Genealogy & Family History

There are some men whose stories don’t arrive with fanfare or legend, but instead with the steady rhythm of an axe biting into maple and beech. Men who carved their place in the world one swing at a time, trusting that the land; though wild, though unyielding, would eventually soften under their persistence. Robert Fraser was one of them.

a tale passed down by grandchildren, a tale that paints John in a different light. According to them, he had been “a whisky smuggler all his life in the old country,” a man who knew the back trails and the hidden glens, always one step ahead of the Excisemen. They say his real name was McIntosh, and that he took the name Crerar to disguise himself when he fled to Canada.

Andrew recited his story as John dictated, as Andrew spoke, Linton imagined those faraway Scottish hills, the patchwork fields, stone walls, and heathered slopes now traded for maples, black oak, and the relentless hum of mosquitos. The tone of Andrew’s voice suggested neither regret nor longing, only the clarity of a man who understood the weight of choices. A man who new big risks could bring big rewards.

John had a good idea what it was going to take, when he first stepped onto Lot 15, it was not a farm. It was a wilderness so thick that daylight barely touched the ground. “I commenced to improve on my land (it being then a perfect wilderness, travelled only by the Indian) late fall of 1834. The snow was on the trees then I recollect well, for, on beginning to chop down some trees to build my small ‘shanty’ with the snow at the stroke of the axe would be falling down upon me.

James stayed another twenty‑seven years, tending the land they had built together, watching their children grow into the world they had carved from the wilderness. When his time came in 1875, he joined her beneath the white marble headstone that still stands today a quiet testament to a family who endured, who hoped, and who helped shape the early heartbeat of the township.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he looks off into the distance as if he sees the place he speaks of. “I came from Berwickshire, in Scotland, from near the town of Lauder. I settled in this township in the summer of 1832, when this and the adjoining township began to be settled.” Referring to North and South Easthope townships.

The Seiberts, like so many pioneer families, carried with them a stubborn faith that the land would reward their labour. The promise of hope and prosperity far outweighed the hard work and struggles that lay ahead; it was a gamble they were willing to make.

I’ve always carried this quiet belief that no one truly wants to be forgotten. Even the humblest life holds a hope; that someone, somewhere, will remember we were here. That we mattered, that our story didn’t simply dissolve into the soil, or drift away on the winds of time. It’s that belief, that has shaped me for years, but it wasn’t until recently that it became something more than a feeling. It became a responsibility. My journey into the unmarked graves of St.Marys began

Within the quiet expanse of East Ward Park lie hundreds of stories—tales of triumph and sorrow, buried but far from forgotten. This is one

The reports confirm the tragic nature of his passing, finding him frozen under a bridge after New Year's Day.

My vision for St. Anthony's Roman Catholic Pioneer Cemetery is not just about maintenance; it’s about restoration and awareness.

Francis was just 23 when he joined the war effort, leaving behind the familiar fields and the loving embrace of his family for the distant,

​Stanley’s journey with the Perth Regiment began when he was just 19, and by 21, he was overseas, part of the grueling Italian Campaign.

You know, most people go to the cemetery for quiet contemplation, to visit loved ones, or maybe for a brisk walk. Me? I go to play detective

​These headstones under the trees represent more than just forgotten relics. They are a stark reminder of our own mortality.

​One of the things that makes contributing so easy is using my phone. I simply go to a cemetery and start walking around.

​This tradition was particularly common in English-speaking countries, and it was a way to preserve a family name.

Preserving family history goes far beyond dates and names on a genealogical chart. It's about capturing the essence of who we are

Take a moment to look at your own family tree. Who are the people in those branches? What stories do they hold? Now is the perfect time

This Labor Day, my mom and I decided to make the pilgrimage. Our mission? A little soul-searching, a lot of memory-making, and a good scrubb