By Heather Wilson
Behind every photograph in the archives lies a story waiting to be uncovered—but that story rarely reveals itself all at once. As archivists, much of our work is quiet detective work: examining clues, following threads through old records, and piecing together fragments of lives long past. Sometimes, a simple photograph—a church, a street, a family group—offers little more than a face or a place. Sometimes, it’s the faintest clues—a note on the back, a name in a register, or a random connection in a census—that awaken the stories behind those silent images.
It began with a small, framed photograph of a church. On the back, someone had written: “St. Albins Church, Adolphus Town – marriage, Oct. 9, 1926.” That brief note was the only clue—until I looked closer.
A quick search of our Adolphustown vital statistics register revealed that on October 9, 1926, Mildred Brisco Johnston married Howard LeRoy Armstrong at St. Alban’s Anglican Church. Mildred was the daughter of Harry Johnston and Edna Brisco. The photograph likely captured the church on her wedding day.
Tucked inside the image frame was something else: a Methodist Church quarterly ticket from 1888, signed by Edith (Purdy) Brisco. Curious, I turned to the census to learn more about her and discovered she was Mildred’s maternal grandmother. Mildred also had a younger sister named Edith, named for their grandmother. As I scanned through the family, another name caught my eye—Maggie Rose.
Because of our recent exhibit on British Home Children and the guest talks we hosted, she immediately stood out to me. Maggie was an 18-year-old domestic servant who had immigrated from Scotland. I looked a little deeper, and the pieces fell into place: Maggie had arrived in Ontario in 1906 at the age of 13, sent from Scotland by the Quarriers Orphan Homes of Scotland, a well-known Scottish charity deeply involved in the Home Child scheme. She first arrived at the receiving home in Brockville, awaiting placement, and by 1911 was working for the Johnston family in Adolphustown.
In the 1921 census, Maggie appears again, employed as a live-in servant for the VanLuven family on Bridge Street in Napanee.
And then… nothing.
After 1921, Maggie Rose’ disappears from the record. There were no later census entries, no marriage registrations, or obituaries under her name that I could trace. The trail grows cold here—but with more time and digging, someone might yet discover what happened next and continue Maggie’s story.
Yet, the chance survival of one church photograph has given us this much: her name, her origins, the homes where she lived, and the people she served. It may not seem like much—but for many Home Children, it is more than what remains at all.
Remembering these fragments is how we honor their lives and acknowledge their place in our shared history. Even when stories end in silence, remembrance gives them voice.
