The
Old Coot Finds a Rare Coin!
By Merlin Lessler
This article was written over a decade
ago, back when I was a younger old coot. It never made it to the paper, but I’m
submitting it now, a little late, but better late than never.
June,
2006
I’m walking around with a fifty-cent piece
in my pocket. I got it in change at Everybody’s Country Store. It’s the first
one I’ve seen in years. When Kathy Phelps, the owner, handed it to me I thought
I’d stepped back in time, to the era when a half-dollar was a treasured
possession. Cathy’s store is like going back in time anyhow. The fixtures,
cabinets and racks are vintage. The door sticks on cold mornings, like an old
door should. The display cases are awash in fresh baked goods. The deli section
is famous for its sandwiches. If you pass by in the wee hours of the morning
you can glimpse the shadowy movement of the baking crew toiling away on today’s
goodies. It gives the same respectful feeling as when you pass a barn at dawn
and spot a lanky silhouette moving down a line of cows.
The half-dollar got me thinking, “Where did
they go?” You never see them anymore. Ours, is a society fueled by quarters.
When I was a twelve-year-old with a paper route, a lot of half-dollars passed
through my fingers. Unfortunately, not many stayed with me. Newspapers retailed
for a nickel in those days; fifteen cents on Sunday. Every Monday night after
supper, I went back over my route to collect. The transaction went like this -
I’d say, “Press.” The customer would grumble, “How much?” I’d respond,
“Forty-five cents”. And, under my breath – “Just like last week; just like
every week” Several customers would claim they had already paid, but I had
proof they hadn’t. I had the postage stamp sized receipt still in my collection
book, with their name at the top of the page.
It was somewhat of a hassle to get paid,
but the circulation manager didn’t care. He was on my doorstep every Saturday
morning with the bill - three cents per paper for Monday through Saturday, ten
cents for Sunday times sixty customers. My profit for delivering the paper
every day and then collecting from those 60 customers was about ten bucks. If
everyone paid! Which never happened. Tips were a rarity back then. You would think
that a customer or two might say, “Keep the change, kid,” when they handed you
a fifty-cent piece for a forty-five-cent debt. It would be a small thank-you
for getting a dry paper, on time, every day of the week. A paper that was
carefully folded and tossed onto the porch or put inside the door if they
didn’t have a porch. But, it wasn’t the case. Of the sixty customers on my
route, only three told me to keep the nickel, and that was only every now and
then. But, I wasn’t disappointed; I was happy to just get paid without hearing:
“Come back tomorrow” - or - “My husband isn’t here and he pays the bills” - or
- “I paid you last week for two weeks!” (Yes, you did, because you owed for the
previous week). I was also happy to get through the week without one of the
“guard” dogs on the route taking out their hostility on me when I hurried by
and tossed the paper on their doorstep. I wasn’t always quick enough and I got nipped
now and then. The owner usually blamed it on me. “It’s your fault; you scared him!” It still
didn’t get me a tip.
No, I didn’t resent the skimpy number of
tips. I loved walking home with a pocket full of half-dollars too much to let
anything bother me. It was how I measured “a job well done.” It’s why the
fifty-cent piece that Kathy Phelps gave me in change was such a shock. I’d
forgotten how much I missed it. I started asking around, “Do you ever get any
half-dollars?” John Spencer at Riverow Books said, “Hardly ever.” Darci at
Awakenings Coffeehouse said, “Once a month or so. The kids that work for me
don’t know what they are.” Everybody I asked had a similar answer. The
half-dollar “passed away” and nobody went to the funeral. It didn’t even make
the obituaries. Too bad. It makes me kind of sad.
Comments, complaints. Register them at
mlessler7@gmail.com
No comments:
Post a Comment