Grow­ing up, our house was filled with scraps of paper. Notes from peo­ple, news­pa­per clip­pings, ideas jot­ted on the backs of envelopes. An ephemera house. Stuck in between the pages of books, like lit­tle truth or fic­tion bonuses — notes of the day, news­pa­per clip­pings, book­marks made by preschool­ers, lists of all kinds.

I remem­ber find­ing a faded news­pa­per clip­ping — pic­tures of a beau­ti­ful baby boy, curly haired, smil­ing, adorable, one frame after another like those from a photo booth. I handed it to my mother and asked, “Who was this?”

She began to cry.

Tears came, a quick brief steady stream and she made no sound.

Then, some moments later, my mother said, “That’s Lit­tle Lindy.”

Weird how some stuff sticks with you, isn’t it… that was prob­a­bly 50 years ago.

c