First published by Skip Shervington, September 15, 2016
Back in September 2001, just weeks after the 9/11 attacks, we bought a 1962 fixer-upper on the lower west side of Santa Cruz, California. The place was a time capsule—original light fixtures, vintage appliances, and that unmistakable coastal must. The house had been used as a weekend retreat and needed serious updating.
We began remodeling almost immediately. During a rainstorm in 2002, a leak led me into the attic above the garage. Armed with a flashlight and cautious of the ancient wiring, I spotted a dusty cigar box tucked into an odd corner near the roofline. A mouse had already started chewing the edge, probably to fluff its nest.
Inside the box, I found a crystal star, a Gussie’s Restaurant & Lounge matchbook, and a stack of letters and postcards addressed to someone named Robin—some sent to nearby Wilkes Circle. None were linked to my address or the previous owners, and postmarked from 1983. That’s when WarGames was in theaters and I was stationed in Italy with the U.S. Army. With the memory of 9/11 fresh, it was a strange feeling to hold these personal artifacts from a different crisis-filled era. Curious and a bit sentimental, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.
I asked my neighbor Ron—longtime resident and beloved local science teacher—if he recognized the name. No luck, though he did note he shared the same initials. I joked that if I discovered Robin was a time-traveling egg-propulsion expert, I’d be back for advice. He laughed and suggested, “Try the internet, detective. Al Gore didn’t invent it for nothing.” I chuckled and fired up my Compaq Presario.
Starting around 2002, I ran a few searches over the years—2004, 2006, 2008—but nothing turned up. Eventually, life took over. Fatherhood. Work. The box went into storage.
Fast-forward to 2014. We sold the house and moved to Kissimmee, Florida. I was determined to travel light: “If it doesn’t fit in the U-Haul,” I told my wife and son, “Goodwill or landfill!” My wife replied, “I’m fine with that—you’re the one with the problem.” Ouch.
I had my share of keepsakes: model police cars, license plates, sporting event programs, my grandfather’s pocketknife, and my great-great-grandfather’s Civil War cufflinks. One of my favorites is a round-trip train ticket from 1967, when my grandmother took me from California to Texas on the San Francisco Chief. I mostly remember cows.
In Florida, our garage had far less storage space than the attic back in Santa Cruz. While reorganizing boxes, I was surprised to find Robin’s cigar box again. I hadn’t even noticed packing it—but there it was, 2,750 miles from where I’d first found it. The keepsakes were now 33 years old. Somehow, they’d survived two decades in an attic, multiple moves, and even the much larger, clothes wearing, wallet emptying, mice of Orlando.
Feeling renewed purpose, I gave the internet another try. This time, the problem wasn’t a lack of information—it was too much. Dozens of Robins turned up. I realized I’d never examined the letters closely, so I played detective. In the third letter, I found a note from her father—personal, heartfelt. I thought of my own dad, who passed in 1999, and knew I had to press on.
Then, tucked in the back of a spiral notebook, I hit the jackpot: a resume. Full name, middle initial, hometown, age—it was all there. I used the details to find a Facebook page for a Robin in Oregon, and a photo of her on a bike matched what I’d gleaned from her notes. I messaged her—but Facebook messages from strangers often go unread.
So, I searched for her brother, Jeffrey, and found both his Facebook and LinkedIn profiles. I messaged him there, hoping my profile (former cop, not a stalker!) would help. It worked. A few days later, I got an email:
Hi Skip,
My brother forwarded me an email he received from you, saying you happen to have some personal property of mine. Thank you for trying to find me. I can’t imagine what you could have and how.
Robin
Success!
We exchanged messages, and she confirmed she had once lived in our old house on Merced Avenue. I kept my description vague—just “letters and postcards”—wanting her to feel the surprise of rediscovery herself. I boxed everything up and mailed it off.
Weeks later, I received a handwritten card thanking me. She described the emotional experience of opening the box and reconnecting with a part of her past she thought was lost forever.
Mission accomplished.
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