Sometimes Breaking Rules Is Rewarding

Most of the time when rules are broken there are consequences. I transgressed. I didn’t get caught, and I might even suggest that my audacious behavior was doubly rewarded.

My husband and I recently sold and emptied our downtown Chicago condo. We crammed our SUV and headed south to deposit the furnishings at our winter getaway.  One hour into the eighteen-hour drive, our pregnant daughter in NJ texted – she was in the hospital with preeclampsia.  Two weeks from full term, our grandson was making an early debut. 

First babies take their time even when induced. We crossed the Florida state line, stuffed belongings into the condo’s cupboards and closets, grabbed a few hours of sleep, and repacked for a morning flight to Newark.  First stop – the Mother-Child unit to cuddle and welcome a healthy but small new grandson. Second stop – my daughter’s home to put order in an unassembled nursery.

Before my grandson and his folks pulled into their driveway, I’d racked up seven round trips to the hospital, three trips to unfamiliar grocery and drug stores, and washed and folded countless loads of tiny baby clothes and blankets. The getting-ready-for-baby-to-come-home to do list made me (almost) forget the chaos I’d left in Florida. Mostly, I longed for a familiar bed and pillow and the return of my yoga and daily walk routine. So, once the baby and his parents were home and napping, I treated myself to a walk. 

Between my daughter’s home and town, signs for a nature area appeared. My sneakers left the unforgiving, cement sidewalk to crunch on acorns and wood chips. Instead of car exhaust and grass clippings, the scent of decaying leaves, damp earth and sweet clover drifted around me in a light, late-summer breeze. As I walked along the path, a faint, rhythmic rush like water trickling intensified.  When the narrow trail emptied into a clearing, I surveyed a rich landscape hidden from the bustling village road.

Water careened over a metal plate beneath a narrow, wooden footbridge. A lagoon, its root beer colored water, meandered helter-skelter through shoulder-high wetland grasses. Here and there, box turtles paddled and climbed onto sunny perches. Milk pods and seed-heads swayed like the bows in an orchestral string section.  Like a magnet, the tranquility of the preserve pulled me deeper into its core.

Around the back of the lagoon, the mulched path split. Preventing me from accessing the water’s edge were two orange cones and a white metal sign stating:  DO NOT WALK ON PATH DURING CONSTRUCTION.

Beyond the roadblock, I spied movement in the center of the lagoon. I puzzled the sign at my feet, cursed it as I observed the fluttering profile of a bird coming to rest in the water. A blue heron. Around the orange cones, impressions scarred the newly constructed trail.  Deer, dogs, and man-made treads had trespassed before me.  I scanned for other foot traffic and construction noise, and then scampered to the lagoon’s shore. Poised, as if hunting for a mid-morning snack, a mature blue heron held court. From my back pocket, I fished out my iphone and captured the image.

Cocky, I savored disobedience’s reward by posting it to Instagram then backtracked to the fork. Picking up the adjacent trail, I looped around the back of a deserted grammar school playground and emerged from the woods onto a residential sidewalk.  On the baseball diamond ahead of me, I made out the shape of what I thought was a loose dog rolling in the mud around first base.  As the animal somersaulted in the dust, scratching maniacally, something about the dog seemed peculiar.  The thin lengthy tail and lanky form screamed canine, but the small, triangular face did not.  I crept closer, grabbing for my cell phone again. Fifteen feet in front of me was not a household pet freed from a fenced-in yard, but an immature fox with a nasty case of fleas. 

Hiking back to my daughter’s house, I thought about how flagrantly and nonchalantly I’d disregarded the construction warning. I got lucky. Trail construction was on hiatus, forest rangers were absent and so were other hikers who may have frightened off the heron and fox. One thing had led to another.  Tension led to disobedience and disobedience led to reward.  Not often the case, if ever.  Twice blessed for taking a risk, for venturing out in strange surroundings, and for being in the right place at the right time.  All thanks to my grandson.

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