In the realm of tangible memories, a nickel holds a special place. The one in my possession dates back to 1905, marked with a notable V on its reverse side—a Victory nickel. It is noticeably smaller and lighter than today’s five-cent coins, with a surface that is remarkably smooth, as one would expect from an object that has changed hands for over a century. However, this particular coin has remained untouched for many years, finding refuge in a small white jar with a black lid, nestled within a metal box at the residence of Ms. Emily Carter near Oxford, Mississippi.
This nickel carries a message resonating with the poignant words of Abraham Lincoln, which serve as the foundation of our collective narratives. A few weeks ago, I penned an article reflecting on my Chinese-American grandmother, who spent 65 years in a modest town within the Mississippi Delta. When I wrote it, I did not anticipate a wide readership, which turned out to be fortuitous, as the audience was limited. The piece included a mention of my mother’s older brother, Jon, who tragically drowned 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 of whom were Chinese-American, while others were not. They included old friends and classmates of my mother and her siblings, along with various strangers. Among them was Emily Carter, who discovered my mother online and reached out via email to share a connection with my uncle, Charles, having graduated together in 1958. In her message, she reminisced: “My brother, Michael Carter, shared your daughter’s article with me. When she mentioned the Chinese tradition of offering a nickel at the cemetery, it stirred memories. My late brother, William (Buddy) Carter, attended Jon’s funeral and returned home with a nickel. My mother, Louise Carter, kept that nickel, and as I spoke with Mike, we recalled it being in a small white jar. He distinctly remembered it as a ‘Victory nickel’ with a black lid.”
Emily continued, “When my mother moved in with me at 87 (and passed away at 90), she brought along some of her belongings, including a metal box containing important documents and coins. Upon recalling the nickel, I retrieved the box. Inside, I discovered the jar, which bore a Pepsodent face cream label; but there were not one, but four Victory nickels. Initially, I thought of sending one to your daughter, and I am still more than happy to do so.”
A few days later, on Christmas, my mother handed me an envelope with a festive card featuring Santa surrounded by a mountain of presents. Inside was a handwritten note from Ms. Carter: “I am thrilled to share this with Jennifer,” she wrote in her elegant cursive. A small packet slipped into my palm—the nickel, carefully wrapped in a folded and secured 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 earlier, as they sat in stunned silence, preparing for a boy’s funeral. While it’s impossible to confirm if this is the exact nickel that Emily’s brother took from the cemetery (which I visited just months ago to pay my respects at Jon’s grave), the specific coin is not what truly matters. What is significant is the interconnectedness of our lives, and the notion that someone might remember us. Jon’s life and death had an impact on another boy that fateful day—enough for Michael to keep that memento close throughout his life. It was cherished by his mother after his passing, and eventually, it found its way back to my mother and me, creating a full circle of memories.
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In summary, the journey of a simple nickel reminds us of the threads that connect our past and present, illustrating the significance of memory and legacy in our lives.