In my den is a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf holding 17 three- ring binders (and

counting). Each is labeled chronologically, and each contains, in a rudimentary but

touching way, a hardcopy record of the lives of each of my sons from age ten and

onwards.

Ok, call them scrapbooks and yes, I know, they are totally and unashamedly old

school in a day and age when everything is in a cloud somewhere.

But there’s a reason for this archaic madness and the following explains the modest

beginning of this entire enterprise.

One Christmas when my sons were young, I decided I wanted to give them

something beyond just Star Wars Lego sets and books and clothing and Tonka

trucks. I’m anything but a quick-witted guy but one thing of which I was aware –

and had been for years – was that our home was slowly being overtaken by what I

will call “kids’ stuff.” Maybe this sounds familiar to many parents: Virtually every

room – on bookshelves and in closets and cabinets - contained items that were too

“valuable” to throw away.

You know what I mean: Old schoolwork, “art” and

“drawings” (yes, from when they were three-years old), photos from the last soccer

season and family vacations; the pro- gram from the college football game

someone insisted on keeping; the Earth Day report with glued leaves and twigs;

test papers and report cards and the certificate from the Science Fair and the

community newspaper article with some kid’s name in it. I could go on but I

imagine you get it. Never viewed but never pitched.

One evening in December, I gathered up all of this material, a huge task. I then

searched my computer files and printed all the kids’ photos stored in that

ubiquitous cloud. With literal stacks of this stuff around me, I sat at the kitchen

table, carefully sorting through it and making a pile for each kid, and yes, I

gleefully threw some of it away.

Then I painstakingly placed the items in individual plastic sheet protectors; for

most of the photos, I wrote in black marker a gag caption. I then inserted each

kid’s stuff in a three-ring binder, one for each son, on which the front was written,

“The Year in Review.” Yes, like I said, a scrapbook, with the items chosen for

maximum joy and inspiration and laughs. And ok, I confess to being a scrapbooker.

I wear the title proudly!

The binders were the hit of our Christmas. These weren’t ephemeral thing like toys

or clothes – this was an entire year of page-by-page memories. And it lived way

beyond Christmas – each son pored over the binder throughout the year. Given my

surprising success, each following Christmas came an updated binder for each son.

The photo above captures it nicely.  It's a scene repeated every Christmas: The boys reading
through their Year in Review. And bonus: In center background, the bookcase with previous years’ binders.

Certainly, I admit it up front - a “scrapbook” sounds corny. I also admit that some

years, as I sat late at night at the kitchen table fiddling with scissors and glue and

scotch tape, I would have a sudden moment of clarity and ask myself- ‘Wait a

minute, Nellie, get a grip. You’re making a scrapbook for a 15-year-old kid?! An

18-year old kid?!” But I would immediately get over this obvious sanity and drive

on. And every year, each son got their Year.

What was the point? Besides the fact an occasionally maudlin Dad had too much

time on his hands?! The binders gave each son a colorful, however rudimentary,

look at their past year - good memories, glimpses of their achievements, a record

of the family and friends and their signposts. Consider: A kid sees in a past volume

his 3rd- grade report card and pairs it with his college acceptance letter, both

markers of the reach and scope of what the years had held.

Of course, like a few of things in this book, the Year in Review might sound off-

beat. But it was a way of illuminating for all of us how each son developed

throughout the seasons of their lives. And I know for a fact: Seeing what they've done has helped move

them toward what they aspire to do,