This week marks the 10th anniversary of Unwritten Histories, a project created by Andrea Eidinger that has shaped how many of us think about the past—how it’s written, shared, and understood.
In the coming weeks, the site will be taken offline. The material won’t be lost: Andrea is in the process of building a Pressbook to house the content, and the website itself has been archived.
To mark the occasion, we’ll be revisiting some of the most memorable posts from Unwritten Histories—the ones that challenged assumptions, opened up new conversations, and continue to resonate.

Spring is a very special time of year for me. For the most part, this has to do with lilacs, my favourite flowers. When I was a little girl, my elderly neighbour, Mr. Sullivan, had the most amazing lilac bush. He had planted several seedlings together when he first bought the house in the 1950s, so that by the 1980s, they had grown together into this massive tree. Every May, since this was Montreal, the tree would explode into bloom. This was my favourite time of the year, and one I looked forward to for months. The tree was next to my second-story bedroom window, so whenever my window was open, the scent of lilacs permeated my room. Mr. Sullivan would also bring over armfuls of lilac flowers for my family, and I always begged to be allowed to put a bouquet of them in my room. Over the years, lilacs have come to represent spring, joy, and wonder for me.
So, when I spotted a blooming lilac bush during a run the other day, I got to wondering about the history of lilacs, particularly in Canada. My husband was dubious; after all, who really cares about the history of a particular flower, even if it is really pretty? But, as I’ve discovered with my research, there is more to this flower than meets the eye.
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