“The written word may be man’s greatest invention. It allows us to converse with the dead, the absent, and the unborn.” —Abraham Lincoln
It’s just a little coin, a nickel. This particular one in my hand dates back to 1905 and proudly displays a 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 years of being exchanged. Yet, this nickel may not have been part of the hustle and bustle of transactions. Instead, it has been resting, tucked away in a small white jar with a black lid, inside a metal box belonging to Ms. Lily Thompson in a quaint town near Oxford, Mississippi.
This nickel carries a story, echoing the sentiment of Lincoln’s quote above, which also embodies the essence of our blog. A few weeks ago, I penned a piece about my Chinese-American grandmother, who spent 65 years in a small Mississippi Delta town. I didn’t anticipate many readers, so I wasn’t surprised when the audience was modest. The story touched on my mom’s older brother, Timmy, who tragically drowned at the tender age of 12—a loss that continues to reverberate through our family.
The readers of my story were primarily from the Mississippi Delta—many were familiar faces from my mom’s past, while others were strangers. One of those strangers was Lily Thompson, who reached out to my mom after discovering the article online. In her email, she mentioned that her uncle, Charlie, graduated with my mom in 1958. She shared this poignant memory:
“My brother, Jack Thompson, sent me the article your daughter wrote. When she mentioned the Chinese tradition of placing a nickel at the cemetery, I was flooded with memories. My late brother, Bill, attended Timmy’s funeral and came home with a nickel. Our mother, Mary, kept that nickel, and as I talked with Jack, we recalled it was in a small white jar. Jack remembered it was a ‘Victory nickel’ with a black lid.”
Lily continued, “When our mother moved in with me at 87 (and passed at 90), she brought along some furniture and personal items, including a metal box full of important papers and coins. Once my memory was jogged, I opened the box and found the jar—not just one, but four Victory nickels! I thought about sending one to your daughter and would still be happy to do so.”
Just a few days later, on Christmas, my mom handed me an envelope adorned with a holiday card featuring Santa and a towering stack of gifts. Inside was a note from Lily: “I’m thrilled to share this with Jamie.” Along with her lovely cursive note was a small packet containing the nickel, carefully wrapped in a piece of paper.
As I held the nickel, I wondered if it was the same coin my heartbroken family placed in an envelope 66 years ago as they gathered around, grappling with grief while preparing for Timmy’s funeral. There’s no way to know if it’s the very coin that Lily’s brother took from the cemetery—the same grave I visited months ago, standing in quiet reflection at Timmy’s headstone. But it doesn’t truly matter. What’s significant is how our lives intertwine through time, how someone might carry our memory forward. Timmy’s legacy meant enough to another boy that day—enough for Jack to keep this memento close throughout his life. Enough for his mother to preserve it after his passing. Enough for Lily to remember, bringing it back, full circle, to my mom—and ultimately, to me.
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In summary, this tale of the nickel connects generations, weaving a narrative that transcends time. It serves as a reminder of how our stories, however small, can resonate and create bonds between us, echoing through the years.