I spoke to the Senior’s Luncheon this morning. I repeated from memory a talk from 5 years ago.
This was it…

I spoke today at our monthly Seniors Luncheon. Usually I get two or three days to prepare—print handouts, check the timing. But today was different. Jackie, my good friend who runs the luncheon, asked me last-minute to repeat a talk I gave five years ago. One she’d always remembered.

I couldn’t find my notes. But I did find four copies of the book that I made at the end of the project. Jackie didn’t want the official version anyway. She wanted the backstory—the part we didn’t print.

I told Jackie I’d do it from memory. I could pass the books around while I spoke. Forty people, four copies—no problem.

Years ago, I taught a college night class in digital photo repair. Students learned to fix creases, stains, torn portraits—anything from coffee spills on Grandma’s face to old documents with time fading fast.

One week, I asked them to bring something personal—something they wanted to restore.

I got what I expected: wedding photos, birth certificates, a damaged diploma. One student brought a family photo with a cigarette burn in her ex-husband’s chest. She said, “Leave it in.”

But then came something I didn’t expect: a piece of chain linen paper, hand-lettered with a quill, dated 1767. A lease agreement. From Colonel Philip Lee… to Augustine Washington. George Washington’s brother.

It was Hal, the retired high school chemistry teacher, who brought in the document.

I asked if it was from his family archive.

He shook his head. “Yes,” he said. “It’s just not my family.”

Then he told me the story:

“I found it on the curb while walking my dog. Two boxes of paper, right there. One was filled with letters—postmarked between 1850 and 1895. I collect stamps, and I saw a few I didn’t have.

An older lady came out with another box. She said it was fine to go through them. ‘They’re just going to the dump.’”

Going to the landfill? What on earth?

Hal kept going. “I was on my knees looking through the first box when she came out again—with a third.

‘Why don’t you just take them all to your house,’ she said. ‘Get what you want. Then recycle the rest.’”

“So I did. Two days later I put them in the attic—where they stayed for the next fifteen years. This week I pulled out the framed lease agreement. Do you think we should scan it?”

I said yes. Then I asked what else was in the archive.

Hal thought for a moment.

“Receipts,” he said. “Photos. Diaries. Maps. Scraps of architectural and engineering notes. Miscellaneous doodling.”

He made it sound ordinary. But it wasn’t.

Eventually, Hal brought in so many things—and my interest was so obvious—that he decided to hand over the entire archive. He told me to research it, maybe find someone who would keep it safe.

I checked in with Hal from time to time. I wanted to return it to a living relative, if one could be found. But I had no luck. I’m pretty good with genealogy, but sometimes families dwindle and disappear. One branch led to a veteran who died in a hospital during the Vietnam War. After that, nothing.

Years passed. Hal finally asked me to take full responsibility for the archive. No one in his family was interested, and he was getting older. A few years later, Hal died.

I kept working on it—off and on—for about ten years. Eventually, I published a small book with scans and a few textual reconstructions based on my research. I only made twelve copies, and posted the digital version to my personal website.

Sometimes people would comment. One day, a stranger wrote:
“Hey, that’s my grandma!”

I was stunned. She turned out to be the daughter of the Vietnam veteran. His wife was still alive. So was a son.

I contacted the wife. She lived nearby. We arranged to meet for lunch.

It was a warm meeting. I brought a copy of the book—and all four boxes, now archived in protective pouches.

She accepted them.

The archive went home.