My Day as a Celebrity

Some day someone I love is going to come across a picture on the Internet of me standing beside an unknown woman. She is hugging me close in the photo and I am leaning in, trying to simultaneously hold my skis upright and smile at the appropriate camera. I have just finished a fabulous circuit of the Wasi Ski Trails and I look like a happy--if somewhat elderly--athlete.

I don't have a copy of the photo but the serendipity of the moment still makes me smile. The woman standing beside me is named Chantal (spelling, a guess; last name, totally forgotten the instant she said it) and she is from the Hamilton-Burlington area. The raison d'etre of the photo op was that I am from Powassan, the home town of her very best friend, whom I went to high school with and see occasionally at reunions. Chantal was part of a bus tour that was sampling cross-country ski trails in the north and we struck up a conversation at a rest stop along the trail.

At the chalet, Chantal grabbed me for the photo so she could show me to her friend Jane when she returned home. Others from the bus watched this and, thinking I was somebody important, also took my photo. Then I packed my skis back into my car and headed home, beaming all the way.

I know our mutual friend, Jane, will laugh when she sees that picture. She knows my lack of athletic prowess for what it is. For some unknown reason we both ended up on a cheerleading squad for our small high school about 45 years ago. Neither of us were athletes nor the perky cheerleader type. But we had fun and struggled our way through lopsided cartwheels and rousing, if somewhat bungled, cheers.

My legacy may some day be the capture of this anonymous moment in time. If so, let it be known that I remain a legend in my own mind. And maybe Chantal's--at least until Jane sets her straight!

A "Curia" Indifference

I have been fascinated by the pageantry of red-sashed cardinals swishing by media cameras this week on their way to elect a new pope. Not unlike the elaborate laying out of the good linens and china for Queen Elizabeth's Diamond Jubilee last year, there is a certain charm to  watching ancient rituals (and ancient people?) actualize their roles in thousand-year-old surroundings. Like a museum come to life but even better--with hourly footage and my favourite journalists as colour commentators.

It is as if 114 woolly mammoths suddenly emerged from the Siberian permafrost and were transported to the frescoed basilicas and heart of sublime dining. En route they have been given a haircut, new clothes and told to be on their best behaviour. Once in Rome they will be wined and dined and eventually elect one of their own to rule the Catholic world--in theory. And then they will return to a comfy cave in their neighbourhood.

The new pope will be an old man. Most likely a white European one. The few cardinals agreeing to be interviewed on the topic hope he will be a talented administrator with business acumen. When what is needed is more like a black gay married woman with children. Problem children who struggle with available street drugs and early sexual expectations and a future of limited employment opportunities and climate change.

The only way we (Iapsed Catholic that I am, I still lump myself in the fold) will ever get to such a progressive state is to immediately turn to the freshest, youngest (relatively speaking), most open-minded man in the conclave in the hope that he will open the doors to married priests--both men and women--and gays. He will have to recognize that abortion, birth control and divorce are here to stay and that the best way to guide his flock through a changing world is with compassion. A lot like Jesus did, come to think of it.

Once he gets the key to the papal office, he might want to look around at all the finery and gold and sell some off. (Vatican officials may want to pull out their Bibles and read up on the moneychangers in the temple.) There are an awful lot of people in Africa and India who could use a safe source of drinking water. And there are millions of little girls across the world who will never get the chance to learn to read and, maybe, be independent one day.

That is my hope for the future. If a dinosaur could make it happen the world would be perfect. In the meantime, I'll envy the journalists their plum assignment and enjoy the show for what it is. And I'll continue to worship in my own way on my own terms where no one is taking attendance.