What do a plastic pig, a felt Christmas stocking, and a corduroy chicken have in common?

They spark my joy. As someone who has spent decades picking up goodies at tag and estate sales, I’m particularly sensitive to the “h” word, assuring random strangers that I’m a collector, not a hoarder. If there’s enough wonder at the size of the pile we’re buying, I add that we’re careful to get rid of things to balance whatever we’re accumulating. A friend told me years ago that the difference between a hoard and a collection is presentation, and I think she's right. She also opened my eyes regarding what can be displayed as art. (She had had vintage boutique shopping bags professionally framed; her assortment of antique toasters rested on floating shelves in her living room.) In my ongoing quest to maintain a semblance of order, I used to check articles providing tips on organizing. However, they invariably seemed to start by telling readers to get rid of whatever they hadn’t used in six months, and that’s when I would stop reading. I’ve come up with a guideline of my own: When I’m done cleaning a room and am left with that 2% pile of things I can’t figure out what to do with, I ask myself, “Would you take it for free at a tag sale?” Yes, it’s a bar I could trip over, but it’s worked well for me in recent years. And that brings me full circle to the goal that organizer Marie Kondo has identified: keeping only what sparks joy. In the case of the three items pictured here, I wouldn’t take them for free at a tag sale—nor would I part with them for a considerable amount of money. If you read the captions, you’ll see why. What “worthless” keepsakes do you have that spark joy?

http://tidyingup.com

Time froze in 1994, after the death of my father. When Mom was ready to move ahead and clean out the “obvious” stuff that could be tossed, she mentioned this three-foot bank in the form of a hideous plastic pink pig. My brother and I said in unison, “NOT THE PINK PIG!” We had spent hours over the years with Dad sorting, counting, and putting its stored change in paper rolls, and clearly it was as treasured a memory for my brother as it is for me.

Even as a child I knew my Christmas stocking wasn’t what anyone would call subtle, but I’ve always been fond of it. Science-fiction fan, writer, costumer, and artist Bjo Trimble made it for me.

My grandmother made this chicken for me using scraps from an old sheet and some broad corduroy fabric. It’s stuffed with milkweed, which makes it unbelievably squishy. The eyes remind me of the ones on the penguin in Wallace and Gromit’s “The Wrong Trousers,” but my chicken has shown no sinister tendencies. So far.