Holding On and Letting Go: The Stories We Keep
A similar thing happened with a Schreiber’s Manru Beer tray—a beautiful piece of Buffalo brewing history. The seller reached out, telling me that his father had kept it in his workshop down in Texas, and it had always been a meaningful part of his space. The seller was so happy to send it back to the Buffalo area, knowing that it was going to someone who would appreciate its history. That sense of belonging, of an object being right where it should be, is something I’ve seen time and again in collecting.
Then, today, I had another interaction that brought this all home. A seller messaged me about some vintage beer taps that I had purchased from him. He was cleaning out his late father’s belongings and came across these taps from his father’s youth, back when he lived in New York City. I ended up buying three of them, and he was so happy that they would remain together. In our messages, he started telling me about his father—the place where he used to live and the life that surrounded those taps. In a small way, keeping those pieces together felt like preserving a fragment of his dad's story.
Not every object is lucky enough to find its way home. While I spend my time searching for brewery items, I can’t help but notice the other things that fill antique stores and flea markets—objects that once held deep personal meaning, now sitting anonymously on a shelf.
This happens so often. It makes me especially sad when I walk through an antique store and see someone's bronzed baby shoes, priced and waiting for a buyer. It's so common to see these, and I understand that people can't keep everything when their parents die. But a pair of bronzed baby shoes is such a deeply personal item—something once cherished, now disconnected from its original meaning.
The same is true for war medals. I've seen them in flea markets and antique stores, tucked away among other discarded relics of past lives. Maybe the person had no family, or maybe these items were mixed in and unnoticed during a purge. Either way, seeing these tokens of personal history in an impersonal space, removed from the context of the lives they once represented, is a reminder of how easily things—and the stories they carry—can be lost. We live in a world where people clean out houses, toss personal mementos, discard trophies, and pile collectibles into bins destined for the trash. The objects themselves may not hold great monetary value, but they are significant. They were meaningful. They mattered to someone.
And yet, I wonder—what happens to the stories that don’t get told? What about the child who never asks about the old box in the attic, the grandchild who never hears the story behind the worn military jacket, or the family too overwhelmed by grief to sift through the relics of a life? How many treasures slip through our fingers simply because we never stopped to ask? We can’t hold onto everything, but sometimes I wish we could hold onto just a little more.
My own father used to call these things “his treasures.” He kept them in places that mattered to him, even if they weren’t always on display. There was a plaque he received from the local Boy Scout troop when he volunteered while I was in scouting—it wouldn’t have fit with the decor of the house, but he mounted it above his workbench. He must have been proud of that, or at least happy that he had done it. He also kept hood ornaments from his old cars, hanging them under his patio covering. They meant something to him, though only he knew the full stories behind them. How many things do we all keep that only we know the meaning of? And yet, people keep things for a reason. They weren’t necessarily valuable in a traditional sense, but they were pieces of a life well-lived. Every collector understands this, whether they acknowledge it or not. We collect because these objects carry something intangible—memories, emotions, identity. And while we can’t keep everything, there’s something wonderful about the times when an object finds its way home.
Interestingly, movements like Marie Kondo’s tidying philosophy and the Swedish concept of döstädning (or “death cleaning”) stand in contrast to collecting. These approaches emphasize decluttering, letting go of items that no longer “spark joy,” and ensuring loved ones aren’t burdened with sorting through possessions after death. While there’s wisdom in reducing excess and keeping only what is useful or truly meaningful, there’s also a risk of erasing history too quickly—of discarding objects that hold deep emotional and cultural significance. Collecting and decluttering seem to be opposite impulses, yet they both seek the same thing: a way to honor what matters. At the same time, collecting has its own complexities—where is the line between meaningful preservation and accumulation? It’s a balance, and perhaps one that each person must find for themselves.
eBay, for the most part, is a depersonalized platform. There’s no automatic way for buyers and sellers to communicate beyond the transaction unless they send private messages. Yet, more and more, I find that I receive these messages—or even a beautifully handwritten note—expressing a deeply personal story about an item. It makes me wonder: should eBay create a way to encourage these connections more?
Maybe it’s better that these moments happen in private messages, away from algorithms and automation. Maybe the fact that they happen at all is proof that, even in a depersonalized world, some people still recognize that objects carry more than just weight—they carry meaning. Or is it better to keep it private, allowing these moments to happen organically? Either way, it reinforces an essential truth: so many of these objects have stories, and if you are open to listening, you will learn amazing things.
So much is lost when people pass away. But sometimes, just sometimes, an object finds its way home—and with it, the stories, memories, and meaning that might have been lost forever.
That’s why, even now, I keep collecting.
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