Sarah – A Run for Life.

A few years before she was killed on duty, Sarah Beckett worked in a homicide unit.

I worked with her on a couple of cases. I did not get to know her but I formed impressions. She was “very.” Very professional, respected, hard-working – and pretty. It was hard not to notice her.

Sarah returned to working on the road. That’s where she was killed.

The morning she died I was working in the same homicide unit Sarah had been in. Her death rocked our office. One of my colleagues – one of the strongest and toughest people I’ve ever met – both physically and mentally, wept in front of a desk. Mostly there was shock, and silence, and whispers. For a few minutes it looked like our unit would be investigating Sarah’s death. Fortunately that changed. It would have been too much for too many.

Yesterday, I ran in the inaugural Sarah Beckett Memorial Run.

There were many families there. A community rallied behind Sarah’s family, her friends, her co-workers.

I witnessed stirring moments. A West Shore cop sprinting to the finish line. Sprinting at ten in the morning after being up all night working a nightshift. Sprinting when he could be sleeping, with another nightshift looming just hours away.

Canine cops running in full uniform. Weighted down by boots and vests.

Families running together. Strollers and children. A pregnant mom, herself a cop, who did not have to run, but did because she could.

My most abiding memories of the run are mascots and Mounties.

Our three year old daughter Molly came to watch the race. What she saw were giant furry figures, like Marty the Marmot, towering over her. She was terrified. She cried and cried, tears running, snot flowing. Molly finally calmed down on the drive home. But she remained fascinated by the mascots. And by her fear. She kept asking me to tell her the story over and over, about how she was scared. So I did. And I told her that I was scared too. I said that she was scared because she was too young, and I was scared because I was too old.

Molly is too young. Too young to understand what Sarah’s 5k was all about.

I am old. Older than Sarah Beckett of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police ever got to be.

The Mounties get a lot of bad press, much of it undeserved. What rarely gets reported is how close knit they are. The RCMP is a national family. Tens of thousands of members and one large family. I’d experienced that first hand when I’d marched in Sarah’s funeral – me and dozens of my Victoria Police colleagues lost in a sea of Red Serge.

Yesterday that sea of red didn’t march. It ran. At a run for Sarah. A run for life. A run that everyone there felt privileged to be a part of. A run that everyone there wished never had to happen.

Beckett 5k

 

Toxic

Our home is in a subdivision regulated by bylaws. In British Columbia this is called a bare land strata. We’re all bound by rules and regulations that relate to how our properties look.

Recently, our strata council resigned en masse. In the letter explaining their actions, they wrote that “there is a split within the community” and called the current situation “a toxic community environment.”

The professional property management company that the council had hired quit too. Their letter to us said, “we wish you the best of luck moving forward and healing the divisions in your community.”

As so many neighbour disputes do, this all started over a fence.  It’s gone way beyond that now. If the strata council hadn’t resigned, they might have been voted out. Special meetings have been called. Letters from opposing sides tell us about tribunals and Supreme Court.

I don’t know which side to support. I see merit in the arguments of both sides. And blame too.

But this toxic, fractured community is not the neighbourhood I know.

It has snowed, pretty much non-stop, for the better part of the last two days. A region where snow is a novelty has been hit very hard. Our roads remain unplowed. Our children and our dogs step outside and disappear into banks of powdery fluff. Our driveways require shovelling. Over and over and over again. I’ve done mine at least 8 times in less than 48 hours. Last night I was sorer than I have been in years. A 50 kilometer trail run hurt less than 50 centimeters of snow.

And it’s been glorious. We live across the street from a park. It’s been filled with kids. Constantly. Toboggans and crazy carpets and remote controlled ski-doos. The sounds of delighted children fill the air.

The park has been full of adults too. Parents revelling in two consecutive snow days. No work, some shovelling and much play. With their children, and their friends’ children and the children of people they don’t even know.

The sidewalks have been alive. With banter between friends and strangers. Commiserating about the non-stop shoveling. Sharing stories of blizzards long past. People slowing down, taking time to talk. To be in the moment. To share both the beauty of our snow-covered community and the frustrations of winter.

Everywhere I look I see neighbours helping one another. Stuck cars don’t remain stuck for long. An older woman falls. A younger woman rushes over. Sidewalks and public paths get shovelled. I just watched a man push his snow-blower up and down our street, clearing the road itself. In the absence of snowplows, he’s doing it himself. Doors get opened to share hot chocolate, and snacks, and some laughs.

Nothing is toxic. Nothing divisive. Entirely the opposite. A community coming together.

That’s exactly the kind of neighbourhood I want my daughter to grow up in. One where we can tie a rope to her old baby’s bathtub and pull her down the snowy streets, to play with her friends and rejoice in the glories of winter. A neighbourhood of nice homes, stunning scenery and wonderful people.

It doesn’t take much for a neighbourhood to become toxic. It started with a fence.

But maybe it doesn’t take much for that neighbourhood to heal either. Maybe all it takes is some snow.

 

Snowday