Hoarders I Have Known

The hitherto not well understood compulsion of hoarding is having its moment in the sun, what with the A&E show Hoarders and a resurgence of interest in the infamous Collyer brothers of New York, one of whom literally died under the weight of his possessions.

This isn’t just prurient interest on my part. There are a couple of hoarders bowing down the branches of our hereditary tree with their clutter, so holding onto masses of stuff we don’t need appears to be something of a family tradition--along with playing touch football on Thanksgiving, or just missing out on making it big.

The most notorious example is my late maternal grandmother.  She was a genuine collector and bequeathed the substantial Howard and Caroline Porter Collection of Modern Japanese Prints to the Cincinnati Art Museum.  (When I searched the museum website just now for a link to the collection I couldn't find one, but I was surprised to find that she donated this risque Henry Farny print!)
 
But paper was also my grandmother's nemesis. Everything was equally important, and she couldn’t seem to discern the difference in value between a Frisch’s Big Boy restaurant napkin (honestly, I found one once) and a tender love letter written from her father to her mother. It all went into boxes, never to be dealth with.
 
The disorder drove my neat, organized mother to despair. We kids, on the other hand, thought it was kind of cool. You never knew what treasures you might unearth. (And as I sift through the remains of this rubble, now organized and labeled by my mother, I’m grateful to have such splendid excess to draw upon for my research.)