My sister-in-law used to collect hippos. Lots of little hippos. I never knew why, but it sure made gift-giving easier. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t collect them anymore.

My mother went through collecting stages throughout my growing up. There was the colonial phase. Maybe it was the upcoming bicentennial that spurred it on but our house was a mass of brass eagles, colonial furniture, and pewter. We even went to Williamsburg, Virginia and came home with three-corner hats, hand-dipped candles and a spinning wheel. There was the era of the mushrooms, with framed mushroom art prints and mushroom ceramics, mushroom coasters, pillows and paperweights. She even created terrariums with moss, twigs, and rocks she picked up from walks. Of course, who can forget the oriental phase, where a trip to China spurred on an obsession with all things Asian including artwork made from human hair. There were also Mandarin Chinese language lessons involved.

My father was the master of collecting. Every room in our house displayed his collections, which unlike my mother’s, were permanent. He had a special shelf made for his collection of tiny snuff and patch boxes. His den contained hundreds of books he’d collected throughout his life. In the living room stood an antique table with a glass top, where I could stand and gaze at tiny trinkets he’d gotten during his travels. But, by far his most prized collection was his Galle glass. These tiny glass vases were exquisite and we all knew they were not to be touched.

The best part for me of my father’s collections was the stories. Behind every single item he had carefully chosen to add to his inventory of precious objects there was a story. When he would catch me gazing at on of the pieces, he would tell me the story of where he had found it, how it was made, who made it, and what it was he liked about it. His best advice to me about collecting was, “If you like it, then it doesn’t matter if it’s valuable or historical or what everyone else thinks is good. Collect only the things that you love.”

And so I have. And, I too, find myself telling the story when someone says something about something on display in my home. I believe I’m genetically inclined to collect. There’s something comforting and in a strange way validating about being surrounded by my carefully curated assortments. These objects tell me and the world that I have been here. They stare back at me and remind me of places, moments, feelings. They reveal my character, my values, my loves. They help create an aesthetic that is uniquely me. They tell my story.