Homeless Photos

In the beginning of 2006, I got busy planning my new endeavors as a scrapbooker. I was going to do things right: I was going to get organized, use the proper materials, and create a beautiful and meaningful family legacy. Lack of money, space, and time had so far gotten in the way. Or so I tried to convince myself.

For starters, I was both mesmerized and disillusioned by the whole mega-industry. I realized quickly that anybody who was anybody knew terms like “layouts” and “3-D accessories” and “page journaling.”

In fact, almost every scrapbook demonstration, magazine, and retail store I came across promised me that my scrapbooks would no longer be inadequate, just so long as I bought their latest and greatest product to help me produce cutesy and perfect scrapbook pages. I don't do cutesy. But if I didn't buy into their message I wouldn't be a true scrapbooker, that is, the best person, mother or stepmother I could be.

I didn't want to be a “scrapbooker" anyway-- too June Cleaver for me. A “scrapbooker,” to me, was a perfect SAHM (Stay-At-Home-Mom) with adorable color-coded organizers. Scrapbookers had annoyingly neat and clean crafting spaces and were with it enough to relegate regular blocks of time for the sole purpose of capturing all their little darlings' antics and benchmarks on paper. No way could I ever accomplish this, and I'm only a weekend stepmom.

Over two years ago, I rescued thirty years of my yellowing memories by carefully peeling thousands of photos and other memorabilia from acidic magnetic albums and then carelessly tossing them into acid-free boxes. I neglected to use the lids or really pay attention to which photos had come from which album. Plus, I had a century's worth of my grandmother's photos that I wanted to preserve. I had started organizing them by year in 9x12 envelopes. This quickly grew cumbersome, so then I shoved the whole lot back into their boxed chaos.

Once I had the time, I promised myself, I'd strive for perfection. I'd organize everything by the year, by the grade, by the vacation. I would shuffle together all the memorabilia--the movie ticket stubs, play programs, etc.--in with the photos, and once I finished all my albums, I promised myself, I would create a lovely scrapbook with my grandmother's photos.

The task was too immense, and I struggled to gain the gumption to begin. Wanting to actually do something perfect was getting in my way. So subsequently, the photos endured three moves thrown together loosely in their big box. I was lucky that few of them got bent.

Then I had a light-bulb moment. I wasn't doing this for anyone other than myself. My grandmother was dead, and even if she weren't, she wouldn't want my perfectionism to get in the way of having a nice photo album.

That was all I wanted to create. A photo album. Not a scrapbook that was going to be on display in my home for everyone to see. It was for me, and for my mother, and that was it. I didn't need punches and borders and stickers, layouts and designs. The pressure was off. What I did need was a sturdy 12x12 scrapbook album. I bought one and some photo corners, some acid free glue. I then lumped my photographs into separate boxes with general categories, "Elementary School," "Junior High/High School," "College," and "After College." But I still didn't get started. Life got in the way.

Now the categorized yet still homeless pictures are under my bed, sprawling, collecting dust. It was just this morning that a picture from my past I'd forgotten all about slides out unexpectedly from the no-man's-land under the bed to haunt me. “Get started,” says my eight year old smiling self. I pick up the 5x7 photo. I can't disappoint that eight year old so full of light and hope. Forget perfection. I use my acid-free glue stick and paste myself down on paper.

One picture down. For now, I am satisfied.