(Second article in the Purging series)
They say humans are the only species that collects things. Which is true—have you ever seen a squirrel display its acorn collection on a little wooden rack? No, because squirrels have priorities.
What is it about human beings that makes us want to collect? Seashells, Beanie Babies, spoons, bobbleheads—whatever it is, we can’t just have one. No, one is an accident. Two is a pair. Three? That’s a collection. And the moment you hit three, people start gifting you more, whether you asked for it or not.
Take thimbles, for example. Did anyone ever plan to have a thimble collection? Of course not. A seamstress might have two—one for sewing, one for backup—and then a friend returns from Niagara Falls with a commemorative thimble. Bam: a collection is born. Before long, there’s a display case above the sewing machine displaying twenty tiny metal helmets for her finger.
And spoons. Oh, the spoons. The easiest souvenir known to mankind. You went to London? Forget the Buckingham Palace snow globe—here’s a teaspoon with the Queen’s face engraved on it. Somehow, the whole world agreed that spoons were the official passport stamp, displayed proudly in racks. Better proof than your vacation photos—because really, who wants to sit through those?
Then came the eighties, when collecting went wild. Remember the goose craze? Every kitchen had geese. Not real ones—ceramic geese in bonnets, geese in aprons, geese marching across wallpaper borders, geese embroidered on towels. Nothing said welcome to my home like a flock of farm birds silently judging your choice of side dish.
And then, of course, there were cats. Statues, calendars, mugs—if it had a surface, someone slapped a cat on it. Cats were timeless collectibles. Unlike geese, they never went out of fashion. They just stared you down silently from the mantle, as cats have been doing since Ancient Egypt.
Now, Chuck—my Chuck—accidentally fell into salt and pepper shakers. A dangerous hobby. Once word got out, he never had to think about gifts again. Christmas? Birthdays? Father’s Day? It was shakers, shakers, and more shakers. Everyone was thrilled. He’s impossible to shop for? Perfect! He gets Yosemite Sam and that rackin’ frackin’ varmint, Bugs Bunny. Or the classic duo, Santa and Frosty. Or even crows. And then we bought our farm property—and suddenly, I discovered there were more shakers shaped like tractors, barns, and cows than any anyone could possibly need.
The funny thing is, Chuck loved it. He’d line them up, admire them, remember where each one came from. Every set told a story: a trip to New Zealand, a gift from the kids, a gag present that somehow became a keepsake. His collection wasn’t really about seasoning—it was about people and places.
And maybe that’s the secret. We don’t collect things because we need them. (Nobody needs fifty-three novelty thimbles.) We collect because they anchor us to moments. That trip. That birthday. That person who thought of us. They’re memory-holders disguised as knickknacks.
But eventually, the shelves groan, and the dusting never ends. Downsizing to a smaller place means facing the hardest truth of all: there isn’t room for 50+ fun-themed salt and pepper shakers. So—what do you do with all these treasures?
That’s when my brain went into creative mode. This beloved collection deserved a second life—somewhere it could still spark smiles, laughs, and memories. Maybe the grandkids or nieces and nephews would each take one. Maybe a bride planning a barn wedding would decide farm-animal shakers made the perfect wedding favours. Maybe all those Christmas sets could become hostess gifts for surprise holiday visits. Or better yet—forget the ugly sweater contest and host a cutest salt and pepper exchange instead. With a little imagination, these once-treasured items could begin creating new memories for someone else.
In the end, even when we let our collections go, the memories stay. They may have cluttered our homes, but they also filled our hearts—and luckily, hearts don’t require physical space or dusting.
