At various points in my growing-up years Old Stuff and Other People’s Stuff oscillated between fascinating, boring, detestable, and desirable.

I loved my grandpa’s treasures that were yardsailed just for me (still do).

I hated “just five more minutes” in an antique store.

I loved Ma Ruth-ish primary colored Pyrex bowls but desired none for myself for a very long time, because they didn’t come in black.

I hated anything crocheted that was supposed to cover your body and keep you warm (because of the drafty little hundreds of holes between the doubles and triples.)

I loved, but never understood, Hoosier cabinets.

I never understood, and still don’t, rusty old farm implements as decoration (sorry, Mama. Yours look good but I could never work it.)

Growing up I always recovered from illness under handmade quilts. Sometime in my teen years I began to wonder how I could ever function as a green-bean-serving adult if I didn’t use the same green bean bowl as my grandparents, but I was pretty sure I’d be better off in life if I never made use of a holey-crocheted item. In Canada I met Ella, an Illinois farm girl who is just like me. Together we coveted Fiestaware in retired colors and 1950s appliances.

At 28 I’m a blue #401 away from having thrifted my own set of Ma’s pyrex bowls, which have (tomorrow!) survived 59 years of marriage and muffins. I drag my own whining child through goodwill, promising “one more aisle, sweet pea.” I would love a Hoosier cabinet but still ponder what I’d do with the sifter – use it for hiding candy (my mom) or phone books (Ella’s mom), or remove the sifter and make the most of the space? I am learning to identify depression glass and things from various glasshouses, especially WV. The long hook that was once used to reach top-shelf-things in my great grandfather’s store now hangs the side of my skinny wooden cupboard instead of my mom’s, where it lived for my entire life. I nap (sometimes, when I remember what a nap is) under blankets that other people made, that other people slept and rocked babies and cried and got sick and got well under. I cook and serve in bowls with infinite batches of pancakes stored away in their memories.

This post-teenage shift in perspective and appreciation has come with a problem: if I find some Jadite plates in goodwill for a quarter each I can’t just leave them there, but I also don’t want them because I don’t collect Jadite, but what if someone just buys them to smash up for mosaic pieces not knowing what they have ohmygod. What if someone buys this amazing afghan for their dog’s bed? Quick, text photo to friends to see if anyone else wants to give it a home because I certainly don’t need another one.

I can’t dump everything on my friends, have no desire to rent a storage unit, and hope to always keep my own selective collections modest. So… the hideous-to-me gold eagle Pyrex? The Jadite? The amazing juice glasses when I already have amazing juice glasses? The pulse-racing western shirts that don’t fit anyone I know? The irresistible colors and the 1940s sewing notions that I WILL NEVER USE and no, I DON’T, in fact, fondue, but god this mod blue-flowered fondue pot is amazing… I’ve been buying it for 19 cents here, a quarter or a couple bucks there. I’ve been hoarding it all in tubs and this past weekend I unpacked it all, took stock, researched and priced and made a spreadsheet, and this coming weekend I will photograph.

Sometime in the next few weeks I’ll begin listing it all in my shop. To delight someone else, and send it all off to people who will love these things for their history. Because really, I think muffins are better whipped up in a well-loved bowl. I think naps are better under a blanket that you didn’t just walk into Target and buy. I believe this wholeheartedly, even though I didn’t always.

(Dear Ikea, please do not take offense – I still love you.)

(Dear Paisley, it’s not that I don’t think you’re deserving of a lovely vintage afghan for pawing-spinning-nesting.)