Walden Cabin was robbed this weekend. Our housekeeper Eileen stopped in to prepare the place for guests and the locks were gone. She bolted like she’d seen a ghost, without even going inside. I don’t blame her. She called to tell me and I spent a strange few hours contemplating the range of possible news: The place was trashed. Everything was gone. Someone had written Thoreau Poser! in squashed purple coneflower on the walls. That would hurt.
I got an update on the train to Toronto. My neighbour Allan broke the news. The toaster oven is gone.
No damage. No messages. But no more TV dinners.
I was relieved. As I settled back into my VIA 1 chair, Chardonnay in hand, it suddenly dawned on me that my first brush with theft, something I’d long feared would happen at Walden, coincided with the tenth anniversary of the day Dad and I first broke ground for the cabin. Almost to the day. It must have been Dad! He’s been dead for four years.
The locks were rent asunder, cast aside. In fact they’d disappeared completely. I found the coincidence remarkably comforting.
Thanks for the reminder, Dad. I enjoyed those weeks on the clearcut. One thing, though: You’re playing with fire. The auto-off doesn’t work. You have to remember to pop your own toast.
