From the Editor: Collectors are Just Time-Travelers with Storage Units

There are easier ways to spend a weekend than suiting up like you’re entering a biohazard zone to clean out a storage unit. But that’s exactly what I did—nitrile gloves, industrial-strength hand sanitizer and all, after discovering that rats (possibly the size of small house cats) had taken up residence in my long-neglected storage space.

Let me tell you, nothing sets the tone quite like opening the unit door and being greeted by the aftermath of a rodent rager. They’d gnawed through cardboard, nested in my daughter’s box springs, and left behind… well, let’s just say they were not polite guests. My friend Markay and I had to retreat and regroup before resuming the excavation.
But amid the carnage and chaos, there were treasures.

I unearthed vintage Care Bears and other forgotten plushies, along with a set of four Nordstrom Ladies Circle of Style cups and saucers. A couple of mid-century Haeger pieces (including a 21-inch Royal Haeger gazelle; what was I thinking trying to ship that?). A Blenko vase. Several lazy Susans in styles that made me want to kick myself for my neglect. These were once prized resale finds collected during my peak eBay hustle era. At the time, I was confident someone would snatch them up, pay good money, and happily cover shipping—even for items so big and breakable, they might defy standard bubble wrap and shipping peanuts.

Instead, they sat in a storage unit, silently costing me money every month while collecting layers of dust and mouse droppings. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

But then, tucked inside a cedar chest, I found what mattered most.

Wrapped carefully in a box I had forgotten existed was a handmade plaque from my artist friend Pepper, something she created when my oldest daughter was born, filled with birth stats and sweet, early memories. And below that, a photo I hadn’t seen in years: me, my sister Lori, and my daddy, on a trip to Minnesota when I was 18. In that moment, it felt like being handed a memory.

My father has been gone since 2005, but that photo—the familiarity of his wonderful smile and kind eyes—captured the version of him I still carry in my heart. If someone had broken into that unit and taken everything, I would have been devastated. Not because of the vintage kitsch or mid-century ceramics but because of that photo. And I didn’t even remember it was there.

That’s the wild thing about collecting, isn’t it? We accumulate so much, carefully sourced, joyfully acquired, and then tuck it away for “someday.” But “someday” can quietly become “never,” while the things that truly mean something end up buried in the back, beneath the resale-ready detritus of another life chapter. During my archaeology studies, I was trained to dig through layers of the past. This weekend, I dug through my own, and found it’s time to clear space for what’s next.

So, I’m making peace with the letting go.

Some items will be sold. Others donated or gifted. I’m clearing space, not just in my storage unit, but in my life. Because while I’ll always be a collector, I don’t need to carry everything with me. Some treasures are meant to be passed on. Others, like the photo of my daddy and sister, are meant to remind us of the truly important things in life.
And maybe, just maybe, that 21-inch gazelle is finally ready to leap into someone else’s living room.

Just don’t ask me to ship it.

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