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Touch by Alexi Zentner

Touch by Alexi Zentner

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This is Sawgamet, a mining boomtown gone bust, a logging village where the cold of winter breaks the glass of the schoolhouse thermometer, where the dangers of working in the cuts are overshadowed by the dark mysteries lurking in the woods. Thirty years after his grandfather's pronouncement, Stephen, now a pastor with a wife and family, returns home on the eve of his mother's funeral, to reconnect with the stories of his mythic grandfather and to confront the losses of childhood. Introducing a world of wonder and tenderness, a world where the monsters and witches of the woods are set against singing dogs and golden caribou, Touch is a haunting tale of three generations of love and loss in a town in Northern BC.
This is Sawgamet, a mining boomtown gone bust, a logging village where the cold of winter breaks the glass of the schoolhouse thermometer, where the dangers of working in the cuts are overshadowed by the dark mysteries lurking in the woods. Thirty years after his grandfather's pronouncement, Stephen, now a pastor with a wife and family, returns home on the eve of his mother's funeral, to reconnect with the stories of his mythic grandfather and to confront the losses of childhood. Introducing a world of wonder and tenderness, a world where the monsters and witches of the woods are set against singing dogs and golden caribou, Touch is a haunting tale of three generations of love and loss in a town in Northern BC.

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Published by: Random House of Canada on Mar 30, 2011
Copyright:Traditional Copyright: All rights reserved

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10/07/2013

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Touch 
 
on e
 Touch 
 T   
he men floated
the logs early, in September, a chain of headless trees jamming the river as far as I and the other chil-dren could see. My father, the foreman, stood at the top of thechute hollering at the men and shaking his mangled hand,urging them on. “That’s money in the water, boys,” he yelled,“push on, push on.” I was ten that summer, and I rememberhim as a giant.Despite his bad hand, my father could still man one end of a long saw. He kept his end humming through the wood asquickly as most men with two hands. But a logger with a use-less hand could not pole on the river. When the men fl oated thetrees my father watched from the middle of the jam, where thetrees were smashed safely together, staying away from the bob-bing, breaking destruction of wood and weight at the edges.The oat took days to reach Havershand, he said. There waslittle sleep and constant wariness. Watch your feet, boys. Thespinning logs can crush you. The cold-water deeps beneath thelogs always beckoned. Men pitched tents at the center of the jam,

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