A Penny’s Worth

Part II – Pennies from Heaven

Saving pennies became a kind of ritual.

So did wondering who had held them before me,
and what the year stamped into their copper faces might have meant.

I saved what others tossed away.

To me, they were tiny treasures, waiting to be noticed.

From time to time, I opened my penny jar and searched for wheaties, the older pennies with wheat stalks on the back, no longer made. I separated them into their own jar, as if they needed their own room to breathe.

I liked that they were different.
That they had survived change.

In time, I learned how other people saw pennies.
I saw it clearly for the first time at the boardwalk.

The taste of sea air lingered on my lips as I ate a custard cone, its sweetness slipping down my hand.

I watched a young boy feed a penny into a machine and giggle as it disappeared.

He held the thin oval when it returned, smiling.

My heart, once full of excitement and anticipation, now felt like that penny.

All around us, people waited to do the same.

I never understood it.

It felt disrespectful.
Like erasing something that had already lived a life.

Each time I passed those machines, I felt a small wave of anger.

I stood in silent defiance, choosing in that moment:

I will not flatten a beautiful penny.
I will protect all of my pennies.

Like the girl on the boardwalk who vowed to protect and honor the pennies,
I think I also made a vow to protect and honor anyone who could not act for themselves.

I became an outspoken teen,
and an even more outspoken adult.

Looking back, the flattened penny had a lot to do with shaping that part of me.

Time, of course, did what it always does.

It moved forward.

Stores closed.
Coins changed.
Hands that once held mine were no longer there to steady me.

The penny itself grew quieter in the world.

It stopped being used the way it once was. It lost its voice at counters and in pockets. It became something people complained about: too small, too worthless, too inconvenient to keep.

But I never learned to see it that way.

The wheaties I saved.
The ordinary pennies I saved.
The ones that once lived in jars and coat pockets and the soft center of my childhood.

They will be called vintage one day.

I still call them mine.

I still honor them.

Sometimes, when I hear Louis Prima singing about pennies from heaven, I think of my grandfather: his hands, his chair, the weight of his love settling quietly into my life.

Sometimes I still wonder if small blessings travel disguised as ordinary things.

Finding a penny today never ceases to amaze me.

Still, the little girl in me is filled with wonder.

Who held this?
What did they buy?
Who taught them to be who they were?

I wonder about the years, and often find myself looking up what happened then, or what groceries cost in that moment of time.

Always inquisitive.
Always wanting to learn.

Finding a penny can still teach me so much.

I can no longer buy a tchotchke at Woolworth’s.
Woolworth’s is closed now.

The rides are no longer outside grocery stores.
And I am far too old to ride one.

There are no more gumball machines.
And my teeth are far too sensitive for a gumball.

If I find a penny today, I might give it to a child nearby, just to see that sudden burst of joy at a tiny treasure, passed from person to person to person again.

When my daughter was four years old, I taught her to put her pennies in a jar too. We called it tzedakah—charity.

I told her that whatever she put into her jar, I would match.

Her penny jar filled quickly.

And she did too, with excitement, knowing she was giving something of her own to others.

Copper.
Round.
Easy to overlook.

Years later, I learned Grandpa saved pennies too. He separated them the way I did, searching for Indian Head pennies and setting them aside for his grandchildren.

Just like Grandpa, those pennies are gone now, left to people who never knew him, who never felt the thickness of his hands or heard the deep, infectious belly laugh that belonged only to him.

I imagine that twenty years from now, a young bride on her wedding day will gather her tokens: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

The old will be a penny.

She will turn it over in her hand with curiosity and wonder. An odd curiosity, not the same that mine was as a child.

Mine came from knowing.
Hers will come from wanting to know.

What is this?
What era did this come from?
What stories can this share?

Perhaps she will save it and pass it on.

Then the penny will live.

Some people measure value by how many pennies they have.

I measure life by the fullness of the memories that have shaped me.

Like the pennies that no longer live and will be called vintage,
so will I.

The penny and I have enjoyed life.

When we are found,
perhaps someone will inquire, become curious, and ask about our past.

This isn’t just about the penny,
or grandparents.

It’s about how we become part of something greater
because of the memories we make.

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Years later, I would hear Under the Boardwalk and feel the same hush settle over me: the ocean, the crowds, the small lives unfolding beside one another.

Author’s Note

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With gratitude,
Chellie 🩷

Chellie Grossman is a Certified Life Coach, Keynote Speaker, and Writer who empowers leaders to reclaim their voice, embrace their strength, and lead with authenticity and purpose.

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