I am not a scrapbooker. You will not see me in the craft store on a Saturday morning picking out cutsie stickers or themed paper to highlight a fleeting memory or preserve a treasured moment in time. But as much as I’d like to make fun of my scrapbooking friends ‘till the cows come home and pretend that hooked rugs and cross-stitch rank higher in the handcraft hierarchy; my lack of interest in the scrapbooking department mostly boils down to the fact that I can’t find my photographs. The digital age of photography has not been kind to people like me who relied on developed film to prompt them to put photos in albums – or at least in boxes for a lazy Sunday afternoon browse.
The closest I will ever get to scrapbooking is through the medium of my garden.
There are no photos to rummage through here. No adorable appliqués of baby bottles or clinking margarita glasses – yet everywhere I look in my green creation there are memories; recollections of people, events, places and periods in my life and they are as clear as if I had a 35 mm photo in one hand and a nice glass of Cabernet Franc in the other.