Publishing My Journal

I mentioned a few posts back my now blogging daughter's question, when she was a teenager, inquiring as to why I didn't simply publish my journals. From where she sat across the room she could easily see the growing shelf to the left of my chair. That would have been about the time the entry I am going to quote was was actually being made, give or take some months either way, April, 1984. She knew that I had been puttering away for four years at my magnum opus, and she also knew that I had so far had no luck interesting a publisher. I replied by giving her every hope for the eventual printing of at least part of the shelf to her left - it was then a mere foot long, and included a couple of her mother's notebooks - but added that such an event would probably not precede my death, or at least my being published as a novelist.
Never a man on the cutting edge of technology, I in no way foresaw the Net or Blogger.com, and could only assume that all the signs of infused hope the Holy Spirit merrily, constantly, along the lines of "In this house you will be published.", a few days after we moved in, September, 1975, referred to the ordinary means of the publishing trade, without, in my case, the tra la la of reading and signing tours.
But, thanks to a variety of people, I have been for some time now published, globally, in the most convenient manner I could ever have thought of asking for, and therefor a little journal exposure is perfectly in order, especially following the coincidence this week of a letter by our bishop in the Nelson Daily News, dealing with Gwynne Dyer's latest flunking out of catechism class, and my own musings in the letters pages of the New Denver Valley Voice. My letter spells out the harmony of thinking, on the molestation issue, of our Bishop John and the Pope, currently being badgered by the leading half-wits of  western civilization, not one of whom has the you-know-what to come to my study to discuss the issue, or even pick up the story of a life time, if he or she really wanted to give the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic a black eye in the name of the whole truth.
And to think that in the past I have been, actually, an admirer of the New York Times, the Manchester Guardian, the Independent, the Globe and Mail, and even my own one-time employer, the Vancouver Sun!
 The Cockneys, the ancestors of my maternal grandparents, have a word for these lightweights: gormless.
But I digress. The journal note, with some prefatory explanation for those who are not intimate with the geography of the Queen City of the Kootenays.
Gordon Road runs more or less north and south, and is, or at least was, the eastern boundary of the city. It is one of the routes for getting to the campus that used to be occupied by our little, Catholic, university, and when your are walking on the very steep grade of the upper part, you have a magnificent view of the West Arm of the lake and the mountains to the east, especially of the peaks of the Kokanee Range. I mentioned these mountains, incidentally, in my very first letter to the present Pope, some nine months before the date of this journal note. Bealby Point was then where lived the then Bishop of Nelson, Emmett Doyle.

"As we came down Gordon Road there was an interesting phenomenon of nature one would like to be able to take as a sign of hope. The sun, from behind the general cover of clouds, shone only on Bealby Point, and then as I looked about, on the bridge. The bridge, of course, is the thing for which Pontifex was the natural name."

It was in the time of the first Christians that the Pope was called Pontifex, due to the key position he occupied on the passage from earth to heaven. The Nelson bridge in question is that which joins the city to the North Shore of the arm, built in the late 50s to replace a ferry. Some years ago it was painted orange, and is featured in endless photographs and painting by local artists.
It is now, most contentedly, being featured by a writer.