My 'Old School' Photo Album Will Outlast All My Digital Devices

I met a friend for lunch the other day and asked about her recent trip to the Galapagos Islands. She reached for her phone, opened Photos and handed it to me. "It starts here," she said, granting permission to scroll.

I think there were 300 pictures. By the seventh replica of a sunset (with no end in sight), I handed it back to her. Where were the giant tortoises and blue-footed boobies? Why were there 16 shots of a sand dune? Her album had not been edited, and I wanted to go straight to the good stuff. 

It reminded me of slide show parties in the 1970s. We'd gather at a neighbor's house to view their vacation photographs, which were really Kodachrome slides in a carousel slide projector. As a kid I loved it. The adults would sit on metal folding chairs, turn out the lights and begin the world's slowest movie. 

My friends and I would sneak out to take advantage of the unsupervised playtime, while our parents oohed and aahed. I know they went primarily for the camaraderie, drinks and sense of community, because the "show" was repetitive and posed. This was no National Geographic exhibit. 

I've always appreciated a nicely curated photo album because the subpar pics rarely make it in. It's all first class. It requires thought and effort to compile your life's greatest hits in images.

When my youngest son left for college, I made a list of projects to keep myself busy. "Organize all photos" was at the top — I had three shoeboxes full in my closet plus several smaller pocket albums— but first I had to figure out a plan. Where would I even start? 

I began to dismantle the smaller albums and dumped all the shoebox photos into a towering pile. There were hundreds of pictures to sort and group. Some were easy to toss — those that were too dark, out of focus, duplicates. My favorites were the candid shots or mishaps with a funny story behind them. 

When my nephew was a few months old, he often had a pacifier in his mouth. My son was fascinated by this and crawled over one day to give it a tug — I think the sound and resistance surprised him, like popping the cork out of a wine bottle. My nephew's eyes immediately began to tear up, so my son stuck the pacifier back in. This continued, pull it out, watch him cry, put it back in. Each toddler was startled by the other's reaction. I grabbed my camera. That pic — their first and maybe only disagreement — was a keeper. 

Other treasures were outtakes of our annual family photo, or special events that went awry. One year when my boys were pre-teens, we drove to the beach for Mother's Day. I told my husband that I had two requests: to eat seafood and get a beach snapshot with my kids at sunset. 

When the time came to take the pic, nothing went according to plan. One kid was having a bathroom emergency, the other had just spent all his money on a coconut-shell candle for me and was regretting his lapse in judgment.

To get the best light, which was fading fast, we had to turn so that the ocean was nowhere in sight. It was a complete fiasco. But we're all laughing because someone had just spilled ice cream down my back, and it ended up being one of my most cherished memories. 

As the pile shrank, my end goal became clear: one hardcover photo album (and a lot of empty boxes that my kids wouldn't have to sort through later). It would cover the last 20-something years, from the time my husband and I brought our first child home from the hospital until the youngest left for college. I found one I liked at Michael's craft store, and while it had room for 400 prints, it still required me to be deliberate with my selections. 

A neighbor, in stark contrast to my minimal approach, made a detailed scrapbook each year for her son. By the time he was 18, he had the equivalent of an 18-volume Encyclopedia Britannica set of his life in souvenir form. My Reader's Digest approach, on the other hand, covered 20 years, and four people, in one condensed book. I don't have her patience. I couldn't even get my kids to take their senior yearbooks when they moved out. 

Our approaches were different, but I like the tactile appeal of something that won't disappear if the internet goes down or a computer goes on the fritz. 

Truth be told, I enjoyed the process. It was a bittersweet trip down memory lane, watching my kids grow up again with each flip of the page. It took me weeks to choose the best photos, lay it out chronologically and let go of all the mediocre shots. (I kept one small box with loose runners-up that were too special to throw out.) 

Like vinyl records and handwritten letters, there's something nostalgic and sensory about being able to hold a photo album in your hands. Touching a digital picture just doesn't compare. Like many, I still prefer a book to a Kindle, my spiral planner to the Calendar app and my checkbook to a digital wallet. 

I've made my share of digital albums, which no one ever looks at, and Shutterfly books, which get lost in our bookshelves. My phone currently holds over 600 pictures in a digital haystack that only I can access, but I take pride in my magnum opus, this sturdy photo album that chronicles our family years together and sits on our coffee table. 

It's a time capsule for future generations and, unlike my phone and other digital devices, will be here long after I'm gone. No passwords required.

Courtenay Rudzinski is a freelance writer in Houston, where she lives with her husband and two rescue pups. Her work has appeared in Newsweek, HuffPost, Insider, Well+Good and Next Tribe. You can find her on Instagram @courtenayr. Read More