If I Talk About Them They Will Live Forever

What is it about scrapping that allows us to get so involved and leaves us feeling so relaxed?

I think it's a form of catharsis.

I do all the usual scrapbooking projects - cute layouts of my grandkids, my family, the hawk that lands in the tree just off my balcony. But my one constant - the project I keep coming back to - is preserving the memories of my family.

I started this project several years ago when a beloved Aunt died and I had to part with the family home. The paperwork for the house was a mess - wills had not been probated as relatives passed on for 50 years. In the end there were 4 of us who "owned" a piece of the house -me, my father, a cousin and my aunt. And in the end, we all signed over our shares to ensure good care for my aging aunt - a decision I would not change, but which haunts me to this day. That house was as much a part of me as an arm or a leg, and in many ways, I needed it as much. It was the first home I'd ever known; it was where we lived when my father transferred to Japan in the 60's. My mother was born in that house, and it where I took my daughter during our evacuation during the Three Mile Island nuclear accident. It is the place I always felt safest and the most at peace. It was my home.

I put it off as long as possible, but eventually it came time to clear out the house as the final sale approached. It was an old house, and we found treasure upon treasure hidden in the attic rafters - portraits of relatives long gone, beautiful glassware, my grandmother's everyday dishes, an old victrola stand. On the surface, these would be all that was left of my time in the house and my ancestors. My home and my family were all gone. When I die, I would think, all reference and stories of them would go with me. Or would they?

I began to photograph everything. I started journaling. Eventually I committed long stories of my family, their history, my childhood, to paper for inclusion in my scrapbook. The scrapbooking was hard, but the writing was harder. I often cried. Each page forced me to deal with my loss. Now, as new pages are completed and stored in their plastic page protectors, I smile and remember. These wonderful people, the neighborhood I grew up in, my family, will all live on. I am cleansed of my grief and have ensured a piece of immortality for those gone before me. My children will know of their ancestors, as will my grandchildren and their children after that.

If I speak of them, they will live forever in the eyes and memories of all who look at this book. I am at peace.