The Only Inheritance I Ever Called Dibs On (And Yes, I Meant It)

The album that always sounded the same

The photo album always sounded the same when it opened a soft crackle like it was waking up from a nap it didn’t ask to take. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the little sigh of the binding and the whisper of thick pages separating, one at a time, while my grandmother scooted closer and got ready to narrate.

How I brought it to her

I was a kid, small enough that my legs never quite reached the floor when I sat next to her. I’d go hunting for the album like it was my job sliding it off the shelf, carrying it carefully with both hands, and setting it in her lap like I was presenting something important (because I was).

We’d settle in wherever the light was best usually near a window, sometimes at the kitchen table and she’d treat it like it was both casual and important. Which was exactly her style. The cover smelled like old paper and whatever lives inside cedar chests and linen closets: warm, dry, slightly sweet, like time itself had a scent.

Her commentary and the proof on the page

Then we’d do our usual routine. I’d point at a photo, and she’d tell me the story. Not the polite, tidy version either. The real one.

“There’s your grandpa,” she’d say, tapping the page with a finger that meant business. "He thought he was something.”

She had this way of looking at a photo like it confirmed everything she already believed. Every now and then she’d mention, very matter-of-factly, how good-looking she and her sisters and brothers were and how much trouble they got into. And then we’d turn the page and find a picture that proved it all.

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The 1940s and the camera they still made room for

That album was full of the 1940s faces in black and white, cars shaped like loaves of bread, dresses that looked like they belonged in a movie, and that particular brand of smiling that said, “We’re fine,” even if life was very much not easy. They were poor, and she never hid that. She said it plainly, like it was a fact on the table next to the salt shaker. But what fascinated me, even as a kid, was that they still had a camera. Somehow, in the middle of doing without, they made room for proof that they existed.

Most of the photos weren’t formal at all they were just life. People mid-laugh, someone making a face, arms slung around each other like they couldn’t stand to leave space in the frame. There were gatherings, little adventures, and the kind of everyday moments that look ordinary until you realize they’re the only reason you can actually picture someone’s life. My grandmother had opinions about every single image. And she was funny in that quick, dry way that made you feel like you were in on the joke. She could make a single photo feel like a whole scene.

“This one,” she’d say, tilting her head, “was right before your grandpa tried to impress me and almost fell off the porch.”

And then she’d laugh and I’d laugh too, even if I wasn’t totally sure why. The album wasn’t just pictures. It was her voice. Her timing. Her little commentary. The way she could turn an ordinary moment into something worth remembering.

The moment I called dibs

As I got older, I realized something else: that album wasn’t just a collection of memories. It was power. It was a family saying, “We were here,” even when life didn’t give them much. They didn’t have fancy anything. But they had the ability to hold onto their story.

And at some point not long after I got old enough to understand that people don’t last forever I told my grandma the truth in the blunt way only a younger version of me could pull off.

“When you die,” I said, “I want that album.”

No dramatic pause. No soft lead-in. Just… straight to it.

She didn’t flinch. She just looked at me for a second, like she was filing the information away. Then she nodded not dramatic, just very matter-of-fact like, okay, that’s settled. And honestly, coming from her, that was basically a compliment.

I meant it. She didn’t have a house full of heirlooms or fancy things, and honestly, she wouldn’t have wanted anyone making a big dramatic deal about her stuff. But that album wasn’t just “stuff.” It was her voice on paper, and I wanted to keep it.

And I made sure it became mine.

The cedar chest and why she trusted me

The album ended up in the cedar chest she gave me. The cedar chest that was her prized possession, the kind of object that seemed to have a rank in the household. That chest wasn’t just storage. It was history. It smelled like cedar and old blankets and the kind of careful keeping that says, “This matters.”

She didn’t want anyone else to have that cedar chest. That was not up for discussion. So she gave it to me before she passed. And honestly? I respected the commitment. She put the photo album inside it because she knew I’d take care of it not just the chest, not just the album, but what it represented.

That’s the part that still gets me.

She trusted me with the thing that held her life.

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Why it still shapes my work

My grandmother is gone now. And yes, I still have the album. I still have the cedar chest, too and I can practically hear her saying, “Of course you do,” like it was obvious and also the correct outcome. Sometimes I open it just to smell that familiar mix of paper and time. If you have an old album or a box of prints tucked away, it’s worth making sure they’re stored in a way that will actually protect them. This guide on caring for photographs is a really helpful place to start.

That memory sticks with me because it taught me something early: photos aren’t just “nice to have.” They’re how we hold onto people in a way that feels real. They’re the proof. They’re the tiny, ordinary moments that become priceless later not because they were perfect, but because they were yours.

It’s also why I photograph the way I do now. As a St. Paul family photographer, I’m not chasing perfection for perfection’s sake. I’m watching for the small stuff that tells the truth: the way someone leans in, the way a kid’s hand finds their parent’s, the half-second before everyone cracks up. Those are the pieces that live on. Those are the moments that show up in your life years later and bring someone’s voice back in your head like they never left.

If you’re looking for family portraits that feel like you the real version, the connected version I’d love to create something you’ll actually want to keep. Want to preserve the memories that matter most? I’d be honored to help.

Michele is a Minneapolis and St. Paul family photographer who believes the little things are the whole thing. She grew up flipping through her grandmother’s photo album, listening to stories from the 1940s and learning early that photos are not just pictures, they are proof of a life and a way to keep people close. Today, she brings that same storytelling heart to every session, focusing on the real connection, the laughter, and the in between moments that families want to hold onto long after the day is over.

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