“King of Lumberjacks’ is Dead; Was Legendary Figure Here for Over Fifty Years
Charles Patrick Donovan, well known as “Paddy the Pig,” died Monday at the Spears’ Rest Home. “Paddy” was hailed as “King of the Lumberjacks,” and his appearance in modern Bemidji brought back memories of the days of fifty saloons, roaring timber operations, and the hush of pine-filled forests whose grandeur lured many a man away from civilization.
“Paddy” was a temperate man, but he communicated freely in lumberjack society, and was a familiar figure in Bemidji saloons in the days when Hank Underwood was singing ballads in Bemidji bistros. Underwood and Donovan were an unforgettable part of Bemidji. The singer was a protege of Chauncey Olcott, and at one time vied with “Paddy” for the title, “King of the Lumberjacks.” Paddy was handy with a deck of cards, and he plied his luck from Bemidji to Alaska, with time out now and then for visits to the rich Dakota harvest fields.
Old-time saloonkeepers used to joke that “first thing you know, Underwood will call himself ‘King of the Lumberjacks,” Paddy, on the other hand, held the undisputed title, and this was large ly amplified in 1937 during the Paul Bunyan winter winter carnival when Donovan was much photographed for the wire service.
Paddy became a real life Paul Bunyan for several days, as news stories went out heralding Bemidji as the birthplace of the mythical Paul.
And well Paddy might have been the real Bunyan, since both the man and myth were surrounded with so much legend.
As the years went on, one heard fabulous stories about Paddy. It was rumored that he had a great horde of wealth cached away, and this rumor persisted even until after his death, which it was falsely said on the streets that the pioneer figure of the lumber camps left a “small fortune” in his shack in the Carson Hill district, sometimes referred to as “no man’s land.”
But Paddy’s fortune was only $500, and came form relatives who probably were providing against the day he would be buried. Through the years when Paddy became old, a nephew sent him gifts, and two nieces visited him in Bemidji last summer.
Even Paddy’s age was believed to be legend, until last summer when his nieces established it for Bemidji friends. Paddy’s death record says that he was born on Nov 10, 1861 but his card-playing friends and a steward at a city dispensary says that he was born Nov 14, 1852, which would make him 98 years old.
“Paddy never did work much in camps,” an old-timer told a Times reporter. “He was always around the camps, and he sometimes held down jobs as barn boss, but his days weren’t filled with the activities of most of the lumberjacks. Yet, he was known as the “King.”
Paddy moved around to camps in Brainerd, Bemidji, Farley, Tenstrike, etc., as did many other “jacks” in the old days, and in the fall he would head for the harvest.
Paddy was a consistent winner at poker until he became red ridden a couple of years ago. Before he became ill, Donovan could read men across the cards, and those who played cards with him respected him as a keen judge of men. During the Gold Rush, Paddy took his talents to Alaska. When eh came home, Donovan walked back to the Mid-West with General Coxey’s Army, but gave up the trek at Grand Forks, where the harvest was on, leaving Coxey and his men to take their demands to Washington.
When Paddy returned to Bemidji that time, he had $500 winnings from a single game with him, and he told this to a saloon keeper, who was known to “roll” the jacks for their money. The saloon keeper did not seem impressed, but when Paddy retired in the saloon, the operator searched him… in his sleep. Paddy never moved, and the operator gave up in disgust. Beside Paddy on the floor lay a rolled-up hat. In the morning Paddy tried to make a purchase at the saloon. The saloon keeper demanded to see the color of his money.
Paddy took off his hat, opened the lining and produced “five bills” as the old-timers say.
Paddy never could take credit for his name; however, he did have something to do with it. He was credited with having an enormous appetite, although he told a reporter two years before his death that this had been overplayed, that he ate no more than any other “hard working lumberjack,” But the name was received when he was batching with a lumberjack known only now as “Tom” in a cabin near Farley.
The story was retold by an old-timer today:
“Paddy and this ‘Tom’ were batchin’ at Farley, and in those days food was sent out to the camps on the old ‘Mike and Ike’ on flat cars. Meat was usually wrapped in burlap, and Paddy and Tom was hungry. Well, sir, this is the way it was, Tom went to the siding at Farley and spotted a flat car loaded with things wrapped in gunnysack. He saw a good sized package and brought it home to Paddy. It was heavy. He had a devil of a time carrying the meat home, and when he got to the shack, he yelled, ‘C’mere Paddy, help me bring in this pig. When they got it inside and opened the burlap, the found out that old Tom had carried home a dead Finlander that was being sent down on that flat-car. When the story got to Bemidji, ’twas told t’other way around, and they kidded Paddy and called him ‘Paddy the Pig, King of the Lumberjacks!’ Paddy never had much to say about it, but he enjoyed being a character. Paddy took a lot of kidding about this all his life!
Before he became ill, Paddy was a familiar sight at “Ole’s Poor-Air-Conditioned Bar” on Second Street and at the Kelliher card room, where, his playing partner said today, eh did a very creditable job of playing poker and enjoyed himself tremendously.
Paddy lived in three “houses”, small structures near each other — one he inhabited in the spring, another in the summer, and the other in the winter. Paddy never married. He “batched” or ate in cafes. (Front page story, Northland Times, March 3, 1950)