I loved the stories on the wall, the yellow manila tags handwritten in pencil and hung by strangers. It was captivating. The art installation and interactive museum display asked, 'What's your story.' And people answered.
I enjoyed it for a few moments, snapped a couple photos and made my way through the museum for another hour, never believing I had my own story. After all, as much as I knew or believed, I was 'just a Canadian.'
On the main floor of the museum, there is a little library room sponsored by Scotiabank. They invite you to search out your family history. To use their services, at no charge and perhaps, make a meaningful connection.
The museum was virtually empty, a very quiet, rainy November day. So when I walked into the Scotiabank library I was greeted instantly, and warmly. Unsure that I had any business or purpose in that room, I hesitated, but just a little.
The clerk, a bright welcoming woman in her 20s, said to me, "Can I help you look something up? Who would you like to find?"
Of course, wandering into the room, I had no plan. No idea. No one to find. But, when prompted with the question, I replied with my Great Grandfather's name. I mean, I believed he was English, possibly, ok likely, and I think he must have immigrated to Canada at some point. I'm sure I'd heard something from my Grandmother. (I should have listened better when I was young and with her.)
And with that name. 2 words, uttered like a shot in the dark, we were off. Off to the races!
She asked "Do you know what year he immigrated?"
Me: Sorry, no.
What country did he come from?
Me: No, sorry. Probably England, I think.
Do you know the name of his parents?
Me: Amos. Amos was his father.
I thought your Great Grandfather's name was Amos? And his father was Amos also?
Me: (pause) I think so. But I don't really know.
Do you know where they lived in Canada when they arrived?
Me: Yes! Morris, Manitoba.
-------tap tap tap on the keyboard, tap tap tap ------
"Here we are!" she exclaims. And on the screen was a census form stating that my Great Grandfather, Amos, was 4 years old at the time he immigrated to Canada with his siblings and mother Eliza.
They came over in 1881 and arrived at the Port of Quebec on the ship named The Sarmatian.
The next two minutes are literally a blur as my eyes welled up with tears. On the screen in front of me, was a black and white photo of the ship, then immigration documents, census documents and even the ship's handwritten passenger manifest.
I could hardly choke out words it hit me so hard. It was like a wall of history and I was gasping for air.
Of all the children, my Great Great Grandfather (Amos) chose to name his third son, Amos.
The second generation Amos goes on to name his own second son (my Grandfather) Leonard Amos. And then I went on to name my second son, Calder James Amos.
Though naming of my son, was not coincidence, it was absolutely deliberate to honour my strong bond with my dear Grandfather who had passed several years ago. But suddenly, I had a stronger bond. A deeper connection more than just two generations.
About all I could share with the clerk, in audible words at this point, was, "I named my son for my Grandfather. His name is Calder James Amos." And then I pointed at the Kleenex box and reached towards it. She knowingly obliged and passed me a Kleenex.
So much for not having a connection to Canadian immigration. The thought of a four year old, on a ship, with his mother and siblings, was overwhelming to me.
"May I borrow your pen?" I asked.
No need she replied, "I've printing everything out for you. Let me just tuck it in an envelope for you."
And all that, happened in LESS THAN 5 MINUTES. On a Friday afternoon in November.
Thank you Canadian Department of Immigration. Thank you Halifax. Thank you 'technology' and all the people who contributed to the recording and preservation of census documents.
And thank you Scotiabank. That was indeed a gift.
