As a budding amateur genealogist in the 1950s, I collected all the family heirlooms and records I could find—including an early ninetieth-century scrapbook.
It was so delicate I decided to photograph every page. That way I could study the pictures and preserve the book’s contents.
But on the day I meant to take the film to the developer, I couldn’t find the roll for the life of me. I sank into a chair. Lord, I prayed, all that work for nothing. If you could help me find that roll of film, I’d be forever grateful.
It wasn’t meant to be. I’d long since given up looking when about 10 years ago, I came across my old Army jacket and slipped it on. Amazing! It still fit—almost. I slipped my hand into the flap pocket and noticed it was torn. Something had slipped through the lining of the jacket. I fished it out. A roll of film. It couldn’t be, I thought.
“It’s a real mystery how it got in there,” I told the camera shop owner. “Can you develop it?”
“A fifty-year-old roll of film?” he said. “I’m not making any promises.”
A few days later I got my snapshots. Every print developed perfectly. Not only was that ninetieth-century scrapbook preserved, the pages were crisper and cleaner than I remembered, as if each one had been retouched by an angel.
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