The Keeper of the Flame (and Four Bins of Greeting Cards)

I come from a family that kept everything.

We’re talking toys, christening gowns, dimes that were once placed on the eyes of very-long-gone relatives (yes, really), and yes—four full bins of greeting cards. There were thousands of photos, enough costume jewelry to outfit a parade, antique furniture, and tax receipts dating back to the 1800s.

When my mom passed away in 2017, all of it came to me. As an only child, I didn’t just inherit stuff—I inherited everything. Three generations’ worth of memory-laced objects, packed into bins, boxes, trunks, and mystery containers that hadn’t been opened in decades.

Thankfully, my in-laws had a storage building they let me use. I was knee-deep in grief and logistics—selling the house, the car, sorting insurance, account closures, and all the other lovely tasks that come with handling someone’s entire life. Ironically, most of those were straightforward. But trying to cancel my mom’s phone plan? Absolutely feral. I still have emotional scars from that customer service call.

Mom had a knack for collecting things that looked like family heirlooms—even when they weren’t. She loved antique shopping, so sorting through it all felt like an emotional scavenger hunt. Was this platter a wedding gift from Grandma? Or a $5 flea market score she just couldn’t resist? Honestly, it could go either way.

She wasn’t a hoarder—not even close. She just had a soft heart and believed objects held stories. She’d pull something out and launch into a tale about who it belonged to, where it came from, and what memory it held. As chaotic as that made our closets, it also gave me something rare: a personal history told in objects.

The Moves, the Trunk, and the Turning Point

Over the next seven years, we moved twice. And yes, all those bins—and a beast of a steamer trunk—moved with us. Let me tell you, you become a lot less sentimental about a vintage trunk once you’ve lugged it up a flight of stairs during a Texas summer. Why do we always move in summer?!

Eventually, I managed to whittle the collection down from around 35 bins to about 10. Progress, sure—but still overwhelming. My husband and I had the big conversation: What do we actually do with all of this? Keeping it all wasn’t realistic, but the idea of tossing it felt disrespectful… (well, except for that trunk. That one could go to furniture purgatory.)

I tried giving things to family, to the point that I almost became that one aunt who gifts people random household items. I’m not quite old enough or senile enough to fully embrace that persona, but I could see the path.

Two of my best friends, Dyani and Lisa, said something that stopped me in my tracks. They told me how lucky I was to have so many family items—because they didn’t have nearly as much from their own families.

Quick shout-out to these women: they showed up—unasked—the week my mom died. Drove three hours, stayed a few days, helped me clean, move heavy things, and somehow made me laugh while I was still in shock. That kind of friendship is sacred. If you’ve got someone like that, hold on tight.

Their words stuck with me. I did have something special. Not just stuff—but tangible links to the past. And if I felt that way, maybe other people did too.

From Bins to Business

I started small.

I dipped my toe in the vintage waters with a few listings on Facebook Marketplace and opened a basic eBay account. I wasn’t expecting much—but what I got back was a flood of messages from strangers who got it:

“Oh my gosh, I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid!”
“My grandmother had the exact same one.”
“I’ve been looking for this for years.”

Every time someone bought an item, it felt like it was going home—to someone who would love it just as much as we had. That mattered to me. It still does. Rehoming vintage isn’t about clearing space; it’s about honoring stories.

Of course, I didn’t get rid of everything. Some pieces are too special to ever part with (but again... the trunk? Good riddance).

That’s when things started to shift. I opened an Etsy shop. I listed more. I learned what sold, what didn’t, and how many people out there feel exactly the way I do about old, beautiful, memory-soaked things.

Eventually, I decided to start blogging—not just to sell, but to tell. To share the history behind the items. To explain why your grandma’s California pottery is cooler than you think. To remind people that objects can hold love, laughter, and the fingerprints of generations before us.

The Weight of These Wings

Right after my mom passed, Miranda Lambert released The Weight of These Wings. I didn’t know it then, but that album would become my soundtrack for the next season of my life. I cried to it more times than I can count.

One song in particular—“Keeper of the Flame”—hit me like a gut punch wrapped in purpose. “I'm the keeper of the flame
The teller of the story
Keeper of the flame
For the ones that came before me
For the little pilot lights waiting to ignite
Like fireflies in the rain
Keeper of the flame”

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That’s what I’ve become. The keeper of stories, of memories, of laughter and love and quiet strength passed down through generations.

I don’t keep everything now. But what I do keep, I keep intentionally. And I thrift with intention, too. I hunt for pieces that someone, somewhere, is waiting to find again. I try to pass on the love and history behind every item—because I know firsthand how powerful that connection can be.

Final Thoughts

If you’re sorting through the things your family left behind, know this: it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to hold on. And it’s okay to let go. You are not alone in this.

We are all keepers of something.

Thanks for letting me share what I’m holding on to.💛

Let’s connect

Have a keepsake you treasure? A funny story about family heirlooms? Any dimes of strange origin?

Drop it in the comments or tag me on Instagram—I’d love to hear about the treasures you're keeping.