AT MY CHILDHOOD cottage on Keats Island, B.C., collections lived in every corner. Small villages of rocks formed on side tables; jars of green, blue, and brown sea glass winked on the window sill; ferns and flowers dried between book pages. More ambitious acquisitions—a deer skull or an abandoned wasp’s nest—my parents relegated to the porch.
These days, my collections are more on the modest side, consisting primarily of a few stones, shells, driftwood, and an old, rusted railway spike, most of which I keep on a table next to my writing desk.
Everyone is a collector in our small town of Atlin, B.C., which is cottage country to Whitehorse, Yukon. My neighbours’ homes are full of fossils, smooth river stone, and 19th-century gold mining artifacts, often displayed magazines. My husband, Robin, takes great pride in his vintage tool collection.
