“The written word may be man’s greatest invention. It allows us to converse with the dead, the absent, and the unborn.” —Abraham Lincoln
A simple nickel rests in my palm, one that dates back to 1905 and features a distinctive V on its reverse—a Victory nickel. It feels smaller and lighter than the modern five-cent coins, its surface smooth from what seems like a lifetime of exchanges. But perhaps this particular piece hasn’t traveled much at all; it has lain dormant for years inside a small white jar with a black lid, tucked away in a metal box at the home of Ms. Clara Jennings in Oxford, Mississippi.
This nickel has quite the story to tell, echoing the sentiment of Lincoln’s quote, which also serves as the inspiration for our blog. A few weeks ago, I shared a piece about my Chinese-American grandmother, who spent 65 years in a small Mississippi Delta town. I didn’t expect it to attract many readers, which turned out to be a fortunate assumption since the audience was modest. Within the story, I recounted the tragedy of my mother’s older brother, Billy, who drowned at the age of 12—a sorrow that has reverberated through our family for generations.
Most of the readers hailed from the Mississippi Delta, many of them Chinese-American, while others were simply familiar faces—old classmates, neighbors, and friends of my mother and her siblings. Among them was Clara Jennings, who stumbled upon my mother’s profile online and reached out with an email. She explained that her brother, Richard Jennings, graduated alongside my uncle Billy in 1958. She also noted:
“My brother, Michael, shared your article with me. When you mentioned the Chinese tradition of offering a nickel at the cemetery, it brought back memories. My late brother, Buddy Jennings, attended Billy’s funeral and came home with a nickel. My mother, Louise, kept that coin, and as we reminisced, we realized it was in a small white jar. Michael recalled it as a ‘Victory nickel’ with a black top.
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 filled with important papers and coins. Prompted by memory, I retrieved the box and found the jar, which, surprisingly, contained not one but four Victory nickels. Initially, I thought of sending one to your daughter. If she wishes to have a piece of history, I’d still be delighted to do so.”
Just days later, on Christmas, my mother handed me an envelope adorned with a cheerful holiday card featuring Santa surrounded by a pile of gifts. Inside was a handwritten note from Ms. Jennings, expressing her joy in sharing a piece of history with me. As I unfolded a carefully wrapped piece of paper, the nickel slipped into my hand.
I couldn’t help but ponder whether this was the very coin my grieving family had placed in a small white envelope 66 years ago while preparing for a boy’s funeral. There’s no way to confirm if it’s the same nickel that Ms. Jennings’s brother took home from the cemetery—the same cemetery I visited just months ago, pausing at Billy’s grave. Ultimately, whether it is or isn’t matters little. What truly resonates is the continuity of our lives, the connections that reach across time. Billy’s existence, or the impact of his death, left an imprint on another boy that day—enough for Michael to keep this memento close throughout his life. It was important enough for his mother to preserve it even after his passing. And now, here it is, returning full circle to my family and me.
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In essence, this story reminds us of the threads that bind us to our past and the memories we carry forward into the future.
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