The Crossing Fawn

Two weeks ago, I took the scenic road to work.

One of the more stunning drives in Bucks County, the quiet, two-lane road has sprawling farms and beautiful multi-acre properties on either side, minimal traffic, and an abundance of nature, so it’s easy to get lost in present thoughts while the coffee stirs. In the winter months, the early morning sun creates glares in the windshield, which makes it difficult to see the walkers in the middle of the road near the blindspots. It’s better to stay alert and keep within the limit.

On this particular morning, a hundred feet ahead, a creature the size of a fox or dog emerged from the tree line to my right. The downshifting gears startled the animal, and as I approached I realized it was a spotted fawn churning its scrawny legs on the slippery road as it crossed to the other side. Coming to a near stop, I watched the fawn traipse into the field to the left then waited for its mother to cross. I eased by, checking the rearview mirrow. Five seconds, ten seconds, twenty seconds later and still nothing.

I don’t know much about the parenting methods of deer, but I began to wonder how long can a fawn last without its mother?

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I’m fortunate to have always known a mother’s unconditional love. My mom’s patience and support were key ingredients for my growth. She allowed my brother, sister, and I to choose our paths and make our mistakes, and it was up to us to either learn from those mistakes or not, to follow the worn path or forge one for ourselves.

Bound by her strong religious values and reserved wisdom, Mom had a peaceful approach to every problem, yet I still remember one of the rare times she had to give me some hard truth.

Some may find this amusing, but in middle school I joined the wrestling team. At the time, my rec basketball career was winding down, and my full-time soccer obsession was ramping up. I wasn’t very good at wrestling. My brother said I was good at counting the lights. I enjoyed training but hated losing weight because I loved to eat.

We had a star wrestler at 120 pounds and other really good ones at the surrounding weight classes, so in order to compete, I had to drop to 105. I cut a lot of weight in the beginning and stuck with it for most of the season. Thanksgiving was torturous. Limited turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and pumpkin pie. The winter holidays nearly broke me, but somewhere around the chocolate holiday and birthday cake I missed weight. Our team had a rule that anyone who missed weight was out the next two matches. It was a fair rule. Letting down your team had logical consequences. So I did what any 13 year-old know-it-all would do. I quit.

Mom is a sweet and generous person. Devoted in her church, active in the school and community, she gave up much of her time to ensure we had everything we needed to be successful. But as the baby of the family, the unofficial Golden Child, I’d gotten too comfortable with the back rubs or gentle words of encouragement.

Mom was furious.

As a former multi-sport athlete, a current PE Teacher and fitness instructor, she lashed out at me in a way I’d never experienced before or since.

I had to watch my teammates finish the season without me. Nobody cared. The team went on. Weeks later, the AD stopped me in the hallway and asked if I wanted to rejoin the team for the final tournament. I wouldn’t be allowed in the main pool but the one for the leftovers. I gave it a thought then asked Mom when I got home.

“No way,” she said, still livid. “You quit. You don’t get to just walk on back.”

It was a hard lesson but a valuable one. Loyalty and grit became cornerstones of my growing philosophy.

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For days, I worried about the fawn crossing the road. Would it ever again know its mother’s unconditional love? Would it ever again know the difference between the deer version of the pat on the back or the sometimes needed kick in the rear. Would it grow old and re-cycle the lessons received from its mother?

Later, I read up on the survival of fawns. They are born unscented, so the mother leaves them alone in the first few weeks, keeping them hidden while drawing any attention of predators away. When the time is right, she’ll come back to nurse but mostly leaves them for their protection. Often, this is when humans intervene, thinking they are rescuing an abandoned fawn when really they are interfering with the maturation process. When fawns are able to forage and outrun danger, they join the mother, who teaches them how to survive. For the next six to twelve months, the fawn will lose its spots, become one with the herd, and learn to live independently.

Since it’s early June, the fawn is likely early in the exploration phase. I like to think the mother was somewhere nearby in the tree cover, teaching the fawn to mind roads and loud machinery from a distance, allowing it to process its mistake. This time, the fawn learned its lesson, given its nonchalance as it embraced the safety of the field. Next time, maybe it will look before crossing the road.

Mom isn’t a good teacher, she’s a great teacher. Unlike fawns, who have a year to wise up before they’re on their own, I had the privilege of learning from Mom for forty-six years. Great teachers don’t have to say much. They allow situations to speak for themselves. In teacher language, these are called teachable moments.

Even in her final days, as her strength waned and her voice softened, she was still teaching.