The first time I met Harris was at the largest ephemera fair in the country, hosted annually in Connecticut by the Ephemera Society of America. Elegantly displaying pieces, from 1920s shoe advertisements to a collection of Earth personified, Harris’ booth sat directly inside the entrance of a sprawling convention hall that held more than 10,000 items for sale. 

“This doesn't come from the head,” he said, gesturing to the scene around us. “The research… and making the story from a disparate bunch of things [does]. But the collecting is primitive.”

Making my way through the maze of the convention hall, I thought about my own collection; tickets from my first concert, extra copies of high school orchestra recital programs. They might not sell for the thousands that exhibitors at the ephemera fair price their pieces at, but each item anchors my memories, making a time capsule of my life. That feels priceless.

That collection has dwindled in recent years, and it isn’t because I’m any less sentimental. Many of these types of items are no longer in production, because there’s often no “real” need to print information out when we can just access them on our devices. Receipts, restaurant menus, party invitations, and so many other physical manifestations of our best (and worst) memories are being swallowed by digital efficiency.