One Final Road Trip

In Memory of Shawn Solberg

Shawn and family at the Last Chance Saloon

Not long before we lost Shawn, I picked him up for a Sunday drive, a family tradition passed down from dad. Buddy, my golden retriever was in the backseat, and he cried and crawled out of his skin, trying to get into the front seat with his animal-loving uncle.

We turned right out of Nacmine and headed upriver and then turned in toward Dunphy along Kneehill Creek. We crawled along at 30 kilometres an hour and gave our approval to Ed Peake’s new house. We pushed a whitetail buck out of the willows along the creek. Shawn pointed out the adjoining valley that he and Scott and Shawn McKay had accidentally ventured into years before while hunting. We talked about Joseph Burr Tyrrell who discovered an Albertosaurus skeleton in the Dunphy Valley while looking for coal 140 years ago. We talked about porcupines and we imagined that they would be a poor pet for a child which made us laugh a lot. Outlaw Country was on the Sirius radio, which was fitting. We were rebels as we slow-rolled back out of the valley, listening to tunes, talking and laughing.

Up on top there were maybe 500 Canada Geese feeding in a field. We turned and drove alongside so we could get a better look. He told me that he didn’t think he could even shoot a gopher anymore, let alone a goose or a deer.

Eventually we turned toward Hesketh and soaked in the scenery of that pretty little village in that winsome valley. Memories came. Shawn talked about someone he knew from the museum who had once lived there. Once on some youthful misadventure in the deep past, Shawn had gone off road and had driven through Kneehill Creek. We talked about dad and other road trips, prompting more memories and laughter.

Further on he pointed to what he thought was the deep valley where Scott had shot a moose decades before and how he and Scott and Shawn had built a sled to tow it up the hillside. He mentioned that he had seen what may have been a white-crowned sparrow at his feeder, but he wasn’t sure. It might have been a variant. We stopped at the top of a draw where a spring runs to let Buddy out and to drop the tailgate and have a beer. We talked about many things including music.

Shawn was never happier than when rediscovering an old classic, maybe by Merle Haggard or Waylon, or discovering a new artist, probably on CKUA, preferably someone from the prairies with an original sound and saying something new and powerful, finding a way to express the inexpressible and touching something sacred. Music was Shawn’s holy of holies.

And if music was something sacred, the valley was Shawn’s cathedral. He was captured by the badlands, the river and the town. He loved the wild areas, the neighbourhoods, the back alleys, and the random hummocks and hills that dot the community. He bristled when anyone dismissed or ran down what was his town, and he put his back into making it better. He was the parks foreman but on any given day he might be on the end of a shovel, working on a water main, or in a cherry-picker trimming trees.

Shawn loved people too, his friends and family of course, but also work colleagues, neighbours, and acquaintances. He saw the good in them. He prided himself on knowing so many of the townspeople by name. He could not stand Facebook complainers. He detested bullies. And you’d never find the blowhards, loud mouths, and braggards in his circle of friends. He sought out positive people who liked to laugh. His glass was always half full, usually of beer. He saw the dignity in working people and in the underdog. That may be why he grew up worshipping the Saskatchewan Roughriders.

When we were kids in Rosetown, every year mom and dad held a big Grey Cup Party where 30 or 40 people gathered around our 25 inch or so colour TV to watch the game. In 1976, we were heartbroken when Ottawa tight-end Tony Gabriel made a great over the shoulder catch to take Ottawa to victory. Eleven-year-old Shawn went out to the veranda and shed tears. Thank God he got see them win this year.

After two hours of driving those memory-haunted backroads, I dropped Shawn at home. If music evoked the divine, and the valley was his cathedral, his home with Paula, Signe, and Kali was his sanctuary and chapel. Shawn was so proud of his precious girls. He loved his family, fretted over them and took care of them.

The busy annex to his chapel was his famous garage where he could be found having a smoke, sipping a coffee or beer, listening to music, watching sports, visiting with friends or family and even, on occasion, fixing things, which he was good at. But cleaning his garage was not a top priority.

Humble, loving and fun-loving Shawn with the good heart and infectious laugh, the ordinary-extraordinary man who lived a big, noble life in the small town he cherished.

We love you and miss you brother. Rest well. We’ll see you on the other side.