The Rise and Fall of Hidy and Howdy

Once upon a winter dream, when Calgary invited the world to its doorstep, two bright stars were born. A brother and sister of fur and cheer, radiant and white as the snow on the Rockies. Their names were Hidy and Howdy, and together they were more than mascots. They were the soul of a city trying to smile at the world.

They were polar bears, but not the wild kind. These two strutted in cowboy hats and scarves, a proud marriage of rodeo and frost. They were the face of Western Hospitality, that Calgary magic that could melt the iciest tourist. Their very names were greetings. One chirpy. One drawled. A city saying hello and meaning it.

Born of a naming contest and shaped by artist Sheila Scott, they stepped into the spotlight at the close of the 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics, promising the world that Calgary was next.

For four long years they worked harder than most dignitaries. Three hundred appearances in a month was not unusual. Behind the fluff were brave teenagers from Bishop Carroll High School learning how to smile through limited oxygen and maximum polyester. The city adored them. Children believed in them. Calgary felt like a fairy tale made of frost and friendliness.

The 1988 Winter Olympics arrived and the bears were everywhere. On badges and lunchboxes. On road signs that greeted drivers at the edge of the city. They hugged athletes and cheered crowds and made people forget about cold toes for a moment. To Calgarians they were not just mascots. They were family. Big and fluffy and slightly alarming family.

Then the cheering softened. The fireworks cooled. The medals went to sleep in velvet. Hidy and Howdy were folded into storage like seasonal decorations. Their fur yellowed. Their stitches sagged. Time has a sense of humor and it is not kind to synthetic snow.

Years later the city made a tidy decision. Keep the memory. Lose the mildew. The costumes were judged unfit for public life. In a quiet room they met their finale. Shredded. Torn apart. Reduced to fluff and fragments. No farewell. No parade. Only the hum of a machine chewing through the last soft crumbs of innocence.

People still talk about that day. Some call it the most Canadian tragedy ever. Polite. Efficient. Indoors. Others say the shredding made them immortal. Mascots became myth when the paper teeth started to bite.