The Story of Grace MacFarlane

Her name was Grace MacFarlane, she grew up on the edge of town.
Her father bootlegged rum and rye, her mother nowhere to be found.

“Born on Easter morn’ on a cold and snowy day,”
Brothers Cam and James said, “that’s why she turned out that way.”

Left to her own devices, Grace could find her own way ’round.
She smartly used her bantering skills to dodge obstacles she found.

Because she wrote her letters backwards and never learned to read,
Her teachers called her obstinate and named her the “class weed.”

So school was not her choice pursuit, but Daddy didn’t mind.
He used her grit and math smarts to relieve his daily grind.

He trusted her to keep the books and tend the stills with care
And offload hooch in the dark of night when no one else was there.

Then Daddy’s business took a turn for the better in a way.
He started smuggling guns and drugs to earn a bit more pay.

Though one run-in left him bloody, Grace stitched him up with skill.
At nine she’d learned to sew quite well from a seamstress up the hill.

When his wounds began to coarsen him, he hung on with booze and smoke.
When Grace heard his wheezing in the night, she began to lose her hope.

Yet her stitching skills were noticed by neighbours up and down the row.
With a threaded needle in her hand, Grace knew she was born to sew.

Grace sewed on patches for her brothers and made garments on request.
Her needlework and tailoring skills became famous as the best.

Then one day her luck all changed when the syndicate came to call.
Daddy feared the worst, grabbed a bat and ordered Grace down the hall.

As she trembled in the parlour, not knowing what they’d done,
She opened the drawer of the writing desk and pulled out a hidden gun.

“We’re here to see your daughter, James, about her sewing skills.
We need some heavy coats designed to protect our men from chills.”

Grace laid the gun back in the drawer and heard the men draw near.
“Ah, there you are,” her father said. “Don’t be afraid, my dear.”

The boss man towered o’er Grace like a hawk upon its prey.
His coat, his hat, his suit, his shoes, said custom all the way.

“Smugglers’ coats with pockets is what we want from you.
I’ll pay top dollar for each one you sew, and that is ALL you’ll do!”

His demand was not a question, more an order and command,
One she knew she couldn’t run away from or dismiss with slight of hand.

As she nodded in agreement, she felt her body shiver.
Daddy looked upon his little Grace, he knew she wouldn’t wither.

From ’31 to ’39, she sewed each coat with care
Until the lawmen broke the ring, then demand just wasn’t there.

With Daddy dead, her brothers gone and Canada at war again,
She headed to the recruitment post and signed on to the victory plan.

With seamstresses being highly sought, she started the next day,
Sewing uniforms and parachutes for six years at good pay.

When the war was finally over, Grace could dream for once this time.
She moved into the garment district and opened her own line.

Her coat designs were practical yet elegant and unique,
Renowned for handy pockets, extra warmth and stylish chic.

“Everyone in winter,” she said, “should have a warm and toasty coat.
And it shouldn’t be a privilege reserved for just rich folk.”

Her childhood days of struggling had put her to the test.
She paid her workers fairly and always tried her best.

She offered her mother-workers free childcare near the shop,
Paid lunches every Friday, and a workers’ clothing swap.

Businessmen called her radical, still Grace took up the fight
For women’s health and equality, pensions and the like.

Her fame cloaked the country and a compliment she’d quote
Was from a Montreal fashion critic, who jauntily once wrote:

“Being fashionable and warm in winter can be hard to do.
With a Grace MacFarlane ‘Dressed to Kill’ coat, you’ll smartly do the two!”

At her sprightly age of 85, her peers honoured her success
And presented her with a designer coat, fashioned by the best.

Of course, the coat had many pockets, special trimmings and a hood.
It kept her warm in winter, just as a “Grace MacFarlane” would.

On a snowy day in April, Grace took her final breath.
Mourners lined the sidewalks and laid bouquets to mark her sudden death.

Tributes to her honest ways and generosity poured in:
Stories of her strength and spirit, how she treated folk like kin.

The beggar on the corner, told a story of her ways,
How she handed him hot sandwiches on frigid winter days.

“As a child, I froze in winter, with no proper coat to wear.
Every child should be warm in winter; here and everywhere.”

Grace bequeathed her wish and millions to a one and only heir:
The Snowsuit Fund of Montreal. Now every child could share.