User Story

By Ellen Notbohm

Originally published in Ancestry magazine, July-August 2008

A genealogical quest brought me to Edmonton. We’ll call my ancestor Adam, and this story is not so much about him as it is about discovering the irreplaceable sense of “being there” when we reconstruct the lives of our ancestors in settings afar and centuries previous, and how the people of Edmonton opened their arms to me in this quest.

For a long time Adam was only a smallish piece of a large puzzle. I became increasingly drawn to him as the facts unfolded and his story proved compellingly sad and mysterious. His brief marriage to our great-grandmother was troubled, ending with her commitment to a state hospital in the midst of World War I, the 1918 flu pandemic and a crippling drought. Adam sold their Montana farm and seemed to vanish, eluding every attempt to locate him through the US census, death records, marriage, divorce or probate records, city directories, newspaper searches. Finally, through the slender thread of a 90-year-old life insurance policy, he let me know where he was. He had left a forwarding address in Edmonton. From there it was only a few clicks to the Edmonton Cemeteries database, where I found him. His grave – unmarked.

I started laying the groundwork for my visit to Edmonton, a round of phone calls to the cemetery, to the library, to the Historical Society. And an extraordinary thing began happening. Before I even got there, people warmed to my story and bent over backwards to help. The cemetery administrator emailed digital photographs of Adam’s gravesite. A realtor did the same for Adam’s two homes. The library sent obituaries and city directory information. At the Historical Society, I was invited to tour their renovation project and stay for lunch.

It was a short fall: I was in love with Edmonton before I even arrived.

What can you say when you land in a place you’ve never been and it feels like home? My week in Edmonton unfolded as if I were expected company. In a way, I was.

At the cemetery, the administrator unscrewed the binding of a huge old book half the size of herself to copy records for me and requisitioned further records from a vault at a remote location. At the Historical Society, several members gave me hours of their time, a fascinating detailed walking tour Strathcona and century-old stories to go along.

At the Edmonton City Archives, the staff apologized repeatedly for the sweltering heat, even as I kept them running on multiple trips back and forth for voter records and maps and local histories (“that’s our job!”). The receptionist brought me brochures for several local history events happening that week that she thought might interest me. She wanted to be sure I enjoyed my time in Edmonton.

At the Edmonton Public Library, I met Lyn Meehan, a library reference professional and genealogist (www.lynmeehan.ca). Lyn was instrumental in helping me obtain Adam’s naturalization records, border-crossing documents, information about collateral friends and business associates. She sent me on my way to the Provincial Archives of Alberta (PAA) with detailed instructions to look for court records, photos, maps.

At the PAA, a reference archivist helped me search for a divorce record I hoped I wouldn’t find; romantic me hoped Adam and our great-grandmother hadn’t ever divorced, just lived in so-called sin with others for the rest of their lives (which appears may be true). When I didn’t find a divorce record, the archivist was just as pleased as I was, saying, “It’s not very often I get to help someone who is happy to not find something they’re looking for.”

And when, in the last moment before I had to leave, I found – in an archive of over 2 million photos – a photo of the home in which Adam passed away, the same archivist hastily waived the photocopying charges and wrote up my order for a print. Back home, the archive’s business manager called twice to make sure they got my order right.

Everyone I encountered in Edmonton went far beyond the assistance I asked for. They clearly cared about their city’s heritage and the part I play in it, however small. Meandering my way through many blocks of the Westmount neighborhood in which Adam lived for many years, sitting against a tree next to his grave in a woodsy old part of the cemetery – I walked many of those proverbial miles in his shoes. He chose Edmonton at mid-life, for reasons I have yet to discover. I like to think that in my short time there, interacting with the people and the landscape, that I could begin to understand why.

Back home, the leaves turned and more than one person inquired about my summer travels. Didn’t you go to Hawaii?, they asked. Yes, I admit. But let me tell you about Edmonton...

This story has been condensed from its original form. To read the full story click here.