freeing his son from the chains of illiteracy and poverty. It had never occurred to Conor how incredibly generous his father had been.
When Tex disappeared, heading deeper into the bush to work on a railway, the Oblate priests continued the lessons. Although Thomas insisted “no religion,” they applied the occasional Bible story to their lessons. Conor found the stories appealing, but didn’t tell his father.
Though illiterate and innumerate, Thomas O’Dea sent for books. Huge white pine logs tumbled downriver and pages of knowledge were carted back on corduroy country roads, all to supplement Conor’s education and ensure his escape from this rough and dangerous life.
Sinbad. The Arabian Nights. Ivanhoe.
Conor devoured the books like a wood stove eating dry wood. He shared Tom Brown’s school-days, fought alongside Rob Roy and was stranded on a desert island with Robinson Crusoe. As he got older, he turned from adventure stories to biographies of Elizabethan swashbucklers: Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, Martin Frobisher. His father was not aware that the British librarians were sendinghim heroic tomes of empire builders, discoverers and conquerors. Conor travelled the Pacific with James Cook, scaled the heights to Quebec with James Wolfe and conquered Bengal with Robert Clive. He became enthralled by their dedication to empire.
He loved to read books about British society. The Brontë sisters and Jane Austen opened a world of prestige, refinement and dignity. Society luncheons, fancy-dress dances, social intrigue and mischief. That’s how he had wanted to live.
When Conor reached his teens, Thomas made sure that his son never headed into the woods to do the heavy work. He worked out a deal with the cook so Conor could stay indoors as a cook’s apprentice. He earned his keep in the “camboose,” a square of logs in the middle of the shanty where a cooking fire was always burning. It was claustrophobic, smoky, noisy and hot as hell’s kitchen, but it was safe. Conor spent hours boiling bricks of salt pork while other young men cut and hauled lumber. The others made more money, but they risked their lives.
He grew up around rowdy, coarse, lonely men. There was camaraderie among the loggers; they were proud and competitive, and strong as oxen. There was order to their lives. They settled disputes with their fists and they earned respect by proving themselves in the forest. Every year, at first snowfall, with the promise of short days and severe weather to come, some deserted. Those who stayed were a class unto themselves. Workers. Lumberjacks. Timbermen. The toughest of all men.
It amazed Conor how the men so rarely complained. He would know if they did because indoor workers didn’t just feed the men, they fixed them when they were hurting. Their remedies could be worse than the pain. Pine gum to close cuts, rusting implements to pull teeth. Conor watched one cook give a skidder with indigestion a few pinches of gunpowder in boiling water. “It’ll scare your problems away.” Theskidder survived and never came back with another medical problem. Boiled pine bark with brandy was the usual stomach-ache tonic. One cook swore that boiled beaver kidney was the best medicine. Conor became a backwoods doctor. The men started trusting him. After all, “Cookie” could boil up potions and “Bookie” could read the manuals. Of course, there were no written instructions, just traditional antidotes and balms.
Growing up in a male world, Conor viewed girls as a frightening mystery, and mothers a total unknown. The loggers would talk obsessively about women—wives, girlfriends and lovers—but never mothers or sisters. Women were something to chase in the off-season. Conquests. Prizes. Trophies. Thomas kept the off-colour stories away from his son as much as he could, but some of the men took delight in teaching him their versions of the ways of the world.
Why, he wondered now, had he
When Tex disappeared, heading deeper into the bush to work on a railway, the Oblate priests continued the lessons. Although Thomas insisted “no religion,” they applied the occasional Bible story to their lessons. Conor found the stories appealing, but didn’t tell his father.
Though illiterate and innumerate, Thomas O’Dea sent for books. Huge white pine logs tumbled downriver and pages of knowledge were carted back on corduroy country roads, all to supplement Conor’s education and ensure his escape from this rough and dangerous life.
Sinbad. The Arabian Nights. Ivanhoe.
Conor devoured the books like a wood stove eating dry wood. He shared Tom Brown’s school-days, fought alongside Rob Roy and was stranded on a desert island with Robinson Crusoe. As he got older, he turned from adventure stories to biographies of Elizabethan swashbucklers: Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, Martin Frobisher. His father was not aware that the British librarians were sendinghim heroic tomes of empire builders, discoverers and conquerors. Conor travelled the Pacific with James Cook, scaled the heights to Quebec with James Wolfe and conquered Bengal with Robert Clive. He became enthralled by their dedication to empire.
He loved to read books about British society. The Brontë sisters and Jane Austen opened a world of prestige, refinement and dignity. Society luncheons, fancy-dress dances, social intrigue and mischief. That’s how he had wanted to live.
When Conor reached his teens, Thomas made sure that his son never headed into the woods to do the heavy work. He worked out a deal with the cook so Conor could stay indoors as a cook’s apprentice. He earned his keep in the “camboose,” a square of logs in the middle of the shanty where a cooking fire was always burning. It was claustrophobic, smoky, noisy and hot as hell’s kitchen, but it was safe. Conor spent hours boiling bricks of salt pork while other young men cut and hauled lumber. The others made more money, but they risked their lives.
He grew up around rowdy, coarse, lonely men. There was camaraderie among the loggers; they were proud and competitive, and strong as oxen. There was order to their lives. They settled disputes with their fists and they earned respect by proving themselves in the forest. Every year, at first snowfall, with the promise of short days and severe weather to come, some deserted. Those who stayed were a class unto themselves. Workers. Lumberjacks. Timbermen. The toughest of all men.
It amazed Conor how the men so rarely complained. He would know if they did because indoor workers didn’t just feed the men, they fixed them when they were hurting. Their remedies could be worse than the pain. Pine gum to close cuts, rusting implements to pull teeth. Conor watched one cook give a skidder with indigestion a few pinches of gunpowder in boiling water. “It’ll scare your problems away.” Theskidder survived and never came back with another medical problem. Boiled pine bark with brandy was the usual stomach-ache tonic. One cook swore that boiled beaver kidney was the best medicine. Conor became a backwoods doctor. The men started trusting him. After all, “Cookie” could boil up potions and “Bookie” could read the manuals. Of course, there were no written instructions, just traditional antidotes and balms.
Growing up in a male world, Conor viewed girls as a frightening mystery, and mothers a total unknown. The loggers would talk obsessively about women—wives, girlfriends and lovers—but never mothers or sisters. Women were something to chase in the off-season. Conquests. Prizes. Trophies. Thomas kept the off-colour stories away from his son as much as he could, but some of the men took delight in teaching him their versions of the ways of the world.
Why, he wondered now, had he
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