Genealogy & Family History

When Annie passed away in October 1916, it broke a lifelong daily partnership for Frances. Living just fourteen months longer without her younger sister, Frances came to the end of her long journey on Christmas Day, December 25, 1917, passing away on the very eve of what would have been Annie's 70th birthday.

Reflecting on these first eight positions of Row 2, we see the true heartbeat of pioneer Wilmot Township laid bare beneath the soil. From the early settlement cenotaphs and young native-born Canadians like James Hawes to the long-distance treks of Sligo emigrants Robert Barber and Agnes Vance, this stretch of churchyard tells a story of incredible resilience. Here, young mothers like Elizabeth Jury Smith and tender infant daughters like Clara Mabel and Mary A. Barber rest alo

To truly understand the story of St. James Anglican Church in Wilmot Township, you must walk back to where the roots run deepest. Tucked along the quiet tree line, shaded by the mature canopy, lies the oldest standing section in the entire churchyard; recorded as Row 15 in the Ontario Genealogical Society (OGS) transcripts, but undeniably Row 1 by right of age. When you clear away the fallen leaves and brush away a century of lichen along this tree line

As I step onto the grounds of St. James Anglican Church in Wilmot Township, for the first time I am aware I am among greatness. Standing in the shadow of the steeple and looking out over the churchyard, it’s easy to feel the pull of the past. The weathered markers lining the grass aren't just carved slabs of marble and granite; they are the final chapters of real lives, written by hand, preserved in stone, and anchored right here in our local soil. As we embark on our brand-n

Looking through the Perth County surrogate court files from 1863, several names stand out as men who cleared the timber, tilled the soil, and established the roots of our local townships. When John McTavish passed away in 1863 at around fifty years of age, he left behind a legacy deeply woven into the Scottish settlement of North Easthope. Standing in Saint Andrew's Cemetery today, reading his headstone set against quiet rolling fields, it is easy to forget the sheer physical

When this journey began on a crisp spring morning, my goal was simple yet profound: to bring light back to the names that built this community by providing what I consider to be the Holy Trinity - Research, Restoration, and Record. Armed with soft brushes, D/2 cleaner, water jugs, and my camera, I set out across the grounds of Trinity Evangelical Lutheran Church. Today, as the restoration work on our planned stones comes to an end and this blog series draws to a close.

Each marker we cleaned today represents a unique household that threw its weight into building this community. Thirteen names are now back under the sun,

Three stones gave up their names, one base reminded me that not every story is ready on command, and the second row proved again what Trinity always seems to prove: this ground is not quiet because nothing happened here, but because so much did. For now, I carry Georg, Barbara, and Elisabetha with me, and I leave their neighbours to rest under the moss a little longer. I will return, wearing my Eternal Care Stone Services shirt and ready for another day of discovery.

The townships of Downie, South Easthope and Ellice, surrounded Stratford like a comforting hug. Pioneers settling in the area had a source of community, church and goods all within a carriage ride. Before the farms sustained them almost completely, Stratford and it's many growing shops helped provide the essentials and a few extras that made living in a transforming wilderness bearable.

Buying the right and interest, meant purchasing another settler’s claim before full payment had been made to the Canada Company; a common but risky practice that allowed land to change hands as fortunes shifted. Money remained scarce, and survival often depended on labour beyond one’s own farm. Fortunes could be gained or lost in a season or at the hands of an illness.

“He came from Turrerich, in Glen Quaich, in 1832, having left the Glen that year about the middle of June, and arrived at North Easthope on the 1st of September; eight families from the same place emigrated and travelled together and settled in the township and in the adjoining one, South Easthope.”

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