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In my desk, nestled among the odd assortment of books and keepsakes (including Hashimoto, my stuffed toy dog companion of nearly sixty years), sits an old, chipped, cut glass ashtray bearing eclectic objects. The ashtray was my mother’s, and was one of the few possessions she was able to bring with her to the U.S. after she married my dad. It’s a rather ironic keepsake, as my mom, a heavy smoker for some sixty years, died from lung cancer, and it appears that I will, too, though I’ve never smoked. Nevertheless, it remains one of my most prized possessions. In it, you’ll find an old, broken, silver pocket watch (a father’s day gift to my dad in the late 70s), a lock of Stephanie’s hair, my dad’s original army dog tags, multiple mandolin and guitar picks, including one given to me by Kinky Friedman, author, musician, and one-time candidate for governor for the state of Texas, and various polished stones. Not one of these items has great monetary value, yet they’re all priceless to me. They all have stories.

What are your treasures? How did they come to be so valued? What are their stories?