Years and years ago, I saved a photo album from the trash. That vague description of timing isn't literary but merely true; I can't remember when I first acquired the object. I intended to cut up some of the archival photos for to-be-imagined art projects. Raw material ready for re-use. I stashed it under my bed.

Dust accumulated. I changed addresses. Changed again. The book remained, though the mottled green cover crumbled at the binding and broke.

I flipped through the album multiple times and recognized that I couldn't apply scissors to any page of it until I had at least attempted a return. A single wedding invitation offered my only substantive clue and, thankfully, an uncommon last name. I finally sat down to dig through public records in early 2021 (not long after my first newsletter post with the "Family" theme).

I called three numbers, all disconnected. So I mailed a short note to the listed address. My curiosity prompts me to answer most phone calls regardless of whether I recognize the person, and a few weeks later, I picked up an unknown number to hear: "Hello, this is Joanne, and I’m trying to reach Dustin.”

She had asked her nephew to search for me online and determine the legitimacy of my offer. “You’re a famous writer,” she said. I laughed. Not quite.

But I was thrilled to return a piece of her own story. Family archives are some of the most overlooked sources of personal wisdom. They can also serve as the foundations for creative projects, nonfiction or otherwise, and offer opportunities to preserve pieces of the world that benefit the wider community.

Cheers to more successful reunions in the year ahead, of matching "our dead letters to their lost addresses."
 

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This newsletter was written on the traditional lands of the Piscataway and Nacotchtank.