In 1945 my father, an air force officer who had traveled about the world and smoked camels. Sent me a giant box with his match book collection. Thousands of them; ordinary sizes; giant sizes; little ones; licentious ones (my grandmother wouldn't permit me to put those up on the strings I strung about my room. But in 1960 grandmother died and all of her things were sold. I think my mother asked what I wanted to keep and I said sell everything (my 1930s metal cars that other older kids swapped me for my new plastic ones) including my matches. The matches didn't sell; out to the junk pile. Oh well. At least my father didn't send me a poker chip collection .