Curious Gifts

Why has the Museum salvaged an American purple gallinule--a colorful rail usually found along the Gulf coast? Where did our stranger specimens come from--albino and piebald deer, a fetal beaver, or an unusually large calcite geode? How might we build our relatively small collection of taxidermy fish? The answer to those questions is through a steady and well-intended flow of--often unsolicited--donations. 

In many instances, the owners of such items had inherited them from relatives. At other times, the items were collected on an excursion or a simple walk around town. As some may even dare to admit, the red-tailed hawk they came to donate had sat in a garage for decades before being "disposed of" at the Museum. Either way, thinking to bring any natural history object to the care of the Museum is almost as appropriate as it is greatly appreciated. 

I love to share stories of how the Museum came to acquire our specimens. A large portion of our over 3,500 items came under the arm of a visitor and proudly placed on the lobby desk, either to the docent's enjoyment or dismay. A few months back I was promised a nearly pristine purple gallinule from a Scouts leader, who found the immature bird's body caught along the yet icy banks of the St. Louis River. Gallinules are known erratic flyers, and this individual had amazingly traveled from its usual grounds in the Gulf of Mexico to the cold of the Northwoods.

I was surprised when this man came back the next work day with the gallinule, as well as a fetal beaver floating in a glass jar. He casually told me and our docent, as a look of pure horror crept across her face, that he found similar items in his father's basement after his passing. I would assume that all families have kept odd relics but found his story particularly curious. At the back of my mind, I began to think of how many other amusing bits of nature must have been revived from the basements or attics of loved ones. 

After his father passed away, another man found himself in the custody of some treasured family items. A burbot that had once swam the waters of Lake Superior had hung preserved at his father's home for some years before he inherited the fish. Similar to others, this man came to the Museum  hoping that we may have better use for his humble treasure. I had admittedly lamented about our incomplete fish collection recently, so had cause to quickly accept this gracious offer with little need for deliberation. 

While not all situations allow for the Museum to accept potential gifts, there is great significance in the public's continued tendency to share personal treasures with others.  A difficult part of a curator's job is when we must inevitably deny items that don't support our mission, or which we can't support for various financial or architectural reasons. What makes the job so interesting however, is the unknown nature of how the collection could develop into the future. As long as we continue to find wonder in our natural world, museums will serve to inspire that through collections built by our curious community.