An Old Photograph

3 friends and I shared an old farmhouse in Mexico, NY in the early 1970s. We were the first people to live there that were not family. The last residents had left in a hurry for a gig in Vermont and left a friend in charge of renting it out. There was a woodburning stove for heat. A two seater outhouse attached to the back of the house. An old fashion pump in the sink for water. The house was full of Victorian furniture, ceramic pitchers and washbasins... a treasure everywhere you looked. The closets were jammed with items that told a story of the many generations that had lived in the house. Everything was in disrepair. My friends and I would return from our jobs, and every long winter night, we would huddle around the dining room table studying photos and reading correspondence - the people in this family were letter writers! They saved everything. We found a shoebox with letters wrapped in linen, written in the late 19th century. The correspondents were lovers, having an affair. He would write on one side of the paper, and she would reply on the other. The letters were delivered in secret by "B". There was one photo ... a glass negative.... a family gathering of the whole clan from several generations. We were pretty close to being able to name each person in the photo when our tenancy came to an abrupt end. The house was going to be demolished. The land had been sold. It was clear to us that the family had no respect for the treasures contained in this little house. We were heartbroken. Each of my housemates and I took one small thing as a reminder of a happy time there. Two years later, I am living and working as a secretary in a small insurance office in Oakland, California. I was 23 or so. Phyllis the bookkeeper and the other secretary, Dolores, were in their 60s, and spent quite a bit of time chatting each day. One day Phyllis told the story of her ancestors settling in Saskatchewan. An absorbing tale of a small family staking it's claim on the prairies. It reminded me of the family I had come to know from their left behind relics in Mexico, New York. So I told the story, including the detail that we had come pretty close to figuring out the names of all the various people in a large family photo - a reunion of the Emerys. Dolores looked at me and asked for the name again. I said, "Emery." "Did you say that was in Mexico, NY? Is that near Pulaski?" asked Dolores. "Well, yes it is." I said. "Was one of them 'Eliza' Emery? And now the goosebumps are rising. "Yes, Dolores. There were two in the family. The older one was the matriarch. Eliza Emery." I replied. "No kidding." she stood up. "She was my great Aunt - Eliza Emery." To me, this was beyond coincidence. It was utterly surprising that I should be working with someone whose long ago relative was discovered by me in the glass negative of a photo in an old farmhouse in upstate NY. But even more amazing was the gossamer thread of chance in the weaving of that day, that Phyllis would tell a story that would bring my experience to mind, and that I would wonder -"would these ladies be interested in my story?" I was able to present Dolores with the one treasure I had taken from that house, a glass negative of a photo of her ancestors.