"Driving Miss Stella (And Channeling Grandpa Emil)"

Grandpa Emil, Grandma Mary, My Mom & Uncle

Well, folks, I did it. I strapped on my big girl panties (metaphorically speaking—though let’s be real, sometimes you need the literal ones too) and hauled Sidecar Stella, my sassy 1971 Alpine Sprite mobile bar, all by myself. Well, almost by myself—shoutout to my trusty sidekick, Candy, who probably deserves hazard pay for putting up with my trailer-backing theatrics.

Getting Stella to the Sherwood Park Chamber of Commerce Appreciation BBQ ? Easy. Backing her up a steep little hill while she actively fought me like a stubborn mule? An adventure. At one point, I swear she had her own GPS set to "Chaos Mode." I’d correct, she’d rebel. I’d adjust, she’d laugh in my face. There may have been a moment where I questioned all my life choices, but I refused to let a single-axle diva defeat me. And guess what? We made it. Leveled her out, popped open the windows, and served up herbed lemonade to a crowd of lovely local business folks who adored Stella, my hustle, and (most importantly) the drinks.

Then, because this is Alberta, the skies said, "Nice event you got there… would be a shame if it hailed." And so it did. C’est la vie.

But here’s the thing—this isn’t really about trailers or lemonade or even my newfound parking prowess. It’s about my grandpa Emil.

If you know me, you know I was that kid—the one permanently attached to Grandpa’s side from the moment I could wobble after him. He was the kind of man who never saw "little girl" when he looked at me—just "capable human." No limits, no "that’s for boys," just "let’s do this."

He taught me to fish, clean a fish, back a boat into the water, and drive the motor (all before I could legally drive a car). He handed me a soldering gun (still not entirely sure why—maybe I just thought it looked fun?). He showed me how to change oil, check tire pressure, and swap a flat. And yet, this same man also taught me to make fluffy pancakes, roll out perfect lefse, soft-boil an egg, and whip up a soup that could cure any bad day.

Gender roles? Never met her.

One of my favorite memories? Camping in their green Volkswagen pop-top camper, roasting marshmallows. Mine caught fire (as they do), and in my panic, I shook it like a Polaroid picture—only for it to vanish into the night. The next morning, Grandpa peered up at the canvas roof and deadpanned:

"What kind of tridactyl took a crap on my canvas?!"

Turns out, it wasn’t prehistoric bird poop. It was my rogue marshmallow. (I’m still laughing about this decades later.)

So here I am now, years after forgetting what a warrior woman I am, finally remembering. I can wrestle a stubborn trailer into submission. I can run a business, teach other women they’re not "less than," and do it all without turning into a stereotype or a doormat. I raised a strong daughter who’s raising three little warrior princesses of her own. And every time I back Stella into a tight spot, I swear I hear Grandpa chuckle and say, "Atta girl."

Life’s a lot like backing up a trailer—sometimes you gotta wiggle, adjust, and cuss a little before you get it right. But you’ll get there.

And if all else fails? At least you’ll have a good story. (And maybe a rogue marshmallow stuck to your roof.)

—Cheers from me & Stella

Thoughts? How you became a warrior? Hit me with 'em. And if you’ve got a Grandpa Emil in your life, go call ‘em. (Or at least raise a glass to ‘em.)