Mother was our scrapbook keeper, saving stories about us and our evangelist and musician friends during the 1940’s and ’50’s. These books were much too big to travel in the car on The Glory Road. They stayed on a shelf in the apartment we rented in Texarkana while we toured the South.
When we made a quick stop before hitting the road again, she tucked clippings inside, often adding handwritten captions. Something about watching her work with them set her apart for a few hours from the mostly unsentimental person we knew. Always nocturnal while the rest of us were early risers, you’d find her at the kitchen table long after we’d gone to bed, still drinking strong coffee, adding stories with her scissors and tape.
Every time I turn a page now, edges crumble, leaving a trail of scraps on the floor. I’ll preserve these using whatever technology works best.
