“You always drive a cute little sports car, Mom, and it always has a rotten banana in it.”
I laugh and bat at a fruit fly before I shift gears. She’s so right. Between the two houses and her dance lessons and my gigs, we spend an awful lot of time in the Mini Coop. For her thirteenth birthday she wanted to recreate her two fondest memories from childhood. One was a hike through the “magic forest” with her Dad and one was a road trip with me.
She puts a new CD in and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs blast us towards Fort Langley. She fills the little sacred egg of our space with whimsical pondering. Her favourite year was last year, she loves camping with her Dad, she is so grateful for a step brother and how she feels that relationship has formed. Without prompting, she exclaims what a happy day it was when I got remarried. She speaks about being able to navigate her social life and school better, how dance is becoming not just a technical achievement but a part of her soul, how she misses Violet, how she yearns to be closer to family, how she’s starting to really “get” school. She talks about loving Jesus but having a hard time with the right wing Christian ideals that seems opposite to His teachings. She raises her voice in utter disgust, exasperated over the American President, wondering why people would be so stupid as to vote for him and continue to support him when he’s most obviously evil. She speaks about her new friends and her older friends, her cousins, her grandparents, her changing sense of style, what she appreciates about a certain boy…”
I listen and I listen. This day is just for her and me. When was the last time I dedicated an entire day to us?
My daughter talks things out loud to understand them and I am very aware that she may not always choose to speak with me so freely as she marches into her teenaged years. I try to really take her in without gawking at her. She has that lovely strong Brackney girl jawline from my side. Ah yes, my face used to be shaped like that before I got fat. She has green hazel eyes like my mother. Her hands flutter as she talks and they are exactly like mine but young and olive skinned. The rest of her is all sinewy elegant Kopsa. Her legs stretch on forever, slender as a tulip. She’s five foot seven at least, her long curly hair is pulled back in a thick dark pony and her swooped eyebrows remind me of a swallow in flight. That sounds very Song of Solomon, I know, but to me, today, she is the most beautiful creature in the world. She is still covered in the dew of morning, a butterfly just popped out of the cocoon, about to realize she has wings…Amazing how much love can pour out of our hearts when we just bloody well stop for a moment and breathe and look, really look, at the person beside us.
First stop for our birthday surprise road trip is the Blacksmith bakery in Fort Langley. According to Karen Ydenberg, this is the best place for croissants. Nora gasps when she sees them and orders a smashed avocado and scrambled eggs inside one. I have the prosciutto eggs benny and I think it may be one of the best eggs benny I’ve had in my life. Nora says her favourite eggs benny is the one made by Michelle Lieffertz. “Oooooh yes!” I change my tune, she’s right, I agree.
Being thirteen now, I figure it’s time to introduce her to a caffeinated beverage that I know she will love and I know will now cost me five dollars a pop when we stop: the London Fog. She isn’t entirely sure what i have ordered her, I say, “trust me”.
I embarrass her by insisting on some selfies while the barista works her magic, then the dream in a cup comes and Nora takes one sip and her pleasure is so private I have to look away,. “Ooh yes, Mom, ooh my God I can’t even believe this exists, it tastes so good!” I smile at the foam on her upper lip.
We savour our beautiful breakfast then drive to our surprise location (she hasn’t a clue). We curl through farmland and berry fields and tufts of forest sprawling out in the valley until we come to a ranch. I pull in and there are two horses waiting, saddled. She gasps, “Oh Mom, oh Mom, my dream come true!”
We are greeted by a couple of big burly friendly farm dogs who immediately roll on their side for a tummy rub. We park and approach the stable where a wrangler is dressing horses. We shake hands and strike up just a few polite words as he is busy and he strikes me as cowboy quiet. The smells, the sounds, it all reminds me of growing up on the farm, I smile wide and warm remembering riding two to a horse with the Thomas’ and the Whitesides. I haven’t been on a horse in decades.
The female wrangler has a couple other horses ready for a mother and a wee daughter about the age of five. I am astonished the little one is going to be on a horse by herself but she’s obviously done this before in her little pink cowboy boots and helmet. Our other riders are perhaps a pair of brothers from the city, I am not sure. They are quiet. One looks like a retired rocker with windblown grey hair and a big silver cross around his neck. The other fellow is more of a country boy with a baseball cap on and a black Pantera band t-shirt sporting a guy being punched in the face, “Vulgar Display of Power”. What a unique gathering of riders this Friday morning! I love anything that draws disparate people together. We are going to be lead by a female wrangler. She’s country confident and frankly gorgeous with spurs on her boots and smart light eyes. Probably ten years younger than me. 
My wrangler brings my horse forward, Diamond. He assures me, “He’s gentle”. I peer down beneath the horse, I’m sure it’s a she. My wrangler chuckles and says, “I mean she. She acts funny sometimes, she’s confused, thinks she’s a boy. I should have named her Ellen.” I don’t laugh at this lesbian joke but I am not surprised by it either. It’s something one of my uncles might say. Sigh. He chuckles, I don’t.
I swing my leg over the horse and plant my butt on the saddle. My wrangler is beside me cinching things up making sure the stirrups are the right length. He asks me first to raise my legs up and forward, “Pretend you’re at the doctors” he says. Did I hear right? Well, that’s a little…uncomfortable.
I raise my knees. I didn’t really want to be thinking about the gynaecologist right now with my legs spread and a strange man beside me. I shake my head. Stupid to make a joke about something you know nothing about, man. When a woman goes to a gynaecologist it’s usually because something has gone wrong: pain, blood, infection, cysts, cancer, dead babies…I shake it off. No biggie.
He then asks me to stand up in the saddle to make sure there is space between my pelvis and the saddle, “enough space to slide your hands between your legs”. He asks me to demonstrate, I do. Then he offers, “Or I could do that for you.” I have given this man absolutely no indication that we have a flirtatious relationship. I say flatly, “No.” Creep. Then he heads over to measure my daughter’s stirrups. I am watching like a hawk now. He gets her to stand up, she slides her hands between her legs innocently, “All good!” The wrangler walks around to my horse again and mutters an aside to me, “Notice I didn’t make her the same offer.”
And we’re off!
Nora is delighted, bouncing after the female wrangler heading towards the woods and I’m holding the reigns entirely creeped out that this man in his sixties even put in the air the idea of putting his hands between my daughter’s legs. I would have said something except I am slow to sort of sink in just how inappropriate this guy is and didn’t want to cast a darkness over my daughter’s beautiful day. I try to put it out of my mind. 
The trees are gorgeous in their yellow oranges and reds. The sky is complimentary bright optimist blue. I try to stay on my horse and sneak a few pictures of Nora at the same time. It’s a beautiful warm October, such a blessing to not have the heavy rains yet. Our female wrangler is holding the reigns for the five year old so the norse can never get away and she leads us on a short trot. Nora bounces in her saddle like a paddle ball and giggles the whole time, so surprised by the speed. When we slow to a walk again she beams, breathless, “I’ve never gone fast like that at Timberline camp!” We talk about my childhood and her camping experience and her hopes for a pony someday and how lovely this all is. We plan to maybe do a family getaway at a horse ranch in the Cariboo. “That would be so awesome, Mom! I can’t imagine Scott on a horse!” She laughs.
As we continue on through the poplars and maples I can’t stop thinking about my spread legs, the gynaecologist and that creepy cowboy offering to put his hands up my crotch. One comment, okay. Two comments, hmm. Four comments in the matter of five minutes tells me this is his shtick. He says shit like this all the time. I don’t care if he’s a country boy and old world, my uncles, my step Dad? They would never ever joke about sticking their hands up someone’s crotch in the work place to a woman who is clearly married and beside one of her children.
I let my horse eat grass while I take another picture of my daughter, the sunlight catching her hair all golden.
“Don’t let your horse eat grass or you’ll never get her to keep up.” The female wrangler calls out to me, good natured.
“Copy that!” I assure and give ol’ Diamond a gentle kick. “Yaw” I say. Is it dumb to say “yaw”, is the horse rolling her eyes right now? Probably.
I can’t stop thinking about this wrangler. This guy’s main clientele are young girls. Young girls who love ponies and draw them with coloured manes and tape their pictures on their bedroom walls. Has he not read the news?! Does he know nothing, absolutely nothing about the #metoo movement or any of the recent sexual harassment trials that have been going on in the courts and in the entertainment industry? His behaviour is not only unprofessional and disrespectful, he could be putting his business in danger with a sexual harassment charge. And that won’t only affect him but her. I wonder if she’s overheard him. I wonder how much it bothers her. I wonder if she’s ever said anything? Surely someone has mentioned his behaviour before? This must put her in an awkward position. Or…maybe she’s so used to it…I don’t know.
I watch the female wrangler ahead chatting happily with the little girl who is asking questions about her horse. I stare at the t-shirt in front of me, “Vulgar display of Power”. If I completely ignore this incident what kind of role model am I to my daughter. No. We don’t have to put up with this shit anymore. We just don’t. I am going to send Nora off to pet the dogs and I am going to confront my wrangler about his behaviour and at the very least, let him know how it made me feel, giving him the benefit of the doubt that he’s maybe a shy awkward guy who think he’s being charming. Am I ready to file a sexual harassment report if he tells me to chill out and get a life? Am I ready to threaten to write him up in Trip Advisor at the very least? I don’t want to do that because I bet this is her business too. Hm. But do I want to have him keep doing this to women and girls? No. I’ll be the “bitch”, I’ll be the “whiner”, I’ll do it.
We get back to the ranch and to my dismay the creepy wrangler is not there. I look around a bit, nope. Ack. I hate to put this on her but…I do. I ask the female wrangler, “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I tell her what was said to me and why it made me feel uncomfortable and unsafe and why I felt it was inappropriate, disrespectful and unprofessional. I also say, “At the very least he has to stop doing that or your business is going to get slapped with a sexual harassment suit someday. This just can’t happen anymore. I am telling you this because I don’t want to just walk away and then write something nasty up on Trip Advisor, you know?” She nods, she looks me straight in the eye. She says, “I am so sorry this happened to you. You shouldn’t be treated that way, I agree. It’s completely inappropriate. But I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
I blink.
Do I think she’s going to tell this guy? Probably not. Do I think things are going to change? Probably not. And if she does tell him, I can tell by the way she received the news that it is going to be extremely uncomfortable for her. God. What if this guy is her father or older brother? No. I do have to talk to him myself.
I table it. Nora is petting a huge old white bushy dog who has fallen in love, his eyes half lidded, twigs in his fur, tail thumping the ground as he lies on his side. Dear happy boy. We get back into our car again. Damn, I took out that banana but the fruit flies are still around. Swat! Nora laughs. “Mom, this is the best birthday EVER.”
We head to our next adventure. We cross the border into Lynden because I remember something about antiques and a windmill and thought heading to the USA to see a few small little towns might be fun, new, not too far away, and not too hard on the pocket book. As we cross the border Nora says, “I feel a little uncomfortable here, Mom. They have guns…and they voted for-”
“I know dear, but a lot of people, especially on the coast here, hate the current government situation.”
“Do you like America, Mom?”
“Oh yes, I love the USA! I have so many friends here, like JP and Cathy in San Francisco…so much amazing literature comes from the US like Tennessee Williams and Maya Angelou, some great thinkers of our time like Noam Chomsky, some incredible humanitarians like Martin Luther King and activists like Harvey Milk…musicians like Bruce Springsteen, James Brown…”
“Right! But I’m glad I’m Canadian. Are there any reasons to hate Canadians?”
“Well…sometimes people are unhappy about trade deals, sometimes people blame us for being too open to immigration and they imagine that terrorists get in through Canada…”
“I don’t believe that.” She sneers.
“I don’t either. But people get afraid of the “other” you know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“But that’s not really a Canada and US thing, that’s more of a Conservative and Liberal thing or actually, a human thing. We think of the US as being conservative because of the current wild boar in office but there are a lot of open minded compassionate and intelligent people in the US just like there are in Canada. And of course, we know there are small minded people in Canada too, right?”
“Yeah. Like hello, gay people have always existed, we didn’t invent them! The world isn’t six thousand years old!”
“Right.”
The customs officer is pleasant, asks us where we are going.
“Oh a birthday adventure to LaConner to check out some shops!”
He wishes us a good day.
“Mom, he wasn’t very friendly.”
“You don’t think so? He didn’t ask us to pull over our car for a full search. I think he was plenty friendly!”
“How do they know if they should search you just by a short conversation?”
“Well…perhaps he would see the Mini Cooper and know we are of a certain income. Then he would see how we are dressed. He likely noticed my wedding ring and knew you were my daughter. Unfortunately I would have to say it probably helps that we’re caucasian-”
“That’s crappy!”
“I know, but -”
“White people can be terrorists and drug dealers too.”
“Oh I know. He would likely also see the fire fighter sticker on the window and know that I am married to a first responder or perhaps I am a first responder…”
“I think the Canadian guy will be friendlier. He’ll probably be like “come on in, we take ANYBODY!”
I chuckle, “Many people would agree with you there, honey…that’s the problem.”
We pass the dairy farm that someone recommended we stop in for icecream. Nora asks if we can have some.
“Let’s avoid American dairy, honey. We don’t want puss and antibiotics in our chocolate mint swirl.”
We pull into town and I see a big windmill. Underneath is a strip mall…this isn’t quite the magical little spot I recall seeing twenty-three years ago. Maybe I am in the wrong part of town or maybe in 1995 I was just so in love with my boyfriend at the time and I was so young and beautiful and wide eyed, everything was magical. I do notice a craft and antiques fair happening at their exhibition grounds.
“Wanna go?”
“Sure!”
We get our treat there, home made fudge. I buy the cutest apron on the planet with little red roosters on it…it isn’t exactly catering to a clientele of thirteen year old girls but Nora finds wonder in it all the same. She gasps over the lace and crochet, candles and angels and other white and lavender froufrou. We indulge in a tiny cupcake sold by a rockabilly girl in full 1940s red curls. I tell her, “You AND your red velvet cupcakes just look delicious today!” I point out an antique sled and tiny rocking chair. Nora oohs over some old twinkly broaches and bracelets and a rather fine rendering of a colony of penguins.
We quickly sugar crash with the fudge and the cupcake combo before lunch. Or perhaps I have organized a day I’d like to spend with Anita instead of a day that my teenager would like to spend. I offer some self sacrifice:
“Instead of going to LaConner which will be sort of like this but more posh…we could go into Seattle…I don’t know what we’d see there because I didn’t plan a day…but…we could go downtown and maybe hit up some outlet stores on the way back…I don’t have any more money to spend on clothes but I can loan you some if you wanted to spend your allowance…we could go to the pier maybe, a bit like Granville island…so you decide, a small town experience or a big city experience? It’s your day.”
She folds up her legs like a blue heron and curls up towards the car door.
“Can I think about it?”
“Okay, we’ll head south a bit before we have to decide.”
After a few minutes she offers,
“I think the original plan will be okay Mom.”
She falls asleep. She is still asleep when we get to the Chuckanut drive. It’s absolutely stunning, the deciduous trees in full splendour, the sun sparkling on the sea…I call out her name gently,
“Nora?”
Nope. She’s out. I did get her up early and she’s been going pretty hard with dance this week. I’ll let her sleep. Obviously she needs it. She wakes up just as we get out of the woods and back to farmland, missing it all.
“You just missed the woods.”
“No!”
“It’s okay. We have woods at home.”
We pass a farm that has a hand painted sign at its front lane, “No Trump”.
Nora points, delighted, “Look at that!”
I chuckle, “Told you, a lot of Americans hate the current government.”
We drive into sleepy adorable LaConner. When I was twenty-five I remember pouring over silver spoons and creepy taxidermy and big grandfather clocks and eating ice-cream at a little lighthouse tower.
What we get is a long line of shops that are catering to middle upper class women in their sixties and the light house ice-cream shop is closed. Our first shop delights Nora though, “Bunnies by the Bay”. It’s a baby store with, you guessed it, bunnies. The perfect place for a Grandmotherly stop. Then we poked in a few arts and craft stores and candle shops and such, walking past ladies’ lounge wear with its kimonos and stretchy pants and big colourful beaded necklaces.
I had Facebooked my foodie friends about where to eat in LaConner and one said, “Seattle” and the other said, “Have no idea, LaConner is the place I drive through to get somewhere better”. So, we pop into the place that seems open and suitable for minors: Anelias’s Kitchen and Stage. I am a bit skeptical at first because it seems like a country bar. When the waitress comes with our Polish Platter, we are blessed with handmade thin skinned crispy pierogies, beautiful soft savoury halupki, a house made Polish sausage with hot mustard, homemade sauerkraut and a fresh delicious red cabbage salad. It is the best Polish food I have had outside of Warsaw! We order another round of pierogies. So good! “We have to take Harper here” She says.
We head to Nasty Jack’s Antiques. The floor is so crooked in there I actually have to leave, I feel nauseous. We had about enough of antiques anyway by then. We walk along the boardwalk and quietly I wonder if I should have chosen Seattle instead. Then we come to Orange Rainbow cafe and she begs me for an ice-cream. I comply. Before I realize what is happening we get two HUGE double scooped cones, that’s their “small”. I could never finish it all, besides I’m still thinking about the antibiotics and the puss but I kindly don’t mention it. I stick to the crunchy bits and kick most of the cream into a trash can. Nora has chocolate mint, her favourite. We check out an exhibit in the art gallery about environmental change and then ooh over a woodworker’s shop. We get back to the car.
“So, honey, we can take the 5 and head into Bellingham and see a few outlet stores if you like…”
“But – aren’t we going to go back along the Chuckanut trail that I slept through?”
“Well, it’s kind of either one or the other because Chuckanut is a bit further out and then we come along the North side of Bellingham. Though I suppose if there is time we could hit Bellis Fair but I think we have to choose one or the other considering the time.”
“I want to see the trees.”
This surprises me! What thirteen year old girl wants to see the trees instead of the mall?! 
On our way to the Chuckanut we stop at a nursery because I want to get some parrot tulip bulbs. They showcase huge pumpkins out front. Then, Nora sees a tiny white pumpkin that fits into the palm of her hand that she names Harrison.
“Oh, Mom, this pumpkin is the cutest thing I have ever seen IN MY LIFE. Please can I have him?!”
He’s 1.25$
“Sure!”
As we head towards the Chuckanut, Nora takes pictures of Harrison, cuddles Harrison, coos, says he’s the best present ever.
“Mom, I know most kids my age want clothes or a new computer or something for their birthday and I am very very happy with a small vegetable. Am I weird? Hey wait, is a pumpkin a fruit or a vegetable?”
“It’s a squash so I think it’s a vegetable but now that I think about it…I don’t entire know!” (it’s a fruit!)
We head up the side of the mountain and now we’re into the trees and Nora goes bananas, a total Anne with an E moment:
“Mom, Mom, this is sooooooooo beautiful! It’s….the most incredible drive I’ve ever seen….Okay, I like America now. It’s sooooooo pretty! Oh oh oh look at the trees, oh we have to stop so I can run through this forest, I must, I have to!”
She reads my mind,
“I’m acting like Anne right now, aren’t I?”
“It’s wonderful.”
“Except Anne would call this road…exquisite! Magical! Exasperating!”
“Exhilarating?”
“Yeah!”
We pull into the park and she runs through the woods to the rocky ledge. We have perfect timing. The islands are swimming in a pink and purple haze and the sea is shining a path of yellow to the centre of the sun. Nora sits cross-legged on the cliff (while I resist saying “please be careful”) and she stares out and contemplates the big big life ahead of her. I take a few pictures and hang back. A little white dog decides to join her briefly, then he’s off.
This is a good mother day. I hope it makes up for the bitchy mother days. Or worse, the days of neglect. When I was pregnant, among many many excited and loving and wonderful things my friend Anita said, she also not so jokingly said, “Welcome to the world of guilt.” Ah yes, I know what she means. So many times I screw up, this week even. Late for dance again, forgot to sign that thing for school, don’t have a healthy enough lunch ready, snap her head off rudely when she asks a simple question, sigh heavily when she interrupts me while I’m writing…her little shoulders shrink, I’ve made her feel small.
But over all, kiddo, I think we’re doing okay. Look at you. You’ve got an appreciation for nature’s wonder, you make your own fun out of any moment. All you’ve asked me to buy for you today is a tiny white pumpkin. You’re curious. You inquire about social justice and politics and religion and how to move in the world with Kindness and confidence. And I’m quite sure if a man joked he was going to put his hands up your crotch you’d tell him to F off because you’ve been taught some self respect.
I ponder all this and wipe a tear away from my eye. So proud. The ridiculous huge unreasonable and entirely true and right pride of a mother. I call out,
“We should head back before the sun sets. I don’t want to walk through the woods in the dark.”
“Okay!”
She bounds up and we race back to the car, chasing a train that passes through the park. We settle into quiet after a long beautiful day and end up taking the late ferry and eating pizza from the pub at ten thirty at night, quite hungry by then. She heads to bed with ham and pineapple breath.
“brush your teeth”.
She nods, of course, duh, sleepily. Then:
“Mom, I will never forget this day. Never. Thank you. I love you.”
She wraps her arms around my neck and holds on for a while then heads up to her bed.
I sit down to the computer and write to the ranch exactly what the wrangler said, how it made me feel and why it was inappropriate. I ask for an apology, an acknowledgment that what he did was wrong and an assurance that it won’t happen again or I will file a report.
A few days later, no answer. I write to a different location to reach them, their Facebook page.
No answer. I text to the phone I have for the ranch. No answer.
Today I text again with a warning, if I don’t hear, I’ll go public.
The wrangler in question I believe is on the other end of this text because I communicated with him before at this number to set up the ride. He mistakenly writes to me, “Tempted to tell her to F off.”
I text, “You just wrote this to Lucia, well done. No understanding or apology at all? No assurance of change?”
After an hour I receive this text, “Good morning. I would like to apologize for the inappropriate comments I made last weekend. I am sorry you felt sexually harassed that was never my intention. I can assure you I will not be making inappropriate comments to anyone in the future.”
A note I’m quite sure was written by her, not him, cut and pasted to me.
Well. I think I scared him into not joking so creepily with strangers at least.
For Nora’s official birthday morning (our road trip was on the 19th, her birthday is the 23rd), Scott gives her an adult cruiser bike. She gasps. “It’s so beautiful! I’ve always wanted a white bike!”
She swings her long slender legs over and straps on her helmet and she’s off. She’s started walking and riding to school now for the first time and it’s still hard for me to let her go. Especially since she sill gets a bit lost, despite the fact I spent two hours walking it with her, continuing to ask, “Okay, so where’s North? Where’s Dads? Where’s our condo? Where’s school? Look for the mountains, that’s North…”
She’ll get it.
With a wave, she pedals away, somewhat haphazardly. We chuckle as she heads uphill and starts to wobble, likely because she’s still in first gear.
“She’ll learn” says Scott, “Though with those long legs perhaps she can’t even tell”.
I watch her swerve up the hill a while longer then she straightens. Right. Good.
Feel those wings, Butterfly? 
