But there were more...she'd sit and enjoy Bob Homme as “The Friendly Giant” - she didn't much care for “Chez Hellene” - and in her eyes, Ernie Coombs as “Mr. Dressup” was mandatory, as was “The Forest Rangers”. In the evening, especially in winter – Mom really hated the cold – it was “Bonanza” – it was Lorne Greene, after all, and he was Canadian, you know! – “The Beverly Hillbillies”, “Gunsmoke”, “Star Trek” - another famous Canadian, though I think she regretted that one when I insisted on becoming Mr. Spock - and music shows...Glen Campbell, Tommy Hunter, Flatt and Scruggs, Grand Ole Opry, Don Messer, and so many others. She loved “The Irish Rovers”. And “Ed Sullivan”...apparently it was a great thing that he introduced Elvis to the world; “The Beatles”, not so much...something about hippies
“The Wonderful World of Disney” every Sunday night, and “My Three Sons”...now there was a connection here, and it was Fred MacMurray; Mom spent one year with relatives in Nebraska going to high school, and Mr. MacMurray was a classmate. She watched every film and TV show he was in, and of course, so did we. I suspect she had her own very private “Tall Dark Stranger” song playing in her head. Later on, it was “M*A*S*H” – she had an amazing knowledge of the Korean War – and “Six Million Dollar Man”...another couple tall dark strangers, maybe? “The Beachcombers” – she quite liked Pat John and Jackson Davies, “Little House On The Prairie” - she saw zero humour in the suggestion that it reminded her of her childhood home – and “The Brady Bunch”...a pre-teen boy's unfiltered commentary on watching Macia's boobs grow every episode wasn't appreciated. Finally, it was “Rookie Blue” – a strong, beautiful female protagonist, happy and successful personally and professionally...we just gave up trying to convince Mom that it was Toronto and not New York.
Mom was an incredibly hard worker; if she wasn't doing 'something' it drove her mad. All day with the Chinchillas or the garden or the chickens, at night it was patching holes in socks or mending jeans, or the aforementioned needlepoint. Yes, that work ethic was admirable; the reverse of that was that she fully expected everyone else to match her, step for step, and her husband and her kids never had the energy to keep up with her. One of the first books she gave me was “Tom Sawyer”. It's pretty clear that she read the whitewashed fence story way too many times. We stopped believing really early on that picking and podding broad beans or digging potatoes and turnips was fun....but we certainly enjoyed eating them in the middle of January, and again, we benefited from the lessons that came with that. And she made sure, very early on, that we knew how to sew on a button or put a patch on a pair of jeans.
Mom loved the movie “Smokey and The Bandit”...something to do with CB radios, Rednecks, Jerry Reed and Burt Reynolds.
I said earlier that Mom could cook anything. She could indeed, and so many things were looked forward to so very eagerly. Her rhubarb pies were legendary, as were her – from scratch – mayonnaise chocolate cakes, with hard chocolate icing. And f it grew on a bush or tree or vine, or even underground, Mom could successfully put it into a pie, or make it into juice or jam or jelly, or into her 80 proof homemade wine – I note that at least a couple of the folks here today were customers during Mom's bootlegging era. Scrambled eggs...the best I ever had; I suspect that had a lot to do with the amount of half-n-half or fresh cream she put in them. Her fried chicken was a-ma-zing. Home made beer that could power rocket ships. Sour cream cookies. Butter tarts made with sunflower seeds. The list of things she cooked really well goes on and on and on. But being able to cook something did not necessarily mean that it always went well, or was always well-received. She taught me to make briquettes...she said she was making chocolate chip cookies, but they were always more like what I use in my barbeque, no matter how many times she tried. I mentioned that her childhood shaped her, and this extended to what she would sometimes cook, and so nothing was wasted. I recall, on occasion, walking home from school and as I crossed Dave Ross' property line, a hay field away I would note an interesting aroma coming from our house. There is nothing quite so distinctive as overcooked beef heart, that has had to sit in the oven. All. Day. Long....and nothing looked as much like a remake of the move 'Carrie' as Mom's effort to dress it up. Nothing gave ya the colly-wobbles at bedtime as having had roast whole rabbit for dinner, then watching “Night Gallery”. And liver, from pretty much any creature. For a time, Mom loved jello molds, and if it was on sale, she'd get fancy and put in a can of Del Monte fruit cocktail. Campbell's canned mushroom soup over canned salmon with the squishy bits of bone and frozen peas on toast, or celery sticks with cheeze whiz. I'm thinking, Mom wasn't really inspired on those days, or she was just really mad at Dad. And if Dad was working a rare afternoon shift, Mom would treat us to something he hated and she loved, Kraft Dinner, again with loads of butter and half-n-half. And some of her creations were pure simplicity....a couple scoops of Lucerne vanilla ice cream – from the big gallon size cardboard tub from Safeway – drowned in Rogers Golden Syrup, from the equally big tin can. Or, Coffee Mate and cream...on pretty much anything.
I'll stick to my memory of the chocolate cake, thank you.
She never missed a bargain – I go back to that timeworn joke about how copper wire was invented; it is suspected it was Mom and an Overwaitee cashier fighting over a penny, but when we were young, Mom stretched her very meager grocery budget and made sure that there was always food on the table...never fancy – well, except for the time when she splurged and bought the Galloping Gourmet (Graham Kerr's) cookbook by mail with a money order (this was truly pre-Amazon!) and attempted Duck L'Orange, with the expected dubious results. She made sure we had birthday cakes, turkeys and hams and massive roasts for Thanksgiving and Christmas and weekend dinners, soups and stews, more than we could ever eat, always fresh and healthy, every day...as long as we didn't dare waste a bite. And Christmas was really special; Mom gave us the quintessential Norman Rockwell Northern Canada childhood experience....we would fight over the Sears Christmas Wish Book when it arrived in October and look through each year's new offerings....Mom would pay attention, and pretend to be interested in each little thing we absolutely had to have. Then, magically, Christmas morning, there was that Easy Bake Oven and Matchbox 64 car set, Barbie and Ken, Major Matt Mason and Calisto or Tog'l bricks and the Walking Wendy Doll – that doll was taller than you, wasn't it, Sherry-Lynn?...I guess it still would be, wouldn't it?
These special times were repeated, year after year; Mom made sure we had great happiness at Christmas, never because we got a lot, but because we learned to appreciate the love and sacrifice and effort behind each small thing
Mom was a bra burner and she knew the story of Kathrine Switzer. She never marched or carried a sign or actually set fire to any unmentionables – that would have been a waste of perfectly good clothing - but she fought and soundly won her own battle for women's rights. Yes, she was a bride of the late 50's and she was married to an English gentleman-farmer, so each day before Dad came home from work, like Wonderwoman, she magically transformed herself from the farmer/gardener/carpenter/painter/whatever into Lucille Ball in skirt and heels in time to serve dinner. Well, for a while...it wasn't that many years into their marriage that she gave Dad a choice, well, ultimatum; he could have Mrs. Cleaver, but “then he'd bloody well have to find somebody else to move his damn bales of hay”. Mom then enjoyed her dinner – for the next six decades - in jeans and a work shirt. When Dad retired, he made it known that after having his lunch at 11 o'clock every day for his 35 years with the Highways Department, he fully expected Mom to continue to serve up that tradition; well, that one never even got off the ground...turns out, most often, Dad wound up making lunch for Mom...at 12:30 or 1:00 o'clock, whenever she was 'damned good and ready!”
Some battles took a little longer....Dad was maybe just a slow learner on a couple things. Mom was always a smoker – she once told me she started when she was eight years old - and that was a point of, uh, spirited discussion betwixt her and Dad pretty much their whole time together. Purely in self-defense, Dad early gave up on direct challenge, so he would leave notes, he'd cut out anti-smoking adverts and articles and leave them for Mom, he'd make signs. She'd return them, most often with “BULLSHIT” scrawled across them in her distinctive handwriting. It was as recently as three summers back when Dad finally told her that he wasn't going to give her a hard time any more...she finally won that battle too!
I mentioned Burt Reynolds....sadly, he passed away last month. I'm betting that Mom was at the head of the queue waiting to greet him, so she could get an autograph. Then they probably went to A & W for a teenburger and root beer, Mom wearing her jeans and work shirt. And she'll make sure he treated.
Thank you.
