Step by Step

On Friday, we arrived at the cottage for the start of summer break. It took me hours to unpack and settle in, even though I am generally out here once a week. Around 5 pm, I decided to get out for a walk/run with our dog Abby.

Just northeast of our cottage, there is a sprawling section of rolling prairie—previous host to a wealthy rancher. It ambles away from the mountains, back toward the city, hovering above the Bow River.  The cliffs are steep and impossible to climb. The view is compelling. There is an old run-down cattle fence marking the edge of the property, with a worn path on either side of the fence, making it appear to be a popular hiking trail.

I was told by someone here, who was told by someone else, that the property—essentially abandoned—is owned by one of the residents at Cottage Club. Or was it one of the developers, I don’t quite remember. It was even intimated that it was okay, if not perfectly fine, to walk our dogs on that piece of meandering land.

On half a dozen occasions, I have wandered the land, knowing (at some level) that it was private property. I am not, by nature, a rule breaker. My first foray onto the land was with another cottage resident. Not wanting to appear the nervous fool, I ducked around the fence while the dogs shimmied through the barbed wire. I have to admit that it is one of the most peaceful walks I have found. Strolling across carpet juniper entwined with creeping thyme, a brisk breeze brushing against my back, and the sound of the rollicking river in the background is healing and grounding. And then, turning back toward home, the canvas is swept with the alluring Rocky Mountains, just out of range.

On Thursday, I received a phone call from my daughter in the middle of the day—on the last day of school. She was in trouble. Damn—so close to making it through the school year without any more infractions—so close to having my daughter returned to me…as if (maybe) I would have some magical influence on her. Damn!

She had been caught breaking the law. My child and her complicit accomplice were asked by an imposing security man to take a seat, and explain what they thought they were doing. The police were called, and each child was encouraged to call their parents.

My feet found their way over to the barbed entry. I paused as I always do, wondering if it was really okay. What if I got caught—or worse? No one knew where I was going. But, as I stood, breathing heavily after my short run down the gravel road, the pungent perfume of the silver dogwood invited me in. I shimmied around the barrier and plodded upon western wheatgrass, soft under my feet.

            A meadow opened up, protected by tall pines and trembling aspen. There is a rock-hewn fire pit there, with two plastic brown chairs, both over-turned, likely by the gusting Chinook winds that sail through the area. My dog Abby darted across hilltops and sand dunes, down paths and prairies, and occasionally stopped, her nose in the air—scenting something. I watched her for a sign, not sure if I was more afraid of running into humans or cougars.

            As I sprinted up and over the next bluff, Abby stopped in her tracks as we had very quickly come upon an older woman sitting alone at a fire. There was no sign of a dwelling, though I knew that eventually the path led to a ramshackle cabin. She stared at the fire and I wondered if she was an apparition, but then her head raised and her eyes took me in. Out of breath, I grabbed the collar of my dog, and smiled and said, “Hi, how are you?”

Just twenty-nine hours prior to my transgression, I got a phone call from Superstore.

“Hello,” I answered

 “Mom?”

“Hi honey, how are you?” I sang.

“Not very good…. I got caught stealing,” she sighed.

FWump…My guts tensed; tears sprang to my eyes and my heart heaved. It had already been an emotional week. I felt deep sadness. “Oh…that’s…ummm…that’s too bad,” I replied.

I got the details of where she was, and what was required of me, and after a brief talk with the security personnel, I hung up. I called my husband Ward right away, looking desperately for some support. He did not let me down. He volunteered to go and meet with her, and at first I was reluctant—she would be expecting me, needing me—but since I was out of the city, and I was having an emotional reaction that was larger than the event required, I thought it would be best if he went. So, while he went to deal with this mess, I had a good cry and a long walk, before meeting up with them at home.

The old woman sat at the fire, staring at me before answering, “I’m fine,” she finally said. My armpits itched as she stared at me. She eyed me from beneath her tattered green baseball cap, long strands of black and grey hair sticking out; she said,  “Where are you coming from?” 

“Just over at Cottage Club,” I pointed with my hand in the direction from which I had come (in case it wasn’t obvious).

She stared at me; I huffed and puffed; and she said, “You do know that you are on private property?”

“No,” I hesitantly answered, and then as I turned to go I looked back and said, “I’m sorry. Have a good evening.” She said nothing as she watched me go.

Shit, I had broken the law, and been caught. Surely no one would prosecute. Shit, she knew where I lived. I wouldn’t be hard to find, with my unique white and brown striped hair, and my big, fluffy, blonde dog. It was a benign act—wasn’t it?

            The policeman, like the elderly lady, did “let her off” this time. So, we are in the same boat, aren’t we? Not really. She cannot set foot on that property—or any property they own—for a determined period of time. Me, I could take the risk again if I chose to, but I know that my conscience won’t let me. I got caught, and I don’t like to break rules. That alone will effectively change my behavior: I will find somewhere else to walk. Moreover, it is about respect, and I have seen the whites of her eyes—as she stared me down. What about my daughter? What will motivate her to change her behavior? Embarrassment? Guilt?—at dragging an innocent friend down with her. I don’t know.

The thing that I am wrestling with now is—who committed the worse crime? Each of us made a decision with risks attached. Until Friday, I was able to justify my stroll along private property; the only thing that changed on that day was—I got caught.  Prior to meeting the land owner at the fire, my justifications felt valid: I am not harming anybody or anything, nobody even knows that I have been here, and anything that I take in, I am also carrying out. But life has consequences, and when we make mistakes the consequences eventually catch up with us. I didn’t feel like I was causing any harm, whereas theft causes harm—that is the difference.

            The reality is: making mistakes is part of the human condition. It is what we do with the mistake that matters. How do we adequately teach our children to take responsibility for their mistake, and then to go one step further and attend to the hurt they have caused in others…and in themselves? I think that we do it through understanding over misgiving and compassion over judgment. Her actions cannot exist without consequences; hopefully the consequences will provide a lesson as well as some thought-provoking reflection—but those are the things we have no control over. We can only “rule” on the crime, dish out the punishment, and then, in turn, support her through the tears, the anger, the guilt, and the difficulty of learning new things as she grows up.

            Tell me and I forget.

         Teach me and I remember.

         Involve me and I will learn.

Benjamin Franklin