Perhaps these words will shed light on the necromancer way of thinking. Also, it is a nice way to cap the Thanksgiving holiday. And, on a more personal note, it is a nice way to remember those who made us who we are.
When I first began searching for wheatear cents at age ten, my mother called me into the bedroom. I was wondering if I had forgotten to empty the trash, when she said, "I have something special to show you." As I fidgeted on the edge of the bed, she carefully folded back the top of her jewelry case, reached in, and gently brought out a dark coin. She asked if my hands were clean; I quickly nodded, anticipation building. Just then, she pressed a corroded large cent in my palm. "I found this when I was about ten and have treasured it ever since." She continued, "I found it on the ground at an old dump in Providence, Rhode Island, where I used to play."
I carefully examined the coin, fingering it with the utmost care, as if it were made of glass. The dark corrosion was uniform across the surfaces, but all the details were clear when tilted towards the lamp. The all-important date -- 1838 -- was clear. I had never seen or read about large cents; in fact, I had no coin books or magazines at the time. All I knew was that the oldest coins had Indians and buffalos on them. But this coin, it rocked my world; it was older than anything I had seen. I wanted it, as all collectors do. But, I was firmly told that it was to remain in the jewelry case and only examined in her presence.I respected this -- well, for the most part. I did sneak and examine it a few times over the years when I needed to re-experience the magic. I never forgot that she had that old cent, even when I began collecting them decades later. I distinctly remember when I purchased my own 1838 cent -- a tan VF specimen with smooth surfaces. But, it was not nearly as cool as Mom's.
A few years ago, my mother was in poor health with dementia beginning to take away her memories. She knew her time was short, so she sent me a small package -- unannounced. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was the cent. It was bittersweet. I always felt safe knowing that it was with her, and now that I had it, I was not so sure. I carefully placed it in a small holder, simply labeled: "Mom's cent." I knew the instant I got it that I would keep it forever. It will be the last cent I will own. I thanked her, but I wondered if she appreciated how important the cent was to me. Maybe she felt like I had so many other cents that this one would get lost in the mix. Not a chance, Mom.
Last year, my mother passed away; she died in her sleep, but it had been a two-year battle with dementia that had overwhelmed her. I was looking at this cent the other day, and I was thinking about how this lowly piece that came from a dump had become so significant in my life. In the umbrage of my mother's passing, I decided to dedicate this book -- the sublimation of all my emotions and memories -- to my mother. Her cent, in all its awful beauty, is the most important coin in my collection.
Next time, I will share the cent.
