I inherited a beautiful Victorian album from my grandparents...
Its not leather bound and it hasn't got parchment pages, beautiful hand painted designs, or a real gold clasp.
Between its pages are the photos of my family looking out at me. Men and women posing stiffly for photos (you had to keep still for ages back in the day) families in their Sunday best, self concious young men in uniform and girls sitting with their hand on a bible...
.... its precious to me more than money, but it also makes me sad...
... because I have no idea who these people are.... They are family members, but that is all I know...
......no names, no memories, no funny stories, no celebrations of their achievements or what they liked for dinner.... No memories of days spend with their children, the quirky stories about the time they tried to climb the village oak tree, or when they went for a trip to the coast.....
nothing.... they are my strangers in a box.....
....and that, dear readers, is why I journal in my albums......