I miss photo albums and scrapbooks.
I’m not talking about those digital picture frames that you give your mom or grandma where random family photos from the past 10 years scroll across the screen.
I’m not talking about the photo app on your smart phone that stores all 7,000 of your photos, videos and random screenshots or your social media photo album, for that matter.
I’m talking about the physical book of photos with the annoying clear, wrinkled, plastic sheets or the ones with pockets. And your mom wrote descriptions on the back of every single photo, including who was in it and where or why the picture was taken.
When exactly did the photo album become a thing of the past? I feel like it was a combination of handy-dandy smart phones and social media that killed photo albums.
I went through a scrapbooking phase 20 years ago. Scrapbooking was so big at the time but I’m not sure why. Consultants with Creative Memories held scrapbooking parties like Tupperware parties, and we had one at my newspaper office. (Who knew they still have these parties in 2026? Google it.). It was a fun get-together for the women of the office.
I made three scrapbooks, but my favorite is the one I made of my parents’ life together for their 40th anniversary. Dad had recently retired, and Mom was still working part-time. They had raised three daughters and already had four grandchildren.
I’m impressed with myself that I put so much time and thought into the scrapbook. I spent hours finding photos and making copies of them at Walmart. I asked my parents questions and had them write down their answers, which I then typed up and stuck on the pages.
I had pages about their childhood, their courting years and wedding day, and pages dedicated to each of us kids. I asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, who their friends were, what games they played, how they met, how Dad proposed and how Mom reacted, and about their wedding day.
The scrapbook is something our entire family will cherish for years.
Dad, who is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s, could spend hours flipping through the book and reading what they wrote. Right now, those are two things he thoroughly enjoys: reading and looking at photos.
My only regret is that I stopped there. I made a poor attempt to add onto the scrapbook for their 50th, noting the birth of their fifth granddaughter and the addition of seven bonus grandkids, courtesy of me.
I’d like to share with you a bit of what Mom and Dad wrote about how they met because he told this story over and over until just recently when he stopped being able to recount a full story. I love his written version.
I will set the scene a bit, but you will be able to piece together what they value in life.
Picture it: Dec. 23, 1962, Cape Girardeau, Mo.
Dad: “I put on my Holy Spirit salesman shoes and went to a strange house where Betty lived in Cape and asked Betty if I could go on a date with her, and she said it wouldn’t be fair because of her boyfriend. Then I popped the $64,000 question to her. Do you know of a nice, good, Catholic girl who I might go with? In less than a minute, Betty said, I think I know of just the right one.”
Meanwhile, just two blocks away, my poor mother was not feeling well. The phone rings. It was her friend, Betty.
“She said that this guy came to her door, wanting her to go out with him. Since she didn’t know him, she wanted me to go along. I knew his name since he went to school with my (older) sister, so I agreed. They drove over to pick me up to ride around and get acquainted. We went to a restaurant in the Town Plaza to have soda. On the way home, he kept asking me out.”
He asked her to go to Mass with him that evening, but she’d already been. He asked her out for Christmas Eve, and she declined.
“Finally, he asked me out for Christmas night, which I agreed to because it seemed like he wasn’t going to quit asking. On Christmas night, we went to one of the theaters on Broadway to see a Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis movie.”
Wonder how the scrapbook would read for how me and my husband got together? Oh, this could be good.
Let’s see, we met at a police department, and the first thing I ever said to him is, “I know your brother.” Years pass by, circumstances happen, and we both find ourselves single. In the fall of 2012, or was it 2011? Anyway, just before the World Series of one of those years, his coworker proposes that I go out on a date with Todd. I said something like heck no.
Oh, this scrapbook could be entertaining, complete with a picture of Todd in police uniform telling me, “I hate reporters.”
If only I had the time to do a scrapbook of the memories we have made together, raising seven kids and now helping to raise a grandbaby, who is my favorite little person.
That is the problem. Time.
Or is it?
How many hours do I waste scrolling on Facebook to see what drama is brewing and watch reels of old TV shows?
Maybe, time isn’t the issue.
Maybe it’s what a pain in the butt it would be to print out 15 years of photos. And now I have a visual of my 8-month-old grandson crawling all over the pictures I have scattered across the floor and chewing on them.
One day, I will make that scrapbook. And I hope it will be a book that my family cherishes.