Recently I stumbled upon a YouTube comment from a story I produced six years ago in Castro Valley, California. It was about a beloved local theater and the community’s effort to preserve it.
I remember the shoot vividly – the smell of buttered popcorn, the way locals spoke about the space with reverence. What I didn’t expect, all these years later, was how the story would continue to resonate.
The comment read:
“I knew one of the owners way back when – Jerry Toller. My father would fix the sign for him. So glad you’re buying this theater and keeping it in the city of Castro Valley, CA. I stayed up in the projection room when my Dad worked there as a projectionist. Great memories there. The popcorn was so good, free sodas. Thank you for preserving it and keeping the memories going! In those days it was 35mm projectors. They don’t have those anymore. lol I am old.”
It stopped me in my tracks. This wasn’t just feedback – it was a piece of someone’s life, unearthed and brought back into the light through a story I had the privilege of telling. A child sitting in a projection room, watching their dad bring a film to life. A neighborhood theater that became more than a place to watch movies – it became a thread in the fabric of someone’s memory.
This is why I do what I do. Because stories – especially the quiet ones about local heroes, shared spaces, and everyday magic – matter. They connect us to places and people, to the past and to one another. They preserve what time threatens to erase.
In that old theater, captured on camera, something intangible was documented: belonging. And through that one comment, I’m reminded that my job isn’t just to tell stories – it’s to hold space for others to see their own memories, their own lives, reflected back at them.
Stories live on long after the lights go down. That’s the real reel that keeps rolling.