Mourning (but the memories are good)

Once upon a time, I had a fairy godmother.

I don't remember how, exactly, this was decided. I only knew that I had a mother, and a grandmother, and aunts, and god mothers, and that she was something special and different. To a three-year-old, a fairy godmother was the logical next step, I suppose.

Her name was Dolly McQuaid. She raised nine children by herself (and lost one in infancy) when her husband left. She never divorced him, because she was Catholic. I only ever met her youngest daughters (they were all older than my eldest brother, who is 10 years my senior). They were all musical and lovely.

Mrs. McQuaid was old when I met her. She didn't strain the water out of the Kraft dinner before she mixed in the cheese (I wonder if this was a cost thing; if she kept the water, she didn't have to use butter or milk...). I never doubted that she loved me.

I wasn't the last child she baby-sat. Not even close. The whole time I was in university, she walked all the way across town (at least three miles per way) to look after a little boy whose name I never knew. I would stop and offer her a ride. She would never take it. Even in the rain. The walk kept her young.

She swam in the pool too. Every day during the summer. She'd stake out a corner in the shallow end and just float or do tiny round laps. The kids gave her space. She was practically part of the establishment. I wouldn't be surprised if they stopped charging her for a membership.

I've never seen a person so excited to turn 65 and get their seniors' discount. She's the reason our local paper had to stop offering a dollar every time someone found a mistake. Every time she's seen me since 2004, she's asked if I was my sister, and then asked if I was finished school.

A few years ago, at Christmas, my mother met her in the butcher's shop when they were ordering their turkeys. Mrs. McQuaid was in front of her, and ordered first. When she left, my mother said to the butcher "How big a turkey did Dolly order?", and when the butcher told her 12 pounds (12 pounds for eight kids, their spouses and children, but all she could afford), my mother said "Make it 24, and I'm paying for it."

It became a tradition. We bought her turkey, the butcher thought it was the best thing ever, and she would write us a letter in the paper after New Year's. Two Christmases ago, the butcher shop closed and mum had to arrange for Doug to call her and tell her not to buy a turkey, that it was taken care of. This year, mum and dad were in Australia. I have no idea how they did it, but after Christmas, there was a letter in the paper, thanking "Santa" for the turkey.

In August of 2009, I was lost. I had no job, I was running out of money and I was running out of hope. I was working a two week contract for a grocery store, which basically involved standing around a lot, but it was in Goderich, so I saw a lot of people I hadn't seen in years. One of them was the best teacher I had in high school. She asked me if I was still writing, and I said "kind of", because at the time, I really wasn't. And then I decided that I wanted to.

So right there, in the grocery store, on small pieces of paper that I've kept to remind me of how it started, I wrote the opening scenes of A Turkey for Mrs. Eckert* (*names changed to protect the conspirators). It was a turning point in my life.

And I owe it, mostly, to my fairy godmother.