Keep Looking Up: A 24-Year Journey of an Unexpected Family Photograph

In the summer of 2013 I was working at the Wisconsin Historical Museum (WHM) in both the collections department and the gift shop. Before the end of my freshman year of college, I had secured an internship at WHM to research various Native American storytellers throughout Wisconsin. Because this was an unpaid internship, I also sought out part-time work at the museum’s gift shop. For three months I interacted with many school-aged children eager to spend their hard-earned chore money on knick-knacks, out-of-towners wanting something to commemorate their trip to Madison with, and dedicated history enthusiasts, looking for another book or local item to add to their Wisconsin collections. 

On my last day of work in late August, my coworker and I took turns strolling through the gift shop, tidying up anything out of place. I remember deliberately moving slowly across the floor, savoring the chance to browse items I’d never closely examined before. There were rows of magnets, postcards, and clothing with witty sayings—one joked about Wisconsinites eating margarine instead of butter, and another took pride in their use of 'bubbler' instead of 'water fountain.' Cheese-themed items, like erasers and cutting boards, filled the shelves, alongside a collection of books by local artists celebrating all things Wisconsin. 

On one of my final passes through the gift shop, a book titled Hanging by the Thread: A Kite’s View of Wisconsin caught my eye. It featured stunning aerial photos taken by Wisconsin photographer Craig M. Wilson, who accomplished this by using a camera attached to a kite. As I flipped through the pages, I admired iconic Madison views from above: the Capitol, Camp Randall, Monona Terrace, the downtown lakes, to name a few. Then, I stumbled across a photo of three people on a carnival ride. The shot, taken at a Monona festival on an exceptionally sunny day, showed two little Black girls smiling up at the camera from the bottom right corner. In the top left corner, another rider—a white woman—beamed down from above.

Now what I’m about to say next might sound unbelievable. Far-fetched. Even impossible. But as I studied the image more closely, the faces began to look familiar. Those weren’t just strangers in a random photo. The two little girls were me and my sister, and the woman above us was my mom. What are the odds? That on my last day of work, I randomly picked up a book I’d never seen before, only to discover a photo of myself  that I’d also never seen. The book was published in 2006, but judging by our outfits—those unmistakable Old Navy Fourth of July shirts—and my hairstyle, the photo must have been taken when we were in elementary school, sometime between 2000 and 2005.

After sharing this unbelievable discovery with my coworker, family, and friends, I took to Facebook to broadcast it even further. But with summer ending and college just around the corner, my excitement quickly fizzled out, replaced by the anticipation of reuniting with my college friends soon.

Fast forward ten years. It is March of 2023 and one night, while scrolling through TikTok, I come across a viral trend: people sharing their coincidences that they think about a lot. Video after video, strangers recount incredible, some even life-altering,  moments of fate and connection. I try to think of a coincidence in my own life, and the first thing that comes to mind is a story about my now-husband—before we started dating. But that moment feels too personal to share with thousands of strangers online.

 So I keep thinking. And then, suddenly, I  remember the photography book from 2013. Eagerly, I made a video retelling this story (getting many details wrong, mind you) and hit publish. I expect this video to perform like most of my others— viewed by a few hundred people. But to my surprise, people immediately latch onto it, flooding the comments with amazement. 

Over the next few days, every time I open TikTok, I’m met with hundreds of notifications from strangers, wanting to know more.  Many people ask if I have a copy of the book or if I have reached out to the photographer who took the photo, to which the answer to both questions is no. For some reason, I never bought the book from the gift shop, and at 19, I was more interested in my social life to even think about tracking down the photographer. But now, with the story gaining traction—270,000 views and counting—my curiosity is reignited. I finally ordered a copy of the book and even dug up my old employee badge from WHM. Over the next couple of weeks, I made a few follow-up videos, riding the wave of renewed interest. And then, just as before, I tuck the story away on a shelf in my memory and move on. 

Fast forward ten months to December 2024. Out of the blue, I get a comment on one of my videos about this story asking for an update—cleverly phrased as, “Don’t leave us hanging!” (a perfect nod to Craig’s book title). A while back, another TikTok user had mentioned that Craig had a photography page on Facebook. So, feeling curious on a random weeknight, I looked it up. His page showed he was still in Wisconsin and listed both an email and a phone number. Sending an email felt too formal and time-consuming, so—on a whim—I decided to just call him. Cold. No warning. As someone who never answers unknown numbers myself, I wasn’t optimistic he’d pick up. Maybe it was the shared area code (608, represent!) or just another twist in our connection, but for some reason, Craig answered. Before he could hang up, I launched into: “Hi Craig, my name is Karen Bauer, and I know this is completely random, but…” and then word-vomited the entire story out as fast as I could. To my surprise, Craig already knew who I was. My TikTok had made its way to some of his relatives, who had sent him my video. Instantly relieved, we chatted for a few minutes about his photography and that serendipitous moment at the gift shop. Before ending the call, I asked if he’d be open to meeting sometime over coffee, to which he agreed.

Now it’s 2025. The new year had just begun, and my husband and I were in Madison visiting family and friends. On Saturday, January 4th, we drove 30 minutes to meet Craig and his wife for coffee. Surprisingly, there was very little awkwardness—the conversation flowed effortlessly between the four of us, as we shared stories about our lives and uncovered more details behind the photograph. Craig told us the photo was taken on July 4, 2001, which meant I was about seven and my sister around nine. That day, he had been visiting his brother, who lived near the festival, and saw the perfect opportunity to bring out his kite camera—a homemade contraption he had rigged up to fly a kite while a camera trailed below. Though he wasn’t the only person experimenting with this method (he had found a global community of kite photographers), it was groundbreaking at the time—especially in the pre-drone era. With the camera soaring high above and no viewfinder to check his framing, Craig had no way of knowing if a shot was good until the film was developed later. Every photo he took was captured on a hope and a prayer.

Over coffee, two more fate-filled moments in our story came to light. Like me, Craig wasn’t someone who typically answered calls from unknown numbers. But for some reason—one he couldn’t quite explain—something about that day and my call made him pick up. Then, he showed me an alternate version of the festival ride photo—one he had considered using instead of the image that made it into the book. This earlier shot captured what appeared to be a father and son in the top left corner, with my mother in the bottom right. The fact that he ultimately chose the next photo—the one that unknowingly preserved this candid moment of my family—felt nothing short of incredible. After an hour and a half of conversation, which felt less like a first meeting and more like catching up with old family friends, Craig handed me another edition of Hanging by a Thread, along with the second book in his kite photography series. Before we left, I sheepishly asked if he’d sign my book and take a photo with me. He happily agreed, writing a message that couldn’t have been more fitting: "Keep looking up!"

Between the moment that photo was taken in 2001 and now, in 2025, I have lived many lives. In those 24 years, I was adopted, graduated high school, fell in love for the first time, studied abroad, worked at many museums, earned my undergraduate degree, moved to Minnesota, spent several years living on and off in South America, fell in love again, lost loved ones, survived a global pandemic, bought a house, earned my doctorate degree, got married, secured my first “big girl” job, and am now just days away from welcoming my first child into the world.The girl in that photo would be in awe of the woman I’ve become. And the woman I am now is so proud of that little girl—of the way she kept smiling, even after all she had already overcome at just seven years old. 

The universe has a way of weaving people, places, and moments into our lives when we need them most. It’s no coincidence that I discovered this photo on my last day of work, just before heading back to college. In its own quiet way, the museum was saying goodbye—sending me off with a reminder to embrace life’s next adventure. I was meant to carry that little girl with me, to let her joy guide me as I moved forward. And it’s no coincidence that I reconnected with the photographer and uncovered more of this photo’s story just as I stand on the brink of motherhood. As I prepare for this momentous next step in life, this image reminds me of all the ways my mother created moments of joy and laughter for my sister and me—through silly faces, impromptu dance parties, and trips to museums and neighborhood festivals—our childhood was punctuated with many moments of happiness. As a mother-to-be, I will use this photo as my north star. May my child’s life be filled with exceptionally sunny days, family outings to neighborhood festivals, and big smiles. And may me and my child never stop looking up.