Joe McWilliams
In my early years as a reporter, I had the job of filling the Spotlight section. This was a supplement to three papers in the area – those being the Slave Lake Lakeside Leader, High Prairie South Peace News and Falher Smoky River Express.
A big part of that task entailed driving around the country, meeting and interviewing people who I hoped had something interesting to tell me or show me. Many of them did!
Finding them was the tricky part. But the more I got to know people, and vice versa, the more recommendations came my way.
“Talk to so-and-so over in Salt Prairie,” (for example). “He’s got some unusual livestock.”
Or, ‘There’s a guy down the Driftpile Valley who makes bent willow furniture. You should talk to him.”
Lots of these tips didn’t pan out. But often enough I’d get through by phone, the person would consent to an interview and I’d show up at the appointed time. That was how I ended up at Frank Madsen’s farm near Faust.
The instructions were straightforward enough. I was pretty sure I had the right place. It had everything you’d expect in a farmyard . . .except a house. Barns, sheds, granaries, machinery, a truck. But no house anywhere I could see.
I sat there, puzzled, but only for a few seconds. Out of one of the 8-by-12 (roughly) granary sheds came Mr. Madsen. That was when I noticed a smoking chimney coming out of the roof of it.
This was a bit of a surprise, I have to admit. Who lives in a granary? But Frank, a lifelong bachelor, simply didn’t need a house. The little shack was big enough for his needs, and must have been well-enough insulated. He had me in, sat me down and told me his life story. Then he pulled out his fiddle.
“Can you play guitar?” he asked.
I confessed I could, just not very well.
“Let’s play something,” he said. “I like it when somebody plays along with me.”
We sat facing each other, him with his fiddle, all ready to go, me not having a clue what I was supposed to play.
“Uh . . . what key is the song in?” I asked him.
He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about, and just started playing a country reel of some kind. So I strummed, G – A – D. I couldn’t tell if it fit or not. He didn’t seem to notice.
At the end of the song I apologized, saying I really had no idea what chords went with what he had been playing, never having done this before. But I was wasting my time feeling bad about my performance.
“That was good!” Frank said. “You did better than most of the people I’ve played with.”
Then he took me outside and demonstrated, with evident pride, how he could still crank-start his ancient steel-wheeled tractor.
“All this equipment still works,” he said. “Things were better in the old days.”
I’m sure in many ways things were better in the old days. Simpler at any rate. Less complicated. Frank Madsen certainly thought so.
Frank passed away in 2007, at the age of 91. I’m glad I got the chance to meet him.
While I’m at it, I’d like to encourage anyone to get in touch if you know of other oldtimers who might like to tell their stories.