Once upon a time, there was a society that encouraged the recording of experience. We documented life in many ways, but none so prolific — or profitable to craft store companies — as the inimitable product called a scrapbook.

Today, these oversized keepers of photos and aged Scotch tape collect more dust than attention. However, I submit consideration of relevancy for the ancient binder beasts.

I began scrapbooking in high school. In a way, pasting photos and mementos in a book is a form of recorded history. No surprise, then, that I majored in history in graduate school.

However, I stopped scrapbooking over a decade ago when my children reached middle school. I didn’t have a spare 20 hours a week to dedicate to this time-consuming hobby. Not that I ever had the time — most scrapbooking sessions took place between 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. after the kiddos went to bed.

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like scrapbooking has fallen out of popularity. I don’t know anyone who spends hours culling through photos, concert ticket stubs, and recital programs.

I once belonged to a scrapbooking group of women who met weekly to stay current with “their pages.” Some went on weekend retreats to tackle their scrapbooking projects. I knew I was out of my element when I didn’t have my own scrapbook tool-box full of colorful borders, stickers and ink stamps.

Then again, maybe it really is just me. A quick Internet search of scrapbook trends reveals that archiving life has been taken to a new level. Now, it’s called “memory keeping,” with high-tech options including one known as a hybrid digital scrapbook.

As best I can tell, this means printing personal photos from the computer to paste onto memory-keeper-worthy pages. Scrapbookers can even attend “creativation” conferences, mingle with fellow memory keepers and shop in the vendor exhibit hall until their crafting hearts are content.

Although I quit scrapbooking back when George W. Bush was president, I still have a large scrapbook collection, each album bursting at the tightly binded seam, weighing more than my dogs.

Last week, my daughter pulled one of our family scrapbooks off the shelf and summoned Mike and me to join her and the dusty book on the couch. Gilly is home for what will probably be her last summer with us before heading out of state to graduate school for the next two years followed by a one-year residency somewhere else (meaning not Ocala, Florida). So, when she wants me to be with her to look at family photos, you bet I will.

An hour later, we had laughed, cried and “awwwwwed” as we looked at each memory-bathed page.

Through the years, I’ve lugged these books through many home moves, often questioning my sanity in keeping them. Will the kids want them when I’m gone? Who really looks at them anyway?

Sitting on the couch that night, I remembered why I’ve kept them. Each album is a part of the heart and soul of my family, friendships, vacations, rites-of-passages, favorite school teachers, birthday parties, and holiday celebrations.

Each page is a snapshot of how we lived. Each page says we were here and we were loved…and how mama was a saint for putting the scrapbooks together when she could have done other things, like sleep. Okay, no one will say that.

I think I should look at these albums on a regular basis as a necessary temperature check. They remind me how we only record what matters. Nary a page has a photo of an e-mail message or task list.

Back on the couch, Gilly took a picture with her phone camera of one of the scrapbook pages and sent it to her brother, Griffin. She found a photo that meant something to the two of them. I didn’t ask which one. The shared memory was enough for me.