From the Desk of The DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank

In the past at some point, I can’t recall exactly how long ago, I decided to separate my change as I emptied my pockets, cleaned my vehicle, took clothes from the dryer, or wherever I picked up a coin or two. Then, as I accumulated some, I would count it and roll it. I’d like to say that this habit came about as a result of some pivotal moment in my life. That would make for a more grandiose tale for sure. To do so, though, would be a fabrication, and I prefer my words to be truth for the sake of truth as opposed to the sensational hook. The practice of separation then counting and rolling just kind of evolved, beginning with quarters, then the other silver-colored tender, and finally, the pennies.

One recent Sunday morning, I was up early, sipping coffee and generally allowing the day to come to me. My coin collecting routine morphs as to specifics from time to time, usually dependent upon the current pace of life. Of late, I’d say languid would best describe my weekend mornings. My work weeks find me more “skint back” and “balls-to-the-wall” running, and I’ve spent years raising children, chasing dreams, and generally filling as much life into each 24 hour period as possible. On this particular Sunday, I decided to check my Quaker Grits container that currently serves as a coin receptacle. Almost mindlessly, I separated, counted, stacked, and rolled and it occurred to me that in these modern days, most people, use debit cards for purchases and that loose change might soon become a thing of the past.

I started thinking about change and the times where coins came into play in my life. I was shocked by the sheer number of coin-related memories that burst into my mind, beginning with the first bank that my twin brother and I had. It was a ceramic owl, painted orange and black. I recall our old school cafeteria back in the 60s. The building was large and built up off the ground for whatever reason. We would enter the building in single file and pause at a handwashing station, which amounted to a trough of sorts where 5 or 6 children could wash their hands at a time, before moving forward to be served. While waiting for hands to be washed and dried, the older kids, I mean 3^rd and 4^th graders, would drop pennies or nickels through a knothole in the old hardwood floor. I guess it was seen as a sort of wishing-well-type scenario.

I remember walking in a ditch that ran along the path to the swimming hole and finding a buffalo nickel. Then there was the first trip to town on a weekend to celebrate getting my driver’s license, and how I looked in panic at the gas gauge and announcing in near panic that we would need gas in order to make it home.  My friends and I emptied our pockets, bought $.68 worth of gas and that purchased a little over a gallon, enough to get us home. I remember a purple Crown Royal bag that held the change that I would take to school for the pre-Friday night football BlackJack game that was held in the back room of the school library, and how on lucky days, the same bag carried enough money to buy a pizza in town after the football game.

I continued to stack, count, and roll my coins and with those quick thoughts about coins in my life, I let my mind go, and easily, several other coin stories were inadvertently summoned. My uncle Woodley came to mind. One would have to really know the last living offspring of the Leake and Rossie Lott family. Uncle Woodley has never been a big man but seems much smaller now. He is a retired professor of something from the Gulf Coast Community College at Perkinston, Mississippi. He still wears suits every day, to my knowledge, and he is soft-spoken with a good sense of humor. For whatever reason, Uncle Woodley and Aunt Nelda ended up mostly raising a granddaughter. At a family reunion, Uncle Woodley told a story of how the granddaughter was walking along a creek after Hurricane Katrina and found a broken jar with a lot of change lying close by. If memory serves, it was maybe $200 – $300 dollars. She gathered it up and took it to show her grandfather. As the story goes, Uncle Woodley suggested that the right thing to do would be to take it to the Sheriff’s department to see if someone came inquiring about it. Of course, they never received a call, to my knowledge, that the money had been claimed.

I was an adult when he told the story and I remember thinking that the thought to take it to the authorities would have never crossed my mind. I gained a deeper level of respect for the man that day and maybe, just maybe, there is a little piece of me that might handle a similar situation differently if it were to happen to me today. At least I’d like to think so.

Then I thought about a lady who was a client of mine way back in the 1980s when I was an insurance agent. Her name was Mrs. Howard and she lived in the old part of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. There were three things about Mrs. Howard that I remember all of these nearly 40 years later. She always insisted that I come by for cake during the summer, and in the fall, she gave me gallon bags of shelled pecans from the large trees in her back yard. The other thing I remember is that throughout her house, she had banks of every shape and size, all full of change. Each bank held one denomination. I asked her about them one day and she said she had always collected them, and that she would leave them someday to her grandchildren. I have no way of knowing, but she had probably 75 or 80 banks that I could see, and one, in particular, was a plastic one in the shape of a baseball. She told me it had nickels in it. At Christmas one year, I ordered a bank from the advertising department of Lamar Life Insurance Company and gave it to her with $20 in quarters inside. She was thrilled by the gift, and I was most tickled that I surprised her with it.

Another couple of stories that I recall about coins. One was told by a girl that I dated back many years ago. She told me that her father grew up poor and that they didn’t have a lot of money when she was a child. Her father had a habit of putting change into gallon jugs in the trunk of his car. She told of a trip her family went on to Disney World and how the family car broke down on the way home. If not for the change in the trunk of the car, they would not have had the money for repairs to make it home. To me, this is a significant story.

Then there is the very personal story of a young girl who was staying with us about eight years ago or so. She was a persuasive blond who called me Dad, then and still today. She begged me to take her, her older sister, and my youngest daughter to Sonic one night for ice cream. She said she had money and she would treat us all. So we loaded up in our 1998 Lincoln Navigator and within minutes, we were Sonic bound. I lowered the window, mashed the button, and placed our orders. The total was, as I recall, a little over $20. The carhop came and announced the price. My non-biological daughter, Lauren, La as I call her, in the far back seat began to count out change. I said, “La, you mean to tell me that you are going to pay with change?” I pulled out my wallet and paid for the ice cream and La, in true fashion, skated by. This is a trait that has served Lauren well ever since.

Then there is the story of the millionaire who started out with nothing. He said he would eat a hamburger one day and a hot dog the next, and that he would sleep in his car or at the bus station at night and peddle insurance policies door to door during the day. Later in life, he said in an interview that from day one, he would take the change from his pocket each day, add $2 to it, and put it in savings. The man later owned his own insurance company and was known for property he owned outside of Petal, Mississippi, that was home of the International Checker Hall of Fame. The building was a huge mansion, built in Tudor architectural style, and really stuck out on that stretch of country road especially back in the 1980s.

The band U2 performed a concert in 2004 under the Brooklyn Bridge. During the concert, Bono sang a song that he wrote for Roy Orbison, “She’s A Mystery to Me.” He sang and the band played to a huge audience and when he sang the song with minimal accompaniment, the crowd stood there mesmerized by the brilliance of the song. Bono went through a few verses of the song, struggling at times with the higher notes, professing that he suffered from “too much singing.” He continued to sing and as he neared the natural end of the song, Bono admitted, “I’m not quite sure how to end this,” to which his drummer took the lead and counted off an end.

Like Bono, I’m not sure how to end this essay. I’ve simply spoken of memories of coins in my life. I’m sure there is probably a better ending, but I will end it this way.

Coins are going extinct. Like other living creatures, so is the way of the coin, there just isn’t much appeal for it. I’d bet all of my coins that this will happen sooner than later. Banks seem to make it as inconvenient as possible to cash in change. Then I’ve watched people who, only judging by appearance, cannot afford the almost 12% charge to cash in change at a Coinstar kiosk. Then we experienced a coin shortage last year during the early days of global pandemic.

To make one last argument for the coin, I can tell you one of the reasons for coin in my life. I keep some of my rolled coins in a specific location inside my house. It is a great way to get rid of some nefarious character if they show up knocking on the door. Just act as if you don’t keep cash in the house, but you might have something that will help and give them some rolled coins.

Many of you may know that I built a bar in my home, hence, “The DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank,” and covered my countertops with over 1400 pennies. Even with the expensive epoxy covering the coins, this serves as one of the most economic ways to cover any surface.

Still not satisfied with this ending, I will leave you with one final use for coins. I’m not, but many of my family members are fans of the adult cartoon, “Family Guy,” and perhaps you know where I’m going with this. My final use for coins would be to use them as a weapon. Apparently, Peter Griffin, (“Family Guy”) gets hit in the privates on numerous occasions with a sack of nickels, and there are few things funnier than someone (else) taking one to the nads.

EXIT to HOME