I just spent an engrossing couple of hours going through the "Our Favorites" section at This American Life's website. TAL is a weekly radio show that showcases various stories (fiction, nonfiction, shorts, anything really fascinating or engaging) surrounding a different theme for each episode.
"Switched at Birth" struck me as particularly poignant (it's also the first on the list, heh heh). It tells the story of two women who learn that they were switched at birth -- from one of the mothers who knew about it for over four decades before telling either of them.
What's also striking to me, though is the photograph accompanying the story on its page. My sister recently came home from a friend's house carrying a large flat rate USPS box full to brimming with photographs, postcards, and newspaper clippings from the early 1910s through the 1970s. Piecing together this family's life -- the births, birthdays, and deaths -- gave me goosebumps. I spent hours in that box, finding in turns the library card, social security card, draft card (for the Vietnam War), letters and clippings, and the obituary of a 26-year-old veteran from Lancaster who died in a car accident.
There are road trip shots, Rose Parade shots (in front of Vroman's, circa 1972! There's a head shot, battered and torn, with some film credits and a physical description handwritten neatly on the back, an airbrushed portrait, a 30th anniversary Disneyland parking stub. There's so much that I feel like I should keep quiet about them until I'm ready.
I may post some of the less identifiable photographs at a later time. Right now it's just an odd and emotional concept to me. One day, your whole family can fit into a box of photographs. Our generation will have simple data that will be wiped off this planet as quickly as I could take a lighter to this box in my living room.
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