About a quarter of the way in, I decided that the albums should be individualized. I began working in earnest on the project, spending my free time sorting and printing.
About three quarters of the way into the project, I realized that there was no way I could finish in time. I started staying up until the wee hours, sorting, scanning, printing...printing, sorting, scanning...sprinting, scorting, panning. On the rare occasions that I did sleep, my dreams were filled with paper jams and empty ink cartridges.
Finally, the night before my son flew in, I finished. I was tired and crabby, but the albums were done. I wrapped them and loaded them in the car.
Was it all worth it? You bet.
My dad went through each and every one of the pages. One at a time. Then later that night, he went through them again.
My son had the world’s biggest smile on his face when he opened the package. He also went through every page, at least once.
My uncle was thrilled too. He kept touching the pages as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
It’s funny. I had no idea how much it would mean to them, I just knew that I wanted to do it. I also had no idea how much it would mean to me. Not only the giving of the gift, but the process of making it. By sorting through all of the photos, and organizing them, I was reminded of the circumstances under which they were taken. The wonderful walks at Buck Creek, the Woodbine adventure, the time Uncle John, Mike, Shasta and I went out to survey damage from the Derby Fire, the priceless photos of my mom and son, the river trips, and the visits to Denver.
Before, they were just pictures, images on a screen or sheet of paper. Afterward, they were our lives.