People, Apr. 8, 1974

In Vail, Colo., last week, Teddy Kennedy Jr., 12, was back on the slopes. Determined that the amputation of the boy’s right leg last November would not prevent him from enjoying one of his favorite sports, Father Edward M. Kennedy fitted out Teddy with special equipment. Ski Instructor Blair Ammons taught him to schuss all over again, using poles fitted with small runners for great maneuverability and balance. Praising Teddy’s spunk and skill, Ammons said, “Quite frankly, his one leg fatigues less easily than both of mine.”

The next Archbishop of Canterbury will be chosen by Prime Minister Harold Wilson. But last week the London betting firm of Ladbroke’s decided to give everyone a piece of the action: it announced that it would book bets on the successor to the Most Rev. Michael Ramsey, who will retire in November. Offering official, if not divine guidance for the plan, the Church Times provided Ladbroke’s with some of the names and chances of the 13 likely candidates. Early favorite, the Most Rev. Donald Coggan, Archbishop of York, is now tied at 3 to 1 with Bishop John Howe. Not everyone has greeted this extension of weekly bingo in the church hall with delight, however. Mrs. Rosalind Runcie, wife of the Bishop of St. Albans, the Rt. Rev. Robert Runcie, currently quoted at 7 to 1, declared herself to be extremely embarrassed. She said: “It’s revolting to turn important church affairs into a horse race.”

Ex-Con Jimmy Hoffa was back in prison last week—but just for dessert. The ex-boss of the Teamsters was announcing to several hundred inmates of the prison in Norfolk, Mass., the opening of the New England chapter of the National Association for Justice, which he founded in 1972 on his release from federal jail. Its aim: to help cons battle civil rights and legal problems. Tackling questions from the floor, Law-and-Order Convert Hoffa advocated the death penalty for “mad dog” killers and kidnapers. But he came out against giving immunity to “stool pigeons” because that, in his view, is unfair to the people on whom they inform. “The result,” said Jimmy gravely, “is not a trial of justice but a trial of injustice.”

Security was tightened after the kidnaping attempt against Princess Anne, but there was no secret last week about the British royal family’s activities. The princess was off on a West German visit. Prince Philip had a nasty fall when his four-in-hand overturned in Windsor Great Park, throwing him under the horses’ hooves. Prince Charles was steaming into Acapulco Bay aboard H.M.S. Jupiter. In fact, the most closely guarded secret was the composition of the royal party at the Royal Film Performance, an annual benefit glittering with stars and royals. This year it was announced that the Queen Mother, Princess Alexandra and her husband Angus Ogilvy would vie for attention with Michael York, Raquel Welch, Spike Milligan and Geraldine Chaplin at the London premiere of The Three Musketeers. But on that night they were all upstaged by a commoner. Accorded an unprecedented honor and ranked No. 4 on the official program was Lady Jane Wellesley, 22, currently ranked No. 1 among Prince Charles’ belles.

A nocturnal creature, Billionaire Howard Hughes likes to watch television while most mere mortals are sleeping. During his four-year sojourn on the ninth floor of Las Vegas’ Desert Inn, his prime viewing hours were from midnight to 6 a.m. Trouble was they did not coincide with local station KLAS-TV’S transmissions, which ended at 11 p.m. According to Las Vegas Sun Publisher Hank Greenspun, who owned the station, Hughes’ aides kept badgering him to program Hughes’ favorite westerns and aviation flicks through the wee hours. Testifying in a Los Angeles court last week in a $17.3 million libel suit brought against Hughes by Former Aide Robert Maheu, Greenspun told how he finally blew his circuits in 1968. He asked a Hughes emissary: “Why doesn’t he just buy the thing and run it the way he wants to?” The rich recluse obliged, paying Greenspun $3.8 million—and scheduled his favorite flickers 11 to 6.

“Cowards, cowards!” shouted Australia’s Prime Minister Gough Whitlam as he retreated from 10,000 angry farmers who were hurling eggs, tomatoes, soft-drink cans and plenty of verbal abuse at him. In Perth to support the re-election of Western Australia’s Labor government, Whitlam had no sooner climbed onto the truck that was to be his platform than the cord of his loudspeaker was cut. Then the farmers pushed, shoved and crushed Whitlam against the truck as he tried to reach the safety of his car. The reason for the demonstration was Whitlam’s abolition of many longstanding tax concessions and privileges enjoyed by farmers. Capping press and public outrage at one of the wildest political meetings in recent Australian history, a shaken Whitlam acknowledged that it had been “really rough stuff.” He hoped at least that the public reaction would ensure “that this shameful sort of suppression does not occur again.”

“It’s the most painless kind of education,” said Professor Danny Kaye, 61, only a little puffed after his Metropolitan Opera performance. For the second year running, Danny was conducting a “look-in,” a 1½-hour demonstration to some 3,500 New York City school kids of just how grand opera is made. Prancing around the stage, Danny did a little bit of everything—conducting, giving a voice lesson, running through a parody of Madame Butterfly. The high point came when he called on the stage special-effects magicians to do their tricks. Tall galleons swayed, lightning crackled, a small cannon was fired, and the stage rose 40 ft. in the air. Then a tousle-headed Danny asked his rapt audience to shiver loudly, and as a snowstorm surrounded him, he led them in a chorus that they all knew: Jingle Bells.

Swissair Flight 491 taxied to a stop at Zurich’s Kloten Airport and Alexander Solzhenitsyn bounded up the steps of the plane with a bunch of red and white carnations. Minutes later he emerged, carrying in his arms his sons, Yermolai, 3, and Ignat, 17 months. Behind them came his wife Natalya, stepson Dimitri, 12, mother-in-law and youngest son Stepan, six months. Then the Solzhenitsyns drove to their home in exile, a seven-room villa. Deported from Russia in February for publishing in the West his account of Stalinist terror, The Gulag Archipelago, the novelist was concerned that his archives, which he needs to continue his series of novels about modern Russian history, had not been tampered with. But the documents arrived safely, filling most of 14 suitcases and trunks, which weighed some 800 Ibs. Solzhenitsyn’s literary success in the West has brought him between $5 million and $6 million—and unwelcome attention. Refusing to give interviews or autographs, he threw pebbles at reporters recently. Home with his family, he pointed to the press encamped on a neighbor’s lawn and declared: “It is shameful the way you disturb other people.” Then he slammed the window shutters.

Enlarging her niche in film history, Gloria Swanson presided in Paris last week over a salute to her career at Henri Langlois’ hallowed Cinémathèque Française. The first night coincided with Gloria’s 75th birthday, a statistic proved ridiculous when she appeared at the birthday party in a slinky blue and green diagonally striped gown. After blowing out the candles on her cake, Chicago-born Swanson told the crowd assembled at the cinema museum that she had always felt at home in France. Why? “Because with my Swedish ancestors I surely have a little French blood in my veins,” said Gloria mystifyingly.