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In the mid 80s, before I was born and back to when my parents were not married yet, my mother started to collect figurines related to different things: cartoons, animals, Sesame Street, Gremlins, Snoopy etc.

My oldest cousin, aged 4-5 at that time, used to take my mother’s figurines and play with them. At some point, she might have thought that this was starting to become a bit boring, so she decided to try and throw some of the figurines out of the window to the street. How fun! (irony). Once my mother noticed, she would rush towards the street to collect the figurines which had experienced such fatal destiny. My mother was really worried since being able to always keep an eye on her niece seemed an impossible task (we know how children are) and my cousin’s parents couldn’t be there all the time either.

My father, who had always worked as a passionate carpenter, decided to build a wooden dollhouse with glass covers in order to store and preserve the figurines apart from preventing them to be thrown out of the window. Since then, my mother and I have never stopped collecting figurines and we always keep them in this house. We’re very selective with our purchases and it has to be something we truly love.

This wooden figurine dollhouse is a family relic, since it has belonged to my mother since the year it was made in 1987, and she officially gave it to me when I moved to Navarre. Now it is here with me, so it has travelled quite a bit.

This year, before bringing it to my current flat in Tudela, my father decided to give the house a more modern, updated touch by painting the house white, thus preserving the wood and making it match with the current fashion trends.

As you can imagine, this wooden figurine dollhouse has a tremendous emotional value for me, since it tells a bit of the history of my parents and holds a deep family tradition that I feel very nostalgic about. I still collect some figurines, but it is the emotional value for me what makes it a unique piece in my life and my memories as a child.

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When I was a child, I guess that I was 6 or 7 years old, I loved opening drawers and closets in my grandparents' house, located in a small village, and finding new things or curious odds, or simply something that caught my attention.

On one of these "domestic adventures" I found this small wooden chest, which belonged to my grandparents. Like the vast majority of kids at that age, I was quite annoying insisting that they gave it to me, until I got it!

For me it was like owning my own mini-treasure chest, where I could store other small treasures inside that would become part of my

"belongings". Its dimensions did not allow me to store much, just a few bottle caps with images of famous cyclists, or some favorite pins I collected... but deep down, I liked the chest more than what it contained inside, I have to admit.

Years passed and I never let go of it. In fact, it occupied a place of privilege in my room, almost as though it was an altar. But then, something changed everything. My sister (younger than me) was also another "home explorer" and, like me, she loved this chest. So when she asked me for it, I had no choice but to give it to her. She preserved it with the same care, or even more, than I did. What is more, in one of her closets in my grandparents' house, she still keeps it today.

For both my sister and me, it has great emotional value. Its value itself is trivial, anyone could find even something better in an "Everything-for-1-euro" store. But it has been part of our childhood, that age in our lives when we imagine millions of things while discovering something new

every day.

Surely, when there are "little explorers" in the family again, they will discover it despite not having a map pointing where to find it... and then, it will become their little treasure chest.

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Long-hidden in my mum's chest of drawers, this compass has its own story

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Back in the 2010’s, I had to do a project for high-school, speaking about my family. Not being sure what to write, I asked my mom, who opened her chest of drawers and unveiled a brass box with a treasure trove of family memories. It was this antique compass that caught my attention and, eyes gleaming with wonder, I sat and listened to its story.

Long before my mum was born, my grandad Serafín was a fisherman who would set sail once a year and spend months abroad fishing in the frigid waters of the Labrador Peninsula and Greenland, sometimes for up to six months. Being a man of few words, as Basque men are said to be, he did not say much about this chapter of his life, and he only preserved this compass, which had witnessed his many trials at sea. When my mum and uncle asked him, he would take it out from his pocket and make up anecdotes about being lost at sea and navigating his way back home with the aid of this cherished artifact.

Whether they were true or just fish stories to entertain his children, the truth is that this object strikes a chord with me. As my grandpa died when I was 4 years old, his memory has become blurred in my mind and more than facts, I remember emotions. This compass embodies both the wanderlust that I have inherited from him and the love for good narratives. Not only has it an emotional value but also a cultural one: it is a relic from a bygone era in which people managed to find their way in life without the cutting-edge technology that we have today.

I often wonder if it has truly stood the test of time and continues to point north; even if it no longer does, I am certain it points somewhere meaningful. This compass will be passed down to the next generations of my family and, for the years to come, instead of being kept in a box, it will be given pride of place in my house. Serafín’s compass will be a bridge between the past and the future, ensuring that my family’s story does not fade into oblivion.