My kitchen has been invaded by coffee mugs. They are crowding out other, far more needed items, like glasses. I swear they are multiplying. They take up two shelves and would take up even more room if I hadn’t taken some to my office, where I keep an electric kettle for tea.

The situation is entirely avoidable, of course. I could just throw out the older mugs. But I can’t. I’m too attached. I discovered this when my son moved into an apartment several years ago. Good, I thought. I can get rid of coffee mugs by giving them to him.

I didn’t get far.

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That sky-blue Brattleboro (Vermont) Reformer mug? I couldn’t let that go. The editor sent it to me 35 years ago after I wrote a commentary for the newspaper - along with a check. My first freelance opinion that paid cash money made every sip I took from the cup that much sweeter.

The Reformer cup is one of the innumerable media coffee mugs crowding the kitchen shelves. Some others are from National Public Radio; Channel 3 TV in Madison; the Courier-Journal, in Louisville, Kentucky; the Salina Journal in Kansas. It occurs to me looking at the sea of coffee mugs that I must have given away all of my mugs from The New York Times. In fact, I seem to have mugs from everywhere but the four newspapers for which I worked.

Panky Curtiss’ teacup, now nearly 90 years old. Picture taken last November one early morning from my 2nd floor porch; we still have leaves on the trees!

The “Mother of the Bride” cup that my daughter Anna presented me with on the morning of her wedding day? Nope; that stays. Besides, it’s a mere youngster at 8 years old.

Then there is the mug that made me realize that Anna had become an adult. It was a gift for Mother’s Day when she was 19, and shows a lady of leisure resting amidst flowers. The cup says, “Queen of F*#@ing Everything.” I guess it represented her opinion of me at the time. I remember laughing for 10 minutes when I opened the box, and it isn’t even chipped, so, no, can’t throw that one out, either.

I also have a mug lettered in green, surrounded by shamrocks, that says, “HERSELF.” I bought it in Ireland during the first of five trips there. If you are Irish, you understand.

One cup was a gift from myself to myself, to be used when necessary as a ceramic pep talk. In bold letters, it says, “Best. Journalist. Ever.” I drink from it when my ambition begins to be neutered by self-doubt. Priceless.

My Haslam’s Book Store mug from St. Petersburg, Florida, features a picture of Teacup, its most famous store cat, whom I petted more than once during winter visits there. Whenever there was a hurricane, the place would be besieged with calls to see if Teacup was OK. Nobody gave a damn about the humans, mind you; just the cat. Alas, my dishwasher’s hot water is making Teacup look like an ever-more ghostly feline, and the store itself closed in 2020 after being open for 87 years. But as long as I have the cup, the memories - and Teacup - live on.

One coffee cup and saucer, both delicate, were gifts from a delightful family friend named Panky Curtiss whom I knew growing up. She was always laughing about something. When I sent her an invitation to my wedding, she accepted immediately and in return sent me a beautiful teacup and saucer from one of the place settings she had received as a gift for her own wedding in 1936. When I want to commune in spirit with Panky, I make tea in her cup and talk to her.

I have two cups in my collection that look utterly ordinary. One is imprinted with daisies and the other has black-eyed Susans. They are small, only holding 6 ounces, both made in Japan according to a stamp on the bottom, and cost about $2 each.

My mother and I each bought one at a little store when I was 15. She took the one with daisies; I loved the bright yellow flowers of the other mug. I was flush with cash after being paid $25 for my first real summer job. Remembering my triumph, and how my mother and I sipped coffee in these cups every summer morning afterwards, makes me smile.

They are precious, and, like many of my cups, are more than utilitarian. In fact, they aren’t really mugs to me. They are memories. So I guess my shelves will stay crowded after all.