To commemorate my 50th year (the birthday odometer rolled over in February), I’ve been looking through and scanning old family snapshots from when I was a kid. There’s something really special about printed photographs. The weight. The smell. The handwritten messages on the back. The dog-eared corners. The deckled edges of early Polaroids. I could go on. The realization that future generations will have no concept of what I’m talking about leaves me crestfallen. So, as you’re passing around your iPhone to show how cute your child is, remember this: your pictures are ones and zeros. My pictures? Matter.