This past weekend, a group of friends and I went camping. A friend of the camp where my friend was working invited us all over for dessert. We went exploring in their barn, and besides the World War II uniform, (complete with belt and four different hats) the ostrich feather, and the bits of ribbon and lace we saw sticking out of the one locked truck, we found a scrapbook.
It included pictures of the family from the 1900s-1960s. I should have taken more pictures, but I was so in awe of the rich family history that had been preserved. There were programs, report cards, death certificates. . .
But then we found the love letter.
My friend and I felt like we had just stumbled on our own story. Did she say yes? Did she let him come visit? What had happened? We turned the next few pages, finding commencement programs (their names appeared together on a program when they both graduated from an agricultural program.) One of our other friends commented "He must have made some impression--she kept the letter."
And then, there it was. Their wedding announcement.
Even though we didn't know these people at all, we cheered. They had made it! They were married! Good for them! Our own personal love story, the story that we had "discovered" had a happy ending.