Birds of Arizona

As I leave for today’s run, I spot an odd contraption on the back of a red Tacoma pickup. I draw closer to investigate, and the contraption turns out to be a wild turkey — a male, vast and spherical, with a tiny red and blue head. He stands on the pickup’s tonneau cover, regarding me with a kind of rage. As I step closer, he shows signs of alarm, even though he can plainly see I’m not holding a knife and fork. Hopping onto the roof of the cab, the turkey empties his bowel, glaring at me with small cruel eyes. On my return an hour later, a road runner crosses the road just ahead. Don’t ask me why he crossed the road.

We’re at a dude ranch in Arizona, same as last year, happy again to see the horses, the wranglers and the straight-backed saguaro cacti dotting the desert landscape. As for birds, we don’t see many, but I consider every encounter a good one.

Another cause for happiness: I’m running in shorts again, even though it’s wet and cloudy. Still, even here I look for reasons to not run. The current excuse is altitude, another one is the dry desert air. I’m fine for a few kilometres, and then a killing fatigue sets in. Legs, rubbery; ribcage, too small for the panicked bird inside.

So why bother running? I’m not exactly sure.

St. Xavier del Bac

Last week, we drove to Mission St. Xavier del Bac, which was founded by a Jesuit in 1692 and built by Franciscans in 1783. You can see it coming from miles away, a brilliant desert apparition.

The Spanish built missions like this one to civilize the people they found here. After independence, Mexico took up the civilizing project, then the United States. St. Xavier del Bac still offers daily mass, is still run by Franciscans (nuns run the school), and it still sits on Tohono O’odham land, attracting hundreds of thousands of tourists and pilgrims each year.

There’s a museum shop at St. Xavier del Bac, in which I followed a tall man with a red pushed-in face and stubbly beard. He was examining some religious trinkets when I first spotted him, and was wearing a faded t-shirt that read, DON’T TAKE MY WHISKEY, STEAK, GUNS AND FREEDOM.

I shadowed him because, well, humanity’s sheer diversity is astounding. I get to travel and see so much, and find that some folks are simply irresistible. It’s like walking into a funeral parlor and, standing among the bereaved, you see a toreador. Just try to look away.

* * *

The interior of St. Xavier del Bac is bursting with Hispano exuberance. In every direction, holy relics mixed in with touches of Walmart. Plaster saints in polyester robes, or wrapped in wool blankets. A life-size weeping Christ on the cross above a donation box. Bunches of real and plastic flowers. And everywhere, gold and silver carvings set alight by flickering candles.

People wander in, gaze wonder-struck, bend the knee, make the cross. True to the Franciscan order, stray dogs also wander in, searching for scraps of food and love.

I saw a woman bend over to pet one of these strays. The dog immediately swooned and collapsed to the floor. A moment later, the woman joined the dog on the slate tiles, and they had become one, completely blocking an aisle. As I left, she was still gazing at the altar and stroking the dog’s haunches. Dog with woman, in some other place.

Monday mass in Montreal

I’ve written before about my earliest memories of church. We attended the Holy Trinity Greek church, though not religiously, which once stood near the corner of Sherbrooke and Saint Laurent streets.

What I remember from Sunday mass: the censer tinkling like sleighbells, its scent filling the air; the droning liturgy in impenetrable church Greek; heavy gold vestments beneath a long white beard. Above, an enormous chandelier on a chain. And above that, a dome in which sometimes a sparrow flew in panicked circles. At the dome’s centre, a large painted eye.

This is the genius of the church: the unblinking eye. For even at my tender age, guilt was already installed. Not to mention rough ideas of sin, suffering, forgiveness, eternal punishment, grace, love and faith — mighty gifts for a child who still wets his bed.

* * *

Grade 1 was in the church basement, where the school principal was also the church psálti, equivalent to a cantor. Let’s call him Mr. Papandreou, for that was his name.

At assembly one Monday morning, Mr. Papandreou expressed his deep disappointment. So many of those assembled had been absent from yesterday’s mass. From his raised station on the altar, facing the holy book and chanting the liturgy, he had scanned the pews with anxious eyes. Few of us did he see.

And so, this Monday morning, he commanded every student, starting with the eldest, to line up single file, as if taking communion. He would ask each if he or she had been to mass. If not, he would administer straps to each palm.

Trembling, nearly in tears, I watched this cruel senseless spectacle unfold, absolutely certain I could not lie, for Mr. Papandreou already knows. The line inched forward, the leather strap rose and fell, as one snivelling child after another received punishment and returned in tears. Then, inexplicably, Mr. Papandreou stopped and dismissed us. Maybe he lost interest. Maybe his arm grew tired from assaulting small children. But for some reason — let’s rule out pangs of conscience — he never finished the job. The rest of us were spared.

Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox church burned down on January 16, 1986. (The anniversary was a little over a week ago.) What remained standing was knocked down years later, and before the trucks arrived to haul it all away, a friend of ours happened to be passing by. She picked up a five-pound hunk of granite from the rubble and gave it to us. It sits on a shelf at home.

* * *

We’re heading north on Interstate 19, returning from a visit to Tubac, a few miles from the Mexican border. Ahead of us is an enormous white arch, spanning both lanes and extending about fifty yards. Traffic slows to a walking pace, and before entering the short tunnel, we pass a gauntlet of cameras and sensors pointed at our rented car. Who knows what they are designed to detect: Migrant bodies, dead or alive, stowed in trunks. Bags of jewels and condoms stuffed with drugs. Kidneys in picnic coolers. Contraband sombreros.

Inside the white enclosure are heavily armed and goggled police officers, upholstered in bullet-proof vests. They stare into our souls. Apparently, we are of no interest. As we speed away, sighing with relief, the truck behind us is being pulled over.