The English Geek

The Scrapbook Kitsch Factor

You know that I love scrapbooking, right? It is nearly the perfect craft for me, a space for combining words and photos with something pretty and colorful. It speaks to my odd and nearly-compulsive need to remember things, a need that continues to grow in light of Dad's Alzheimer's . I don't want to forget; I don't want my children or family to forget. My layouts tend to be less about reciting what happened and more about how I feel about what happened.

Every time I scrapbook, though, I am nagged by a little voice that reminds me: scrapbooking is sort of kitshy. That it's getting in touch with my inner kindergartner---coloring, and playing with shapes and letters, and carefully cutting stuff out---in the weirdest sort of way. Even though I love scrapbooking, I can confess that there is something mockable about it. Even though I am a self-confessed whiz with an exacto, I can't help but question: is this a dumb way to spend my time? Is it silly? Will it mean anything to anyone but me? And even with that other inner voice---the one that reminds me I am making sure that some things will be remembered---I can't completely discredit the threat of cheesiness that hovers over scrapbooking. (Hence, I am convinced, discussions about things like design, and visual triangles, and creating balance, and becoming a typesetting genius; they are a way of validating, of keeping the threat from descending.)

Yesterday at work, setting out books on the new book display, I discovered something that made me fear the cheese: Joanna Campbell Slan's series of novels based on, get this: scrapbookers. Scrapbooking detectives who solve murder mysteries. Seriously? I didn't know whether I wanted to laugh or to groan.

Probably both.

That's all scrapbooking needs: a series of fluffy murder mysteries.

We're all now permanently assigned to the "kitsch" section of the world.

I guess you could look at it like this: the fact that someone's writing murder mysteries based on scrapbooking means that the craft has arrived. Because (I discovered) there are murder mysteries written about tons of crafts: knitting, and cooking, and card making. Quilting. Home repair. Crocheting. Pottery.

Glass blowing.

But that hardly makes me feel better about my favorite craft's ability to avoid being kitschy. None of those other series makes me admire the crafts they focus on, either. Part of it has to do with the attitude non-scrapbookers have about scrappers. Take the review of the first book. "Scrapbookers will love the whole idea of forensic scrapbooking." Really? I'm a scrapbooker, and I don't love the idea. I think it's kind of silly. And please: don't lump me into the group of people who read fluffy murder mysteries (not that there's anything wrong with that), just because I scrapbook.

Of course, now my book snobbery is showing, isn't it? And part of my reaction probably has to do with me not liking mysteries in general. But, really, why: why fluffy murder mysteries? Would it be possible to write a novel based on scrapbooking that wasn't cheesy? (I'm thinking about the novel Friday Night Knitting Club now, which, while somewhat formulaic and unsatisfying, at least tried to avoid fluffiness.) I guess Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, sort of. But I can't imagine a serious novel about scrapbookers. Can you? With a front-page review in the NY Times Sunday book reviews?

Maybe the problem is with me. (Isn't it always?) Maybe I worry too much about "serious." About reading meaningful stuff and spending my time wisely. Maybe it would be OK for me to get over being worried about the scrapbooking kitsch factor and just enjoy it without any qualms. Maybe I'm just jealous that a fellow scrapbooker (who used to write scrapbooking how-to books) is a published author, and am poking fun out of spite.

Probably that.

I just think that...well, if you're going to all that effort to write a novel, and you love scrapbooking, you maybe should try to de-cheesy it, rather than reinforcing the cheesy. (mmmmmmm...reinforced cheese!)

Just in defense of our craft. That's all I'm saying.

Scrapping Issues

I started scrapbooking way back in 1996. Although I'd seen other people's scrapbooks, it didn't seem like something I'd do until I had kids; once I had Haley I couldn't wait to start one for her. My scrapbooking friends all used Creative Memories albums, but since I'd just started being a stay-at-home mom, I didn't feel like I could afford them, so I went the 3-ring-binder route. I found so much pleasure during those early days of scrapbooking, even though once I learned more about it, I hated my first pages and ended up redoing most of them when I could afford the CM albums. I loved looking through my photos, loved writing about them, loved the happy little thrill of easy creativity. During my two years of finishing up my first degree, scrapbooking was my happy place. "Finish writing this essay," I'd coax myself, "then you can make a layout." That's exactly why I thought of it as "easy creativity"; I loved writing essays, too (still do, obviously) but they were hard. Writing requires a sort of self-examination that playing with paper doesn't. Scrapping was just fun.

Plus, all my friends did it. We got together all the time to scrapbook. I'd pack up all my supplies—back then, they all fit into one medium-sized Rubbermaid tote—put Haley to bed, then head out to scrap. We even had occasional weekends-away, dedicated to scrapbooking. Hanging out till far too late, just for the pleasure of kid-free time, eating snacks and admiring each others' pretty layouts, as well as laughing, talking, giving each other baby advice or marital empathy: I loved those nights. I think the only negative thing I would have said about scrapbooking was that I never had enough time to do it.

Things changed over time, of course. As my friends' families (and mine!) grew, the ability to get away for an evening got smaller. Some just lost interest in the hobby. People moved away. I did keep scrapping, especially once I'd finished with my English degree, because I discovered that what I loved most about scrapping—even more than pretty supplies—was that it gave me a space to write. After all those essays I'd written in school, I needed to continue writing pieces that would be read, and scrapbooks were the perfect place for that. I learned that my journaling didn't have to be just a listing of a few facts, but could be a place where I could really say something. It's hard, though, to write that way when you're scrapbooking with other people. Our scrapping nights began to be a thing of the past.

The biggest change was the release of Creating Keepsakes magazine. You'd think that a magazine about scrapping could do nothing but help me scrapbook better, right? But instead, it frustrated me. Don't get me wrong: I learned about things like layout design and cool techniques by reading it; in that sense, it did help my scrapping. The frustration came from two places. First, the fact that I knew people who were writing articles. There I was, English degree in hand, and yet people who knew someone at the magazine got to do what I wanted to do: write stuff that people read. The second source was that, as I read all of these different voices telling me how scrapbooking should be done, I stopped liking the way I did it. If there was a new, cool technique, I learned it; if there was a hot new trend, I followed it. My motivation for scrapbooking shifted: I wasn't doing it because I loved it anymore, but because I wanted someone at The Magazine to notice me.

I still remember the exact moment when I began to see how lame I was being. I was reading The Magazine, and turned the page to an article about using fun foam on a layout. "Wait a minute," I thought. "That would be so thick in the page protector. I don't want to do that." Right then, two roads diverged; The Magazine took one way and I took another. Scrapbooking started to become an industry; there were scrapbook artists and scrapbook celebrities and Hall-of-Fame winners; layouts started to become about how much product you could pile on. Metal embellishments became the rage; there were layouts with turkey bags (seriously). Websites and online forums dedicated to scrapping flourished. Scrapbooking, which I had loved, stopped being about matching up pictures and words; instead it was all about getting and spending . It became a popularity game, a fashion show—and we all know how good I am at those things! Nowhere in this new industry, especially in The Magazine (which I continued to read despite my "I'm not doing that" epiphany) could I find a representation of the way that I wanted to scrap: something pretty paired with an emphasis on photos and, mostly, words.

Somewhere in all those changes, a new magazine came out: Simple Scrapbooks. And that's where I found myself as a scrapbooker. That's where I discovered that my way of scrapping was just fine. It's also the place that stopped rejecting my work but, instead, wanted me to write for them. I worked as a freelance writer with Simple for about three years and loved every second of it. Writing for the magazine helped me overcome that feeling I had, that every layout I made should be "good enough" to please some invisible editor who might finally, finally notice me. But even more than writing for the magazine, reading it helped me overcome my scrapping neurosis. The reinforcing idea, every issue, that words and pictures were the point (not becoming famous and receiving the adulation of many), never did change throughout the course of the magazine. Scrapping became fun again.

Even though I stopped writing for the magazine (not, I hope, based on the quality of my work, but simply because there was a change in editors), I never stopped reading it. I never stopped gaining inspiration from it—because it never stopped reminding me that my way of scrapping was just fine. Your way is good, too! So I can't tell you how sad I was when I learned that Simple has just about run its course, and only two more issues will go to press. A casualty of the economy, I suppose. It’s probably a little bit strange to be emotionally involved with a scrapbook magazine. To be grateful for it. But I liked the voice of sanity in the otherwise-crazy industry. In fact, I loved that magazine and will miss it.

A hobby should make you happy. But it doesn’t always feel the same; your relationship with your hobbies changes as time passes. And that’s OK, too. I’ve not felt that utter and innocent joy it used to bring me in a good long while. In fact, aside from the work I did on my Big Picture classes last year, I hardly scrapped at all. I found the holy-cow-I'm-so-excited happiness in the fabric store. But somehow, with the new year, I’m anxious to dig in to scrapbooking again. (Maybe because my sewing machine is having issues and has lost my trust?) I’m grateful that along the way I’ve gotten rid of most of my scrapping issues. Stacy's magazine taught me to scrap first for me, and it’s a lesson I will always be happy I learned.

A Very Long Post with an Eventual Point about Scrapbooking

Here's the thing about being busy: I've got plenty to blog about, but no time to write. Like: teaching again, today, just for the afternoon; General Conference and the Saturday Miracle I Didn't Know I Needed (that is the official title, by the way); book exchange book reviews, along with about ten other book notes that are piling up in my brain; a Halloween stupor of thought; my attempts at being crafty for church; eye surgery. Oh, and, get this: over the past 24 hours or so, Kaleb has eaten three apple slices. Three. In his life, when any part of an apple making its way into his belly is unheard of, three slices is another miracle.

But what really keeps coming to my mind is the revelation I had on Sunday. My mom had dinner at her house, and honestly: I was a little bit anxious about going. The last time we had a big family dinner was Easter, which was sort of disastrous in my eyes, one of the first times in my life I've felt truly uncomfortable in the presence of most of my family. I didn't want to feel that way again, but it went smoothly, an afternoon that found me laughing a bit, and wishing I'd worn a sweater, and enjoying cheese potatoes with gusto.

My mom is just barely beginning the process of cleaning out her house; now that Dad is in his rest home, she has finally decided to sell and move closer to the rest of us. Since Mom is—well, let's put it frankly, a pack rat—the next few months will be interesting. She started the cleaning-out process in the closet of the bedroom that Becky and I used to share when we were really little, and then was just hers; later, when Dad’s snoring got to be too much for Mom to deal with, it became his bedroom. The closet is full of her overflow of clothes, as well as stacks and stacks and stacks of books. She'd pulled most of Dad's books out of the closet and spread them out on the bed, a display that felt like an odd sort of Christmas morning. I suspected there'd be a lot of Stephen King, and I was right; there were also some surprising things, like books by Ted Kooser and Edward Abbey. Sadly, his copy of Desert Solitaire was missing its first five pages or so, or I would have kept it. I did grab a few books, including my old copy of Bevington’s Collected Shakespeare.

That pile of books gave me pause; it is a sort of catalogue of Dad's mind, the stories that entertained, the ideas that resonated. I flipped through a few of them, wishing he were a carnal lover of books like I am---wish he had written something in them. His book choices would say something to someone who didn't know him, but for me it was repetition; I wanted to learn something about him that I didn’t know before. Can our possessions do that, can they tell someone something we forgot to tell them ourselves? I'm not sure, but staring at the accumulated store of my father's reading material made me think about my own stuff, my own mortality. When I am gone, will anyone care that I did write stuff in my books? Will they know my code: a bent-down corner means I loved something on that page but didn't have a pen to underline it when I was reading. My thoughts pushed out: will my other possessions matter to anyone, once I am gone? Will anyone want to keep, say, a quilt I made, or my recipe book? And what about my journals and scrapbooks?

I turned my back to the bed and started taking from the shelves the stuff that Mom hadn't, mostly a rag-tag collection of old books from our childhood. Two out of the seven Chronicles of Narnia had been buried in that closet; seeing the covers was like standing in the room with my elementary-school-aged self. Half of On the Banks of Plum Creek, half of Mandy, half of Ballet Shoes with my name, written in clumsy cursive, in the back. Where did the other halves go? Just one of my used-to-be-complete (and very much loved) set of Anne of Green Gables; some picture books I remember vividly. I also found my favorite childhood companions, Bubba and Sissy the rag dolls; Sissy was missing her pinafore and Bubba was completely naked, but I am happy to have them back. Oh, and the flapper costume I wore for a dance recital sometime in the early 80's.

The last thing I took from that bedroom was a stack of old magnetic photo albums that had belonged to my Grandma Elsie, my dad’s mom. Once I got home that night, I looked through them. And that was when I finally had that revelation. As I flipped through the photos she thought important enough to use a frame or two of film on from 1986-1989, I thought about the slight relationship I had with her. She wasn’t very involved in my life. I don’t know that anyone could tell me why, and I suppose it was a mix of stories I don’t know. I didn’t question this, as a kid; she was just Grandma Elsie, with her walls full of every cat calendar she’d ever received (each turned to its correct month), who we saw at Christmas and on birthdays and a few other occasions. I didn’t wonder why I felt much less important than the older cousins; I just knew I was and that was just how it was.

So I’ve never really thought about her impact on my life. But flipping through her photos, I realized that maybe I am more like her than I know. She took pictures and wrote about them. Granted—not enough words, in any way. I'm left wondering, for example, how she broke her kneecap during her trip to Canada, or how she felt about Bryce Canyon. But still, putting her pictures with words was important to her. And, get this: she didn’t just take pictures of her grand kids and her trips with friends. She took photos of snowy landscapes, of flowers, of her house. She had pictures of the mountains in her albums, too.

This felt so much like me. She stood at the same spot at Bryce that I did; she took a picture. I flipped through her photographs in my dark and quiet house, thinking about Dad’s books, about bits of my childhood stacked up in a messy closet, about mortality, about the world going past me. About whoever will come after me who might want to know me, too. In the exhumations of the closet, I didn’t learn a whole lot about Dad that I didn’t already know; I reacquainted myself with things I’d forgotten. I did learn something about my grandma, though, and it gave me an answer to one my persistent questions: is time spent scrapbooking wasted time? I don’t think so. Maybe time spent agonizing over little scrapbook details is a little bit wasted (the lack of accents or embellishments in Elsie’s photo albums wasn’t even noticed), but the writing + words thing? Never.

Present Moment Scrapbook

Back when my dad was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, one of my initial impulses was this pervasive desire to record more of my life. I’ve always kept a journal, of course, but up until then I’d never done a scrapbook layout about myself. Hundreds and hundreds for my kids? Of course. Put pairing photos, words, and pretty stuff just for me seemed sort of...redundant, maybe. (Who would want to read them?) Or selfish. (Because isn’t there a never-ending supply of photos of my kids to scrap? Don’t I have a responsibility to write down what they won’t remember?) But as I watched bits and pieces of Dad fall away, I couldn’t stop thinking: what if that happens to me? I need to have my memories recorded, too.

That’s when the scrapbooking muse started tickling my creativity bone. I bought an album just for me and made a few layouts—about myself. I confess: it does feel a little weird. But even three years later, it still feels important. At least every six months or so, I find a photo of myself (again; something highly uncomfortable, handing the camera over to someone else and actually being in the picture) and write journaling that focuses on my life right now. Some layouts read like a calendar, others like short stories. But I like getting down the little pieces and parts that combine to form my dreams, anxieties, desires, obsessions, and habits.

So when Stacy J. told me about her "present-moment" scrapbooking challenge, I was necessarily on board. While it feels strange, initially, focusing on yourself for a bit causes this unexpected reaction: you start to pay attention to your now even more. You realize that you won’t always be worrying over _____________, which puts it in perspective; you won’t always be experiencing _______________, which helps you savor it. You see that your life right this moment is extraordinary and special. Time you won’t ever get to revisit, experiences you’ll remember as the way things used to be—and suddenly you see your own value, the stuff that is inherent in you no matter what your title (mom, wife, employee, whatever).

So! Here’s the challenge:

• Sometime in the next two weeks, snap ten different photos of your life right now. Try to capture both the unique and the mundane. One must be a photo of you! (That’s not on the original challenge, by the way, but I’m being bossy and adding it.)
• Make a little scrapbook using your pictures. When I say "little" I mean: low stress.
• Keep it in your purse always. For one entire year!
• Whenever you see your little book, open it up and look at it.
• On October first, 2009, make an entire layout about the experience. (I’ll remind you!)

If you don’t scrapbook, that’s OK. Just try taking the ten pictures and writing about them, and then next year you can revisit them.

Two things to get you started:

1. Not sure where to get a "little" scrapbook? The first 20 people who leave me a comment about something they love in their life right now will get a little Bazzill album in the mail!

2. Here are my ten photos, with a few comments (hello, like I could post photos without also writing about them!), just to give you some ideas. I’ll post my little album in a few days. (I’m slightly embarrassed to be posting straight-out-of-the-camera photos, but we’re in the middle of a computer upgrade right now, and my version of Photoshop is just not happy with Vista!)

These kids! Being a wooth makes me want to become a better mom. They are all growing up and I feel like I'm in this weird stage---the dreaded post-baby days. I want them to have an unshakeable knowledge of how much I love them. A quick I-love-this about each of them: Haley's love of photo shoots, whether they involve her or one of her friends; Jake getting so involved in his Grandpa Kent's Edgar Rice Burroughs books (Tarzan etc); Nathan's desire to go to Target almost every day, just so he can look at all the swords and other grizzy weapons that crowd the shelves for Halloween; Kaleb's recent need to say "Mom? I love you, Mom!" and "Mom? What is your name again?" and then he laughs and says "oh yeah" when I tell him, as if he had forgotten. Whenever I take a picture of any of them, we have to start with a silly face, and then they'll smile.

Kendell is almost recuperated from his surgery. "Almost" meaning his right hip still hurts, and he's not 100%, but he is getting there. I'm still giving him nearly-every-night leg-and-scar massages. Things are slowly starting to return to normal around here!

 

I know that doesn't look like a photo of my dad, but it represents him. I still haven't brought myself to take a photo of him at his rest home, but I took this after we visited him for the first time. I left that home knowing that my dad doesn't know who I am---a strange feeling. We went for a short little hike in Rock Canyon after we visited him, and as I walked in the mountains I was filled with this feeling I am still struggling to explain---an even-stranger peace. I felt like I should try to savor and appreciate in his stead, as if me just enjoying my own life would be enough for him.

 

Fall is here! The leaves on the mountains make me want to go hiking. So far we've done a bit of Dry Canyon, Rock Canyon, and Payson Canyon. The Halloween decorations are up, the kids are in serious costume decision-making process, and I am loving all the color everywhere. I love, love, love the fall. Did I mention it's my favorite?

I'm an idiot. I've been training for my half-marathon. But I neglected to actually sign up for it. Now it's too late: it's full. DANG. But, I am still in love with running. I got new shoes a few weeks ago and my feet are much happier! I run anywhere from 35-50 minutes. Uphill is still my favorite!

Working at the library is having a serious impact on my piles of books. Translation: there are more piles. I seem to find something else I am dying to read every time I shelf read. I just finished Life of Pi and now I'm trying to decide what to read next; I have 18 items checked out!

One of my favorite fall things: the way the light is colored, and how it falls around and through the last of the flowers. I still have some roses blooming, a bunch of fushia-colored flowers I don't know the name of, and a few zinnias. I'm starting the fall garden clean out, digging out the spent sunflowers and trimming off perennials.

Creative projects are overtaking my desk. I'm about one-third the way through an autumn-colored rag quilt, and I've got flannel lined up for Christmas gifts, and another Christmas quilt I am dying to make. New BP class, various scrapbook layouts, a craft project for the young women. I want more time to work on everything!

Financial crisis, global warming, hurricanes, wild fires, nuclear weapons in Korea: seems like it is always bad news. But I still try to read the newspaper most days, even if it's just the headlines. I never miss the obituary pages, and the kids have discovered the comics page.

Haley took this picture of me in Dry Canyon. I am tempted to make a snide comment about my high forehead but instead I will say: I am happy in the mountains and I'm grateful to live near them.

You can also blog about this. Send the idea to your blogging friends—challenge your readers, too. Tons of other scrapbookers are blogging about it today, in fact—check out Stacy's blog for a list of links!

A Post About Scrapbooking

For most of the fall months and throughout December, I did very little scrapping. Of course, I was busy with all that sewing, and then the shopping and the wrapping and the Christmas stress. But honestly—not only was I not scrapping, I wasn’t wanting to scrap. In fact, I made "start scrapping again" one of my new year’s resolutions (which, by the way, I didn’t share with anyone this year, as it seems like talking about them makes my ambition to fulfill them fade away). I think I needed a break in order to reconnect to my love of this hobby. It is so easy to get caught up in the drama of the scrapbooking world—the wanting to own the latest & greatest stuff, the desires for publication and recognition. Somewhere I had lost (again) my reason for scrapping. Which has always been just this: put story with pictures and something pretty. I’m not an "artsy" scrapper. I’m just not wired that way—the visually artistic part is always second for me. Don’t get me wrong—I love paper and embellishments as much as anyone. But I don’t really find a whole lot of creative release through using products. Instead, the creative spark comes from the journaling thing—the concept of having a space for my words, a space where they might be read by someone other than just me.

I usually have to remind myself of this, each time I re-immerse myself in the craft, because if you read many scrapping magazines, you know that my words-first approach isn’t the usual one. Just last night, I was reading an article in the newest Simple Scrapbooks, about some design principles, and it hit me how I hardly ever think about things like balance and repetition and visual triangles. It sometimes feels like there is an entire way of seeing things—a visual way of seeing things, which is a sort of redundant idea, of course, but I don’t know how else to put it. As if other people, upon seeing a well-executed layout, see something that I just don’t ever pick up on. This idea makes me wonder if there are design aspects in my layouts that are horrible but invisible to my eye. The visual equivalent of a misused "your" or a subject/verb agreement issue.

Every time I start again, I have to do a little battle with these negative voices. I have to remind myself that my approach—lots of pictures, tons of words, an emphasis on word forms as embellishments—is valid simply by being the way I do it. I give myself this validation by looking through past layouts and watching myself react to them. Honestly, I find myself reacting very little to the artsy stuff on those layouts. Instead, I just find I’m glad I wrote down that story about Haley, at age 1, leaning over from her carseat to try and order "ummmmmm, fro fries and a Coke!" from the drive through window at Wendy’s. And I discover the gaps, too, the things I wish I still knew or the motivations behind a specific picture. The gaps motivate me to write down even more everyday stuff.

So, since the kids went back to school, I’ve been scrapping. And I’ve been sticking to my materialism-bogs-down-creativity belief by not buying anything. Another one of my resolutions is to stay out of the scrapbook store (limiting myself to one shopping trip a month) and to shop from my own stash instead. I’ve been using up some things from my stash and falling in love with really old supplies. Like—does anyone else remember SEI’s first lines, the color blocked and geometric ones? I wish they’d stayed with that approach instead of becoming just another pattern paper company. Today I’m planning on using a—gasp!—sticker that has a copyright date of 1999. It might older than Nathan! I am mixing old with new and not listening to my criticizing voices. I’m using things I love. I’m trusting my approach despite the current movements and my own doubts. I’m not doing it for the art or for any accolades, but because it feels more and more important to match up pictures with stories and to not let anything slip out of my memory.

Write Now!

OK, so, if you know my scrapbooking style at all, you know I tend to write a lot of journaling---a lot. But lately I've been a bit obsessed with a sort of sparsity of words, of packing as much meaning into as few words as possible. It's sort of like writing poetry, only with more freedom and connections. Or like prose poems. [Completely unrelated side note: there's a quiz on that link to help you discover if you're an Emo or not; made me giggle a bit as sitting at a computer taking an on line quiz seems totally non-emo to me in the first place!]

And that's just what my new class at Big Picture, Write Now!, is about---how to write good, strong journaling that's also quick. I am excited for the class to start---it begins on Thursday---because I hope it will help more people want to journal. So many people seem to think that journaling takes too long, but it doesn't really have to. Don't get me wrong, I still do layouts with lots of journaling. But I'm starting to see more clearly, now, which photos demand a lot of words, and which want just a few really good words.

Sign ups last until June 10 if you're interested!

Tidings of Comfort, at Least, Although Not Joy, Not Yet

This weekend, my mom had to be admitted to the hospital for some intense stomach pains. They still don't know what is wrong with her, so she will be there for awhile longer as they do more and more tests. That's been difficult enough, but my sisters and I are now taking care of our dad, who is at a particularly horrible place with his Alzheimer's disease. His mind has invented some awful, angry, violent memories---things that never happened but which he thoroughly believes are true. I had yet to experience one of these episodes, but he had one on Friday morning when I went out to his house to bring him to spend the day with me. I won't share the details here, but it was ugly. In the face of it all, I felt desolate and sad and very, very alone. Learning how to live without your dad in your life and how to cope with the stranger put in his place is something that I don't have the language to explain. As I drove away from his house, one of my favorite Christmas carols, "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" came on the radio. But everything felt too painful. Tidings of comfort and joy? How could those ever come to me again?

Dad ran some errands with me, and then we went home to put Kaleb down for his nap. I needed to get some baking done for a Christmas party we had to go to that evening, so I asked him what he wanted to do. "Well, I want to read one of those books you do. Those books you make?"

"Do you mean you want to look at a scrapbook?" I tried to clarify.

"I think that is what I mean. Those things you make." That he even had a vague memory of me making scrapbooks brought a little bit of comfort to me, especially since during his episode he didn't even know who I was.

"OK," I said, and ran downstairs and got the fattest scrapbook from the shelf, which just happens to be Nathan's baby-year scrapbook.

He sat in my front room with the book on his lap. And he read every single layout in the album. Reading is hard for him, but he read them. I worked in the kitchen, and every once in awhile he'd say something about the scrapbook. "This is very well-written," he said, and "I love how you wrote this."

Maybe this is pathetic of me, to feel...well, to feel proud of my writing, as it was complimented by a man whose brain is slowly deteriorating. But I still did. Maybe you never grow out of your need to please your dad. And for a little while, it felt like having him back again. My dad and my sister Becky are the only ones who ever really read my scrapbooks---anyone else who looks at them just looks at the pictures. So to have him recognize, at whatever level, whatever small amount of "good" might be in my journal? Well. It was the opposite swing of the pendulum, the high point of a day made up of one of my life's lowest points.

And as difficult and as painful as this experience is, as much as it is teaching me of razor blades being dragged across the fleshiest part of the soul, it always manages to turn around and teach me something good, too. I finished my work in the kitchen before he finished the album---he had only a few pages left, so we read them together. He closed the book and said, with a serenity in such opposition from his earlier agitation, "you are so smart to write this all down. You are smart because one day maybe you'll be like me and can't remember anything, but then you can read this and you can remember it anyway." What other confirmation do I need that the attention I pay to scrapbooking is important and relevant? And that my own scrapping philosophy---that scrapbooking is about matching pictures up with words as well-wrought as possible, and all the rest, the products and the tools and the publishing and the paint and ink and paper and ribbon, are incidental---is the absolutely right one for my life.

As I sat on the arm of the chair in my front room next to my dad, reading a layout about a trip to the park Nathan had as a newly-mobile baby, I had a scripture tickling at my psyche. After I took Dad to my sister's house so that we could go to that Christmas party, I looked it up. This comes from an LDS book of scripture called the Doctrine and Covenants. I could only remember the part about after a challenge, blessings come. But the scripture in its entirety was just the tiding of comfort I needed:

For verily I say unto you, blessed is he that keepeth my commandments, whether in life or in death; and he that is faithful in tribulation, the reward of the same is greater in the kingdom of heaven.

Ye cannot behold with your natural eyes, for the present time, the design of your God concerning those things which shall come hereafter, and the glory which shall follow after much tribulation.

For after much tribulation come the blessings. Wherefore the day cometh that ye shall be crowned with much glory; the hour is not yet, but is nigh at hand.

Remember this, which I tell you before, that you may lay it to heart, and receive that which is to follow.
Doctrine and Covenants 58:2-5

I remembered hearing that carol in the car---turning off the carol in the car, as a tiding of comfort seemed impossible. But there it was: my tiding. And maybe the greatest tiding of comfort is that through all of this, my belief that God is good continues to be strengthened.

I Miss My Dad

As part of my scrap-room reorg---as the final step, incidentally, meaning I'm nearly all reorged!---I've been sorting through my pre-digital-camera pictures. I have a good system for organizing these pictures, but I've needed to actually do it for a long time. So, I've gathered pictures from various piles in my room and then started filing. And as I've looked through these older pictures---photos from 1999 on up to 2003---I have noticed something: you can actually see the progress of my dad's Alzheimer's.

It's strange. Nothing physical has happened to him; it's all been inside of his skull. But gradually, his face has changed. In photos from, say, 2001, he looks completely like himself. You can nearly see his personality hanging out on his face, a transparent mask. But look at a picture of him now, and he doesn't look like himself. The mask has clouded.

It feels a little bit like reacquainting myself with him, looking at these old pictures. Like he's been on a long trip and now he's back home. Except---they're only pictures. And maybe if I pushed myself a little bit, I could find something to say about how this is why you should take pictures, and this is why you should write stuff down: because you'll never know what changes life will bring.

But really? I don't have the emotional energy to go down that road; it seems pointless because having his real self looking back at me in a picture only serves to highlight the differences. Instead of sweeping, grandiose ideas, all I am left with is the piercing realization of how my dad, when he stands in front of me, is no longer my dad. Of how much he has..."changed" is the first word I can think of, but somehow it suggests a difference that comes about through conscious effort. He would never have chosen this outcome for the end of his life. Maybe "progressed" is the right word. As in "progressed through the disease." Or the euphemistic "declined." That's always a good one. It seems that all I am left with is euphemisms---words you use to replace the true ones, to make reality seem a little less harsh.

Because there really aren't many words to say how I feel. Except for this: I just miss my dad. Even when he's standing right next to me. Especially then.

on Getting Instead of Scrapbooking

This is my year, it seems, to be sick. I guess it's fair---I kept the sickies at bay for nearly the entire two years I was teaching (simply because I couldn't cope with planning lessons far enough in advance for a sub!), and now it's catching up to me. Just a cold, except for it's left me without a voice, which isn't a good thing as I have work to do that requires a voice! So, in an effort to keep my mind off being sick, I've been reorganizing my scrapbook room.

You know those scrapbook rooms you see in magazines, with walls painted something other than white, and gorgeous furniture that all matches, and beauty and function and Rubbermaid containers that actually match? Well, my room's nothing like that. The walls are white. My computer desk is made with a door set on two metal filing cabinets; my two tables give me lots of space but they don't rank very high in the "gorgeous" department. I do have this fairly amazing antique desk I inherited from my grandpa, but in this room, it only fits in the closet. So it's far from impressive. But It's functional. I've got a sort of organizational system that works for me. (Well, as much as an organizational system can work for a girl who really isn't bothered by a little bit of chaos.)

I didn't want to just put stuff away (although, the putting of stuff away was a job itself, two months' worth of the left-over bits of layouts and new stuff waiting to be filed away). I wanted to purge. To get rid of stuff that honestly, I know I'll never use again. So, all my ancient lettering templates (remember? The ones Pebbles used to sell? Man I loved those things. I used them all the time. And I bought every.single.one they made) have been moved to the kids' scrapping/art supplies box. All magazines older than 2006 are being recycled (except for the ones with moi in them, of course, lol). I've got a box full of paper, stickers, and card stock that'll go to the kids' elementary classes once I'm finished. And I'm still not done yet.

As I've worked on cleaning out this room, I've been whispering angrily to myself (remember? no voice!). "Why'd you buy 22 different colors of pattern paper from Close To My Heart and then never use it?" "Why can't you bring yourself to part with your collection of Bryce and Madeline stickers when you know you'll never use them and they're just taking up valuable space?" "Ummm...why is it, Amy, when you've got a stack of 4"-tall blue card stock, you had to go and buy more? Just because it was on sale?"

I'm feeling this weird mix of emotions. Annoyed at myself for spending way too much money on stuff I never used. All of this stuff...it makes an emotional temperature in the room that's nearly claustrophobic. Like something is getting buried underneath the mounds and piles. But there's also a creative anxiety---a sense of being full of ideas and excitement at using the stuff I am keeping. (Not the Bryce and Madeline stickers, though. That was always the problem: they were too cute to use!) It's something akin to how I feel in the scrapbook store. Nearly overwhelmed with wanting to buy everything so that I can use everything, but also hearing that "yeah, but" voice: "yeah, but will you ever use it?" As I wrap up this cleaning/reorganizing project, I'm reminding myself of an insight I had a few months ago. I've been meaning to write about this in my blog, and somehow, today's the day.

If you allow it to, scrapbooking can become not about the process of putting pictures with words and accents. It becomes all about getting. Getting the latest and greatest. Getting everything new and wonderful. Getting all the magazines. Getting published. Getting famous in the industry. Getting the cute stuff for organizing. Getting the awesome camera and amazing printer.

All this getting? It makes scrapbooking become something it's not. Or, at least, something it is not to me. I don't want to feel like my layouts only have value because they're covered in whatever was the it product at CHA. I want them to have value because they express something of myself as they preserve something of my subjects. But more than that, I think that being ruled by getting wrecks havoc on your creativity. It is like Wordsworth said: Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. The focus on getting turns scrapbooking from something simple and fun and expressive to something commercial. And commercialism? It's the antithesis of creative power, in my opinion.

So, as I wrap up my room reorg, I'm more determined than ever to stay away from the scrapbooking store. To fall in love again with the stuff I used to love---the stuff I have now. To keep it about the process and the words and the pictures. And to save my creative powers from withering under the suffocation of getting.

SO Excited---And A Few Layouts

On Tuesday, my Big Picture Summer Fun handout went up. "Fun" for me to put this together and I'm hoping you'll check it out!

In other news: I've been scrapbooking! Even though I was sad to see the kids go back to school, getting some layouts done HAS been fun. I don't do this very often, but I thought I'd share some layouts today, just because. (BTW, there's a high proportion of Scenic Route products on these layouts because I had thought about entering their design team call. I never actually got around to it, lol, but these were the layouts I would have submitted had I applied.)

Kaleb at four days, ten days, and one month. Ooooh, I love newborn babies. These pictures make me baby hungry!

Some older pictures of Jake. Not sure why, but I got an itch to scrap THESE particular photos. Pre-digital pics, and I wish I could Photoshop them!

I love this quote by Emily D. ("True poems flee"---gives me chills.) Even more, I love these photos of Haley. I tell you, this girl loves to have her picture taken and will pose at any opportunity!

More old pics---these are of Haley and Nathan when he was just born. I had an itch, though, to use that Basic Grey paper (the floral). Wish I could still find the pink & blue B.G. The photo in the bottom left-hand corner is one of my all-time FAVORITES!

Anyway. Thanks for playing along!