We need our ancestors: Lessons I've learned in cemeteries and the homes of strangers

I like to read, especially grave markers. The fancy Greek word for what I love is taphophile.

I'm a tombstone tourist. You could call me a good cemetarian.

My love of walking through cemeteries is how I discovered I'm an Irish descendant. Etched into some of the family grave markers in our family graveyard in Quebec are place names like County Antrim, and Tyrone and Ballymena, Ulster, in what's now called Northern Ireland.

It made perfect sense. I loved red hair and potatoes. Not in that order. When I hear the sound of the tin whistle, I feel like it's plucking at my heart strings.

I adore an Irish accent. Is it possible I could be related to Irish royalty? Hello Queen Maedbh!

In 1989, I travelled to Dublin looking to dig up information on some of my ancestors. I met with Donal Begley, the chief herald of Ireland.  The chief herald's job is to research coats of arms for individuals and corporations.

I told him what I knew from reading my grave markers. He told me very little except that the records were stored at the Four Courts building — and were all destroyed during the 1916 Easter Uprising.

I was crestfallen. Then he looked carefully at me and said, "Your family is what we call … Horse Protestants." A thousand things ran through my head. Did we train horses? Were we Irish cowboys? Circus performers? Horse thieves?

A Horse Protestant evidently meant you were rich enough to own a horse. Giddy up! The term delineated class between an Anglo-Irish person of some affluence and the poorer class of Protestants.

So much for being royalty. It didn't matter; I loved Ireland and it felt like I was home. I returned to Ireland six more times to revel in my roots.

My Irish jig is up!

In 2015, I decided to take my research one spit further, and sent my DNA in a tiny test tube for to Ancestry.com. The wind went out of my sails when I saw my results.

I was a scant 31 per cent of Irish and Scottish ethnicity. My partner Liz was 84 per cent Irish. That rotted me. We don't talk about it anymore.

When Ancestry.com first launched its DNA testing in 2012, it compared samples to 22 possible regions. Now the company can compare tests to 380 regions. My results have changed because there are now 13,000 additional reference samples and new science to give a more refined result.

In early spring last year, I took a good look at the map of my ancestors. It showed that my Irish/Scottish estimates have increased by 24 percentage points. I am now 55 per cent Irish and Scottish extraction, with a solid migration path from central Scotland and Ulster.  

The dots on the map showed me some results in half of Ulster. However, those long ladder-like molecules called DNA showed heavy concentrations of family all over Scotland.

My Irish jig's up! I gave my tin whistle to Liz.  

Last April, I signed up for the complete Ancestry package. I searched family trees, church records, electoral and census lists and passenger records for ships that travelled from Europe to Canada.

Face and eyes into the search

My bum became one with my office chair. I searched every family name I had ever heard of. Search after search, family tree after family tree — I was face and eyes into it.

I felt like I was on Wheel of Fortune, spinning the wheel, hoping it would land on a famous person or two.

While I could not find any ties to famous people, I did discover a Scottish four times great-grandfather, who was killed on Britain's worst ever railway accident.

The Tay Railway Bridge Disaster happened on the evening of Dec. 28, 1879. My four times great-grandfather, William Peebles, was coming from work in Corrimony in the highlands of Scotland to his home in Broughty Ferry.

The train route would bring him to Edinburgh and across the Tay River to Dundee. He was on his way to attend the funeral of his father-in-law, Charles Norrie. The last part of his journey would be the two-mile-long railway bridge between Wormit and Dundee over the Tay River.

There was a fierce winter storm. Gale force winds were blowing virtually at right angles to the bridge.

Witnesses said this was the worst storm they'd experienced in more than 30 years. There were records of wind speeds from Dundee, but the wind speed in Glasgow measured 114 km/h. Gusts in Dundee were estimated to be up to 129 km/h.  

A flash of bright light. Then darkness

At about 7:15 p.m., as the train reached the upper girders, a signalman watched as sparks flew from the train.

There was a sudden flash of bright light.

And then … complete darkness.

The railway bridge had collapsed and plunged the train — and 75 souls — into the freezing waters of the Tay River.  The railway bridge was one year old and untested for winds.

There were 46 bodies recovered and 59 known victims. William Peebles's body was recovered on Jan. 9, 1880. His was the 35th body recovered. He was dressed in a black suit and a grey topcoat, something one might wear to a funeral.

He was 38 years old and left his wife, Agnes Norrie, as well as eight children aged between 18 months and 15 years.

When you can't walk a cemetery, you look online.

I found a photo of the headstone that Agnes Norrie Peebles had erected to William in Barnhill Cemetery, Dundee.

His story is so sorrowful.

Drawn into his story

Is it odd that I want to know more about him, his life, accident and death?  

I sent an email to the Tay Valley Family History Society in Dundee, Scotland and discovered that the people who wrote a book called Victims of the Tay Rail Bridge Disaster would be in their office on the same weekend that I'm in Dundee.

Everything is falling into place. I am excited to meet the authors, Murray and Clare Nicoll, and to get my hands on that book.

I would love to find living relatives, but I'll also listen to any stories the dead may tell.

Did you know that Dundee is the sunniest place in Scotland? It was 21 C with a humidity of way too much and by the time I arrived, backpack slung over my arm, I look like I was melting, my face the colour of a ketchup bottle.

I drip, drip, drip in to the Tay Valley Family History Society office and meet Murray Nicoll. I must have looked a fright because Murray put me down at a desk, found a portable fan and aimed it directly at my ruby-red face.

I'm introduced to Clare, Murray's wife, and I sign up to become a member of the society. Let the research begin. Murray shows me the book about the victims of the bridge disaster. I turn to William Peebles's page.

"Do you know where your four times great-grandfather is buried?" Murray asks. Is this a trick question? "He's buried where his wife Agnes Norrie put up the memorial to him?" My voice rises at end, questioning this.

Murray shakes his head, no. "He's buried somewhere else." My face gets the tell-me-more look.

"He's in the same graveyard, but he's buried with Charles Norrie, his father-in-law. The man whose funeral he was travelling home to attend. When they found William Peebles's body, they buried him in the same grave."

Imagine this scene

I think about Barnhill Cemetery, on a cold day in January 1880, with Agnes Norrie Peebles standing by her father's grave as they lay her husband to rest. Standing there holding a baby with her other seven children, huddled together as their father is buried with their grandfather.

Heartbreaking.

A volunteer comes over and offers tea and biscuits. We sit around and talk about the weather, genealogy research and Canada. Clare had two family members killed on the Tay River Rail Bridge disaster.

The cups get washed and the cookies are put away and Murray heads to some filing cabinets and pulls out sheets of microfiche that contain the census from hundreds of years ago. There are my family names and the places they lived in Broughty Ferry.  

Murray points to a map on the wall and shows me where William Peebles was working in Corrimony, and the train route that would bring him home.

Clare printed off information on the Norries and Peebles. Where they lived, what they worked at, what church they attended — these tiny details paint a picture of the people I call my great-great-great-greats.

I had been adopted for the day by Clare and Murray, who buy me lunch from a corner shop. It felt like something a Newfoundlander would do. They drove me around town to places I would never have gotten to.

We first drove to "The Law," an inactive volcano that sits high above Dundee. From that perch, the views of the city and the railway bridge crossing the Tay River are grand.

We crossed over the Tay on a car bridge to the other side to look at the commemoration markers erected in 2004 on the 125th anniversary of the disaster.

There have been mountains of articles written about the disaster and most have to do with what caused the bridge to collapse.  

There's hardly ever a mention of the 59 souls who fell to their death and drowned that brutal winter night in December.

His watch stopped at 7:27 p.m.

Murray decided to put this right and attempted to trace the victim's graves and add details not only to their deaths, but to the lives they lived. That is how the book the Victims of the Tay Rail Bridge Disaster came to be.

From the book I find out that William Peebles's watch stopped at 7:27 p.m., about 12 minutes after the bridge collapsed.

When his wife Agnes got the news, she collapsed on the floor.

Murray tells me if all the people who said they had family on the train that plunged into the dark waters that night were on the train, there would be a manifest of thousands

If I had ordered this day from the old Sears catalogue, it could not be any better. White clouds drape across the baby blue sky. I stand by the stone monument and run my fingers across William Peebles's name. I look towards the bridge and say a little prayer.

Murray tells me if all the people who ever said they had family on the train that plunged into the dark waters that night were actually on that train, there would be a manifest of thousands.

We drive under the bridge to look out at what's left of the girders. At low tide, they poke out of the water, spaced like a game of hopscotch for giants.

We travel back across the car bridge and head to Barnhill Cemetery. Murray parks the car and jumps out to go and look for Agnes Norrie's marker. Clare and I are sat at the back of a gravestone that is overflowing with pink hydrangeas. 

Like any good cemeterian,  I jump out to take a photo.

I say to Clare, "This is the most glorious spot for a headstone."

It was like being in a detective show

Murray comes running back, "We're in the wrong place, get in the car!" I feel like I'm in a detective show and time is running out.  We drive to another part of the cemetery and get out of the vehicle.

Murray runs away again, and I hear him yell, "It's over here!" He is now at the front of the first place we parked. It's the  gravestone swathed in glorious pink hydrangeas. I run over. It has Charles Norrie's name on it. He died Dec. 26, 1879.

"Here is where William Peebles was buried, 10 days after his father-in-law Charles Norrie. You are standing at the grave of your four times great-grandfather and your five times great-grandfather."

For William Peebles, it's an unmarked grave.

I purse my lips together. I don't want to cry, but am overwhelmed.

This is more than I dreamed possible.

I'd been looking in Northern Ireland for a trace of my ancestors, and now here are two grandfathers and a grandmother.

For someone who loves family research, this day has been a gift.   

Acquainted with hardship and sorrow

Within minutes Murray yells that he's found Agnes Norrie Peebles's marker, the one erected to William's memory. This is the monument I saw online.

Breathe.

Agnes Norrie Peebles was well acquainted with hardship and sorrow. I read it on the face of her gravestone.  Her husband William, 38 killed in a disaster, a baby girl dead at 5 months, and three sons, William, 24, Andrew, 21 and George, 42.

Pictures are taken, small prayers are prayed, and we get in the car and Murray drives to Broughty Ferry, where my ancestors lived.

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"These are streets your ancestors would have walked on….Long Lane, Queen, Church, and King Street."  

Murray parks the car and we get out to walk around.

Clare points out some teeny squatty attached houses and tells me these are some of the older homes.  "I believe your William Peebles lived at 17 King St.," says Murray.

I look at the street sign. We're on King Street.

"Can we walk to the house?" In less than 30 steps I am in front of a one-story home. It looks like a checkerboard on the outside, grey and taupe sandstones held together by cement.  

A brownish door with slats running vertically has a small square sign that reads Costello, below that the number 17. I turn around to Clare and Murray, "I'm going to knock on the door."

By the looks on their faces and the shaking of their heads, they don't think it's a good idea. Let's call the look "mortified."

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"I did not fly all the way from Newfoundland not to knock at this door!" I mean business. They move farther away from me as I give a couple of short raps.

A tiny white-haired woman opens the door and I pour out my story, my name, where I'm from, the disaster, an ancestor who lived in this house.  We just visited his gravesite at Barnhill and I wanted to know about this place? He was a Peebles. Did you know any Peebles?

I feel like Robert Mueller trying to get to the bottom of things.

Kathleen Costello tells me she's lived there for 16 years and that this row of homes was built in the 1860s.  She told me two families would have lived there, separated by the hallway.

"Can I walk on the floorboards where my ancestors walked, please?"

"Of course," she says, and steps away from the door.  

On the dark floorboards

I walk in about six or seven steps, and look down at the well-trod dark floorboards.

I am walking in my four times great-grandparents' footsteps. The floor that Agnes Norrie fell to when she was told about William's death. I keep shaking my head in disbelief as I look down. It is almost too much to comprehend.

I have a photo taken with Kathleen Costello, and a photo of me propped up against the door frame, looking like I've just won the lottery. I end my day with a scone and a cup of tea with Murray and Clare. I am sad to part ways and lucky to have met them.

With ancestors, I go back. My ancestors help me become more me

They carry on home to Monifieth and I catch a bus back to Dundee City. What a day this has been.

The sun starts to set and the humidity drops. I'm exhausted. All I want to do is get to my Airbnb and relax.

In my room, I flip through my book and the page falls open to Ancestry sheets that Clare printed for me. There is the information for William Peebles. I look at his address on King Street.

I start to roar. I'm laughing so hard, I could pee my pants.

The Peebles family lived at 77 King Street, not 17 King St., where I had just been. 

I had walked on the floorboards of someone's four times great grandfather, but it wasn't mine.

Now 77 King Street is just 0.1 km away — or a two-minute walk — from  No. 17.

I may not have walked over floorboards that William Peebles and Agnes Norrie walked on, but a lot of people have. Their home is now a pub. I'm also sure that there've been a lot of people falling down on their floorboards, too.

Note to gallivanting genealogists: double-check the street address before you go knocking at strangers doors.

We are connected

Some ask, why do we need ancestors?

With ancestors, I go back. My ancestors help me become more me.

We are connected no matter how long ago they walked on the earth.

I will never know what they looked like or what their voices sounded like. The closest I may ever come to them is when I trace that line on my family tree, look at their names and say because you lived, I live.  

I need to remember them. I wonder if remembering them allows me to think, someday, somehow, someone will look to remember me.

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