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 Margaret heard their cry first; a single, flat Honk, then
others joining, filling the air with sound. She squinted into the late
afternoon sun to see geese fly low over the Saskatchewan prairie in an
orderly V-formation. Wings beat strong and heads strained southward, and
summer was over.
Every year, with a shared satisfaction, she and her father would watch the geese arrive one soft, spring night and leave in the crisp air of fall. Margaret was comfortable with the geese going, sure in the knowledge they would return. Except this year - this year she was sure of nothing. "Margaret Brown! Stop your dreaming and bring in the washing from the line," her mother ordered through the kitchen window. Worry gnawing at her insides, Margaret pulled pegs from the sheets, momentarily wrestled the wind for them, then folded haphazardly before stuffing them into a woven basket. She continued along the clothesline, gathering in billowing cotton until she came to the quilt airing at the end. Her own Flower Basket quilt. She stopped and stood back to admire it's soft yellow, blue, and green hues. Grandma Brown had made it special for her a year ago, finishing it six months before a stroke had carried her away to her final resting place, as Mama called, heaven.  Margaret closed her eyes and buried her head in its colorful folds,
hearing her grandmother's voice. I'm quilting spring for you, Grandgirl.
She missed Grandma Brown dreadfully, especially now when everything was
so upset. Seeing her back bent over her wooden quilting frame in the
parlor had a way of steadying them all. Was she enjoying her final
resting place, Margaret wondered? She'd never actually seen her Grandma
rest, the slightly built woman busy from dawn to long past dark, working
in the garden, canning and preserving, cooking, washing and in her spare
moments, out would come scraps of material from her apron pocket and
she'd piece. Maybe heaven was doing what you liked best and for Grandma,
that was piecing and quilting.. She certainly was not resting.
With a sigh Margaret straightened and ran her fingers over the swirling feather stitching, feeling her grandmother's love embedded with the thread - and also a moment's pride. Some of the stitches in the quilt were her own, Grandma finally declaring her skilled enough to take a place with the women seated around the frame. You come quilt now, Grandgirl. Even stitches, child. Don't dig in the needle, ply it gently.
Reluctantly she pulled the quilt from the line, smelling the freshness of an afternoon of sun and wished once more to be within that safe, small haven. Settling the basket on one hip she moved towards the house, shivering
as the sun hid behind grey clouds gathering on the horizon and the
growing darkness stole warmth and light. She recalled another afternoon
just two weeks ago, the sky clear except for one boiling black
thunderhead herded by an overly warm wind to their fields. Watching from
the kitchen, Dad had said a spot of rain would be good for the crop, but
suddenly the drumming on the roof had become louder, a deafening
pounding of hailstones the size of eggs. She'd watched her father's
expression become grimmer with each passing minute and though the brief
storm finally took its leave, the bleakness on his face had not. She
kept her eyes on the dirt path to the house, unable to bear to look upon
the battered ruins of their grain. The neighbors had come shortly after,
shaking their "Did you shake those sheets well and smooth the wrinkles out?" Mrs. Brown asked. "I don't want to be ironing them." "Yes, Mama" Margaret replied, hoping she had. She couldn't remember she'd been so caught up in her own misery. ...vivid and credible. Historic details enhance the story without
cluttering down the crisp, pleasing prose or romanticising the past." These are real people, not historic representatives... "In Flying Geese, Barbara Haworth-Attard does a marvelous job of
depticting the complexities of family dynamics...The characters and the
dialogue in this novel carry a poignancy and authenticity that
immediately draw the reader in and bridge generation gaps..." "...a sensitive and realistic story about an improverished
family..."
Historical Research Tips When researching a particular era, I start by reading the newspaper for the year I am researching. I read all the London Free Press papers for 1915, available on microfilm at the London Public Library. I study the headlines, then the Woman's Pages for a feel for the fashions of the time. I scrutinize the advertisements for various goods to find prices, styles - did they heat with coal? Woodstove? Historical novels have to be accurate. Then I studied the "Help Wanted" ads to see what jobs were available. I studied the ads for the various theatres and plays, the type of stores in London in 1915 and the music being listened to. I have always been surprised by the number of ads for various "quack" cures for illness. It was from reading the newspaper that I saw that Nellie McClung had come to speak in London in 1915. I didn't know this before I saw the advertisement and I immediately added it to the book. I also read the editorials. If you want to know what people thought about, you will find the answer in the editorials. I also studied the Eaton's Catalogue for 1915, also available on microfilm at the library. Everything was sold in this catalogue. I found pictures of underwear (not usually shown in newspapers back then), "corsets, combinations" and also the pricing of items. I also read many books on both World War I Canada and also on quilting. Some are listed below. It takes a writer a long time to research because accuracy is extremely important in a historical novel, but readers must also remember that writers are just that - writers - story tellers first - and in my case, not a historian, but a writer with a strong interest in history. Online Links: Books: |
List of Books:
She'd accompanied Grandma Brown to quilting bees since she was very
young, sitting many an afternoon within a small house, the roof above
her the quilt top stretched taut on its frame; the walls, women's skirt
clad legs and stout, booted feet, giving Margaret a sense of security
and comfort. 
heads over the whims of nature and God, that left only the
Brown farm damaged. Everyone else had a bumper crop this harvest, and a
war in Europe to push prices high. She passed through the porch and into
the kitchen.