Collecting Money

 

Since this year of the weird, I seem to be thinking more about faith vs. fact, which brings me back to ‘money’.

Some might think that love is what makes the world go round, but it is lubricated with ‘money’.

We aspire and emulate those among us who flaunt their wealth with gigantic houses, flashy cars and impeccable couture. We dream of having our mattress stuffed with greenbacks. We waste a dollar in hopes of winning massive fortune in the lottery.

We need to eat and shelter and perhaps travel which will require (in this day and time) ‘money’.

I have gone over the history of money many times, but thought about that green piece of paper with a dead president’s picture printed on it in my wallet. If I want to purchase something, I pull out one (or more) of these pieces of paper and hand them to the merchant. After reviewing and approving the bills, we exchange items. It is basically a barter system, but includes ‘money’.

Now the value of the piece of paper and the ink and even the time to design and manufacture the ‘money’ isn’t worth the item purchased, but the merchant has faith it can be later exchanged with the same value printed on the currency.

The way the system is described by those who work in financial institutions that keep records of our monetary worth is that piece of green paper is backed up by gold stored in a mountain somewhere and gold is worth something so they say.

Not everyone likes our dead presidents so when you go to a different country your money is no good and you have to exchange it for money they prefer. Why we can’t use the same money is like asking why we can’t speak the same language, but we are still a global economy.

Today I hope that keyboard that I slide my plastic into will accept that my pile of gold bars somewhere in a mountain equal to what the screen is asking for. I don’t need to scribble my name anymore. I’ve forgotten how to use dollars and cents.

Speaking of which, I have a collection of coins in a bowl next to my bed. I haven’t used a coin or received change in forever. Still they sit there for they have some value. If I should ever buy a car and go onto a toll road and didn’t have the ‘free access’ pass, I’d have to throw some coins into a bucket to continue beyond the gate. To put some coins in the red kettle or collection plate would just seem cheap.

Growing up one of the hobbies kids were taught was coin collecting. It was a game to go through your pockets and check every coin to see if it had any hidden marks or dates that will increase their rarity and thus value, then snug them into a cardboard book with circular slots. This was a pretty non-threatening game with no physical demands other than sharp eyes. Friends could compare each other’s collections and even trade. There were places that you could bring your coin collection into and they would give an appraisal if you should continue or go to the pinball gallery. This game did not teach budgets, investments, debt or savings.

The idea of collecting has been around for years. Some of the reasons for collecting are knowledge and learning, relaxation and stress reduction, personal pleasure (including appreciation of beauty, and pride of ownership), social interaction with fellow collectors and others (i.e. the sharing of pleasure and knowledge), competitive challenge, recognition by fellow collectors and perhaps even non-collectors, altruism (since many great collections are ultimately donated to museums and learning institutions), the desire to control, possess and bring order to a small (or even a massive) part of the world, nostalgia and/or a connection to history or accumulation and diversification of wealth (which can ultimately provide a measure of security and freedom).

We collect coins, stamps and baseball cards, recordings, books, hats, t-shirts, guns, guitars, cars, houses, boats and spouses. There are antiques, artwork and family heirlooms that become collectables. Where does collecting stop and hoarding begin?

After impressing everyone with what you can purchase as if that will increase your attributions, age progresses and one must decide what to do with the entire chattel. A donation to worthy causes for philanthropy and tax reduction is one solution. Writing a will as a game plan to divide your wealth among family in the acceptable legal method until the family disputes your wishes before the dust settles on your grave.

If not, to get their share the city, state and federal governments will have to decide what to do with your leftovers that the neighbors hadn’t already picked through. At that point, the processional wealth of these items will be of no matter to you.

It is interesting we do not discuss our ‘money’ with others. We will discuss with bankers or stock brokers, but never family or friends. We will show off our items that indicate our esteem and thus our anointed statue in the community. We will complain that we have a lack of money but rarely embellish ourselves in what stuffs the mattress.

Getting back to collecting coins, is it worth the time and effort? At the end of the day to have some shiny pieces of gold and silver, will it make you a better person?

 True story: My mother scolded me for throwing away pennies. I replied, “They are not worth anything.” They still aren’t.

The coins growing dust bunnies next to my bed; what is their worth? The green paper in my wallet has a number but what if there is nothing to trade it for?

Where the arrival of the trash men carting off my discards is the high point of the day, having lots of zeros in my bank account or no two coins to rub together doesn’t seem to matter. To check off gifts for others hoping they appreciate the gesture and respond in like is forgotten with thoughts of my father’s father.

At this time of the year we normally gather our family and friends and celebrate with great joy, but not this year. This year we are all separated by health restrictions that could means saving our lives. On The Wondrous Day we will communicate over wires strung throughout to those at the other end. Then there are those who can’t.

My grandfather lived by himself. His wife had died earlier and he lived alone. I have no idea if he invited others over or attended occasional gatherings. I don’t know if he played checkers or chess or what books he read. I don’t know if he was a 5-star chef or did oil portraits. I do remember the large house he lived in was dark and dusty and had that ‘old’ smell about it. I know that house.

When everyone would gather to see granny and she seemed so excited to see all the rug rats and give hugs and laughter, it was a brief invasion into her privacy. After a few hours of good cheer talking over each other, the kids are packed up and waves goodbye.

Then things go back to the way they were.

There are folks now in wards attached to machines, attended by plastic covered caregivers who are also alone. Their only diversion is the repetition of depressing news on the boob tube or staring out a window into an unattainable forgotten world. They (we) are alone.

 

No money can change that.