Silver Eagles: Not for the Necromancer

Coin World reported this week that sales of Silver Eagles reached 44.85 million in 2015! Previous sales records were broken. Just like Black Friday, and Cyber Monday, and so on.
   Wow! Can you hear the trumpets blasting?

Woo Hoo! A silver eagle from Santa! Now what?

   What does the necromancer coin collector make of this? Not much. These pieces may be beautiful (even that is debatable), but they have no story to tell. They are just stamped bullion with a recycled design. I don't think Ms. Liberty looks any better than when she first walked across the face of the half-dollar in 1916. In fact, the original design is better. And the eagle? UGH. What do you think?
   You might be surprised to learn that I have a few of these "sad" coins. I get one every year as a Christmas present from the local coin club. We all get one. Yet, I never know what to do with them. I have re-gifted a few pieces. I considered carrying one around in my pocket (but why do that when I can carry the real thing in the form of the aforementioned half-dollar). Maybe I should have sent them off to be graded: If one came back as MS70, then I could have boasted about my numismatic heroism.
   Of course, I could jump on the bandwagon and get a bunch of them -- a mega-box, or whatever -- and place the cache in my underground bunker that I am building in the backyard. When the globe melts or when the bombs start falling, I can buy bread with silver.
   No, I won't do that. I would rather die holding something that actually has a history worth musing about -- a coin filled with spirits. Something that I have transformed into a collectible piece by my own eye. This is the magic of collecting -- namely the transformation of something useful into something symbolic and personal.
   My humble advice is this. Go out and find some really cool coins that have been softened by a thousand fingertips and glazed with the grit of humanity; then, give them to your friends. Oh, and keep one for yourself.
   This is the way of the necromancer.

Cobs from a Crook: Rough by Design

Spanish colonial cobs never fail to tell fascinating stories of riches, greed, and heartbreak.
   These stamped lumps of silver come from deadly shipwrecks all over the globe. Others come from caches buried in the ground or hidden in caves. A few pieces have survived as keepsakes stuffed in the back of a drawer. Fewer still were lost in the dirt after a stumble. We are lucky to have them no matter the source, as most cobs were melted to produce new coins.

Here we have 8R, 4R, 2R, and 1R (left to right, bottom) of Ramirez cobs.
The mintmark (P) is left of the shield above the assayer mark (R).

   With their scraggy edges, gnarled surfaces, and partial designs, these survivors entice collectors who enjoy a challenge. Trying to decipher these rugged coins is pure intrigue. Cobs -- with all these "defects" -- are perfect relics.
   Some series of cobs are worse (more perfect) than others -- especially when they were hammered on under-weight flans made of debased silver alloy. It is storyline that is all too familiar.
  This kind of malfeasance was a recurrent problem at the old Potosi mint. It got so bad that the "Peruvians" as they were called were shunned by merchants in the mid-1600s. Cobs with a P  mintmark traded at a discount.
   The cobs from mid-1640s were particularly bad. One of the chief offenders was Felipe Ramirez de Arellano. He was an assayer at the mint who produced cobs from about 1645/6 to 1648. His assayer mark -- a straight-leg R -- is rare, as most of his pieces were melted by order of the king. Some of these cobs were purported to be only 35% silver. Felipe Ramirez was garroted for his sins.
   This group pictured is a denomination set of his pieces: 1 real through 8 reales. They are crudely minted. Ugly. The flat spots and cracks tell a story of a rushed production. The two-reales piece in particular appears to be stamped on a piece of thin slag: it is cracked and bent, with the design running off the flan at top. It is a wonderful piece that tells the story as soon as you put it in your hand.

Giving Thanks

Today I want to share a Special Dedication I wrote for my upcoming book about the battered and corroded coins -- stay tuned for this!

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.

Loving the Unloved: A Perfect NJ Copper

Everyone knows that pealing paint needs immediate attention. We must act with urgency or else the wood will rot. Yet, we find the crumbling lattice of an old homestead charming in some mysterious way. Yes, our ambivalence towards decay is inescapable.
   We make art out of decay. A splintered bowl discovered in an antique mall is set on a coffee table. We admire it because it was heavily used. And, loved. The bowl is honest. The wear and tear reflects life as it really is. In this way the bowl is perfect.
   So too, this heavily corroded New Jersey copper is perfect. This is a piece that I keep going back to. It is a relic that is soothing in the same mysterious way that describes our reaction to the crumbling lattice or the battered bowl.

A beautiful NJ copper. A layer of green verdigris is caked on
the surface and has started to peal away like paint.
This NJ appears to be Maris 56-n with camel head.

   Yet, so many collectors tend to pass up coins like this. Convinced of their own connoisseurship, they poke fun at such pieces: "What a dog," they remark. They have been hoodwinked into believing that perfect means like-new or unscathed.
   Of course, their is no shame in having a few unscathed NJ coppers. But, do not shun the relics that were used, lost, maybe looked for, then found, and revered by those sensitive enough.
   Unfortunately, we do not know where this NJ copper came from. That would be the ultimate distinction: that is, to know (to be able to stand on) the plot of ground whereat it was fumbled so long ago.
   Nicer coppers -- with pristine surfaces -- can only pretend to claim this distinction. As such, there is usually a list of former collectors who owned them: namely, a progression of auction records with big names boldly set on glossy covers. Numismatic heroes. And so it goes, the connoisseurs gather 'round and pat themselves on the back, naming themselves among the greats. Its a contagion -- sort of like having one of Elvis' socks.
   Numismatic heroism, really? Why not wear a colorful tie instead?

For the coin collecting necromancer, the path is clear. During this holiday season, treat yourself to a real relic. Something that you will keep forever. Something raw to lay on the nightstand. And let the silly connoisseurs compete for full details: full horse eye, or sharp ear points, or complete singletree bar!