“The written word may be man’s greatest invention. It allows us to converse with the dead, the absent, and the unborn.” —Abraham Lincoln
In my hand rests a small yet significant object: a nickel from 1905, adorned with a distinctive V on its reverse side—a Victory nickel. It’s noticeably smaller and lighter than the five-cent pieces we use today, its surface smooth from over a century of being exchanged across countless hands. Yet, this particular coin has spent decades in a small white jar with a black lid, tucked away in a metal box belonging to Ms. Clara Johnson in Oxford, Mississippi.
This nickel has a remarkable story, reminiscent of the sentiment expressed in Lincoln’s quote, and it serves as the heart of our narrative today.
Not long ago, I penned a piece about my Chinese-American grandmother, who lived for 65 years in a quaint Mississippi Delta town. I didn’t anticipate many readers would engage with the article, and to my surprise, it garnered a modest audience. Within it, I recounted the tragic drowning of my mother’s older brother, Benny, at the tender age of 12—a loss that has reverberated through our family for generations.
Most of the readers hailed from the Mississippi Delta—many were Chinese-American, while others were not. Among them were old classmates, neighbors, and family friends. One reader, Clara Johnson, discovered my mother online and reached out to share a touching connection: she and my uncle, Samuel, were classmates from the class of 1958. In her email, she wrote:
“My brother, David Johnson, sent me your daughter’s article. When she mentioned the Chinese custom of placing a nickel at the cemetery, it brought back memories. My late brother, William, attended Benny’s funeral and brought home a nickel. My mother, Margaret, kept that nickel, and during a recent conversation with David, we recalled it was in a small white jar. He remembered it was a ‘Victory nickel’ and that the jar had a black top.”
Clara continued, “When my mother came to live with me at 87 (she passed away at 90), she brought along some furniture and personal items. Among them was a metal box containing important papers and coins. After our discussion, I opened the box and found the jar, which had a Pepsodent face cream label. Inside were not one but four Victory nickels. Initially, I thought of sending the coin to your daughter. If she would like one of the four, I’d be delighted to share.”
A few days later, on Christmas Day, my mother handed me an envelope containing a festive card featuring Santa with a towering stack of presents. Inside, I found a handwritten note from Clara, expressing her joy in sharing this piece of history with me. As I unfolded the packet, a nickel slipped into my palm, carefully tucked in a folded piece of paper.
As I held the nickel, I pondered whether it was the very coin my grieving family had placed in a small white envelope 66 years ago while they sat in disbelief, preparing for a boy’s funeral. There’s no definitive way to determine if this is indeed the coin Clara’s brother took from the cemetery—the same cemetery I visited months prior, where I spent a few quiet moments at Benny’s grave. Regardless, what matters is the connection we share across time, that someone might carry a memory of us. Benny’s life and death touched another boy that day, prompting David to keep this memento close throughout his life—significant enough for his mother to safeguard it, and for Clara to later remember and return it, completing a circle that binds us all.
In conclusion, the threads of our lives intertwine in unexpected ways, often through simple objects like this nickel, reminding us of the bonds formed through love and remembrance. If you’re interested in exploring more about home insemination or the journey to parenthood, check out this informative resource on intra-cervical insemination, or for a broader perspective, visit Make a Mom to guide your fertility journey. For further reading, Healthline offers valuable insights into pregnancy and home insemination.