It wasn’t always this way. If you are old enough you may well remember. Once upon a time, I was admired and looked up to. I was put in the mouth of deceased humans to pay Charon the boat man for taking them to the afterlife. People made a big deal out of receiving me. I was avidly saved and respected. Abraham Lincoln walked two miles to return me to a customer who had been overcharged. Children were given penny banks when they were of age to appreciate my value. Many youngsters found that with only five of me, they had enough money to buy a candy bar or go to a movie. A very popular saying was “A penny saved is a penny earned.”
I was the first currency of any type authorized by the newly formed United States of America. I was born (or minted at they call it) on April 21, 1787, when the Congress of the Confederation of the United States authorized a design for an official copper penny, later referred to as the Fugio cent. Benjamin Franklin was my designer and on one side I had thirteen chain links interlocked with the words “We are one” representing the union of the first 13 American states. On my other side, I had a picture of the sun and the sun dial with the words “Mind your business.” Over the years, I have had many different designs printed on me.
I was made legal tender by the Coinage Act of 1864. I was so popular in my middle years that Abraham Lincoln’s visage was put on one side of me and on my other side was Lincoln’s tomb and the Latin words “E Pluribus Unum” meaning “out of many one.” Honest Abe well knew the value of a penny. For over two hundred years, I have represented the business and entrepreneurial spirit of America. Those were my golden years. There was no shame in saving a shiny new penny or even an old worn and scratched penny.
How the times and fortunes have changed my life! Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say how the Fortune 500 has changed my life. Inflation and stock values have continued year after year to erode my value until I am now just a shell of what I once was. There is even talk of doing away with me as not worth the metal it takes to mint me. People leave me in little baskets at convenience stores and young children simply drop me or throw me down the street. I get run over by cars, motorbikes, bicycles and pedestrians. Hardly anybody will bother to pick me up off the sidewalk. I am looked down upon and despised.
Those who say that I am not important or who ignore me are part of a new generation that values image over substance. The word “frugal” is now associated with cheap and the word “thrifty” is associated with the idea of miserliness. It seems the world of finance is dominated by short-sighted individuals who have forgotten the old values that made this country great. Hard work and prudence were values that resonated among the early pioneers like so many notes in a great symphonic piece.
With hard work, you earned a penny. With prudence, you saved your pennies until they became dollars. In the old days, no one would ever have thrown me away or ignored me when laying in the street. Too many people have forgotten the value that I represent. From early times, there have been people who really understood my value. Even before I was an official U.S. coin, the value of a penny was recognized by some. I regard these people as paragons who really understood the meaning of money. Let me tell you a few of their stories.
Back in the days of Jesus Christ, there was a poor widow who gave her last two cents. The story is told by Mark 1:41-44 in the New Testament:
Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a few cents.
Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.”
Both Jesus and the poor widow understood the value of money and that it was not how much money you had but what you did with it that mattered.
Then, there is the story of little Hattie May Wiat. This was a young girl who lived in Blue Bell Pennsylvania around the end of the 19th Century. She loved to go to a nearby church but it was often so crowded that she could not find a seat. She decided to start saving her money to help build a bigger church. Her parents were very poor and sadly she died about two years after she had started saving her pennies.
When they were preparing her body for burial, they found beside her a little purse with fifty-seven cents inside and a note scribbled in her handwriting which read, “This is to help build the little church bigger so more children can go to Sunday School.” This so inspired the minister of the church that he started a fund-raising campaign that turned Hattie’s initial pennies into nearly a quarter of a million dollars. The church was expanded and many more people would eventually be able to come to church.
Hattie had faith in money. Money requires faith but it is a faith that rests on the good that money can do and not simply how much money one can acquire. Hattie had this kind of faith and it persisted beyond her death.
A more recent story is about John the runner. John goes out jogging four or five times a week regardless of the weather. Some days he feels great running and other days he is just anxious to get his run over with. Nevertheless, no matter how long he has run or how tired he is from his daily run, if John sees me on the street, he will always stop to pick me up.
John believes that if he becomes too proud to pick up a penny, where will it end? When will he become too proud to pick up a nickel or a dime? John brings me home in his fist and puts me in a large glass jar shaped like a coke bottle. I am in good company there with quarters, half dollars and even some Susan B. Anthony dollars. When John is ready to go on a vacation, he takes me down to the bank and converts me into cash for his trip.
John does not relish wealth or the mere accumulation of money. It is not his greed that compels him to pick me up but his acknowledgement of the symbolism that I represent. Whether it is a hundred-dollar bill or one penny laying on the ground, the meaning is the same. Money should never be taken for granted.
There are hundreds of other stories I can tell to show you that many people throughout history have understood the idea that “if you watch your pennies, the dollars will take care of themselves.” This is still a very valuable lesson that needs to be taught in all finance and business classes. From what I see, it is a lesson that too many people today have never learned.
So, the next time you see a penny on the street, think about my life and what it stands for. Do not think I simply represent 1/100 of a dollar. I represent far more than that. I represent the start of a global business. The start of a financial fortune. Even more importantly, I represent the start of needed surgery for a poor child in a developing country. The start of a fund to help protect the environment. The start of a young girl’s education.
Time for Questions:
Do you stop to pick up a penny? What does frugality mean to you? What does thrifty mean to you? Do you think being frugal is a vice or a virtue? Do you save for a rainy day? Do you think credit cards have made the idea of thrifty better or worse? Why?
Life is just beginning.
“The question is very understandable, but no one has found a satisfactory answer to it so far. Yes, why do they make still more gigantic planes, still heavier bombs and, at the same time, prefabricated houses for reconstruction? Why should millions be spent daily on the war and yet there’s not a penny available for medical services, artists, or for poor people? Why do some people have to starve, while there are surpluses rotting in other parts of the world? Oh, why are people so crazy?” — Anne Frank
Samson was the strongest most well-built man on the block. He had muscles chiseled in stone. His muscles had muscles. He stood 6 feet 4 inches tall and did not have an ounce of fat on him. Samson worked out seven days a week, twice each day at the Philistine Gym on Gibeon Street. He worked out before he went to work each morning and after work for two hours each evening.
wanting something more because you can’t have it. Delilah had only one other person she admired, herself. Much like Sampson, she could not pass by a mirror without staring at her reflection and thinking “how beautiful I am.”
Delilah grew more and more desperate in her attempts to get Samson to notice her. Finally, she hit on the idea to simply approach Samson and remark on his wonderful hair. So, one day while he was practicing his dead lifts, she sauntered by and casually remarked on how beautiful his hair was. She proceeded to compliment him on his marvelous muscle definition. She followed up these compliments with the suggestion that they go back to her place after working out and she would cook him a nice microwave dinner and brush his hair. This idea delighted Samson and after working out, they both went to Delilah’s house.
Delilah waited until the night before the World Weightlifting championship. At around midnight, she used the key that Samson hid near his door to let herself into Samson’s apartment. Moving as stealthily as a cat, she entered Samson’s bedroom. Samson was a sound sleeper and he had no inclination of what awaited him. Delilah took the surgical scalpel that she had borrowed from a medical admirer and in one quick slash, she lopped off Samson’s braid. Samson was totally unaware and did not move a muscle. Delilah slipped back out the way she had come and placed Samson’s key back where he hid it.
Once upon a time there was an…
I need to back up a bit as you must understand some mitigating factors. Most people of my generation today have no idea about why mutual sex was abolished. With hind sight, it may seem a little like throwing the baby out with the bath water. However, around the year 2090, war, terrorism and violence had become so common that everyone agreed something must be done about it. A group of the leading thinkers in the world formed a committee to see whether aggression could be stopped. They accepted the fact that most savage and brutal actions were committed by males of the species. Throughout history, men have fought wars over territory, money, power, fame and women. Men were responsible for most murders, robberies, rapes and crimes against women. The committee noted that the underlying drive behind male aggression was a preponderance of the hormone testosterone. A theory was proposed that if something could be done to reduce the amount of male testosterone, a corresponding drop in world violence would take place.
The solution was political rather than biological. The “Birth Act of 2107” decreed that any physical conjoining of men and women was illegal and immoral. The Supreme High Committee decided that since ancient methods of reproduction were now unreliable, the only way that women could have a baby was by artificial insemination. First, a prospective mother would need to file a permit for a license. Once having a license approved (the present birth rate was a critical factor in licensing decisions) a woman could then go to a birth clinic where she would be impregnated using a glass syringe. Male sperm was collected by harvesting willing males who were paid a fee for their production. Collected specimens were then sent to a national sperm bank to be cataloged and eventually matched with appropriate recipients.
Now as you know, life will always produce mutations. Genetic anomalies that defy the common strain of biology. And so, several years ago, a male baby was born with the genes to develop testosterone. His parents were not aware of this fact until he reached his pre-teens at which point his unique physical abilities were more than obvious. Unsure what the repercussions would be, his mother advised him not to tell anyone. His parents assumed that he could quite easily hide his sometimes-awkward condition from his peers and society at large. This strategy worked for many years. During this time, Adam tried to exercise his abilities as discreetly as possible.
As the little boy grew up, he became an even more devout believer in God. Everywhere he went, he saw the hand of God. In the clouds, in nature, in the weather, in the oceans, in good times and in bad times he believed that God was present. The little boy thought how hard God must have to work to try to keep life sustained. Each night he would pray to God that when he grew up, he would be able to help ease God’s work somewhat and do his share to help make the world a better place.
I am not a very sentimental person nor am I one to cling to the past. I decided I would move on with my life. I threw myself into my job and time went by. I had almost forgotten about Leandra when I saw the ad. It was from the Resurrection Android Company. It was the same company that I had purchased my android valet Sam from. Actually, Sam was much more than just a valet. Sam was a third-generation android with some independent powers of decision making. He could decide what to cook each day and he also decided what I should wear for work. He did cleaning, mending and many light repairs around the house. I had bought Sam shortly after Leandra and I were married. Leandra had mentioned that it would be nice to have some help with housekeeping and all. That way she would have more time to spend with me.
Androids of course are not human and they have no empathy or ability to show any emotions. Sam was logical and could be persuasive but he could not show love or compassion. In the ten years since I had purchased Sam, android technology had advanced considerably. Looking at the ad from the company, it appeared that they were now on a 15th generation android that had affective as well as cognitive abilities. The ad claimed that the new android could help replace a loved one both emotionally and physically. By integrating DNA characteristics using a technique called “Assisted human reproduction”, they could capture the exact characteristics of a loved one. All they would need would be some trace or remnant of the deceased or former loved one’s DNA.
That was when the idea occurred to me. I called the customer service line and asked to speak to a representative. I asked her whether it would be possible for me to create a new wife in the exact image of my former wife Leandra. They assured me it was. It would take about six months for the bio-engineering to integrate the mechanical aspects of the droid with the alleles and DNA strands that they could map from a sample of Leandra’s DNA. When the process was completed, I would have an exact physical, mental and emotional copy of Leandra. Even better, she could continue to be programmed and become an even better Leandra. The old Leandra was somewhat boring in bed. The new Leandra could become a wild and wanton partner if that is what I desired.
It did not take long to assemble the new Leandra. I put the lower torso, upper torso and head together in less time than it takes to make a milk shake. She was perfect. She looked just like my old Leandra. When I turned her on, she greeted me and asked, “What will my name be.” I replied “You are Leandra. You are the perfect wife. You will love and obey me always.”
I came home one day from work and Leandra did not greet me at the door. I thought maybe her battery had discharged or that Sam had forgotten to recharge her. I had left strict instructions for Sam to recharge Leandra every day. But, where was Sam? I did not hear him fixing dinner in the kitchen. I went into the kitchen but Sam was not there. Suddenly, I noticed a note on the table. I picked it up. It was from Leandra. She had written: “Gone with Sam, don’t love you anymore. Bye.”
All of my family and relatives attended both of these productions. We are a very close knit family and we wanted to show support for my sister. Six years ago, some of my family had wanted to go to the tattoo parlor with me when I had my first tat. I decided to go by myself. It was something that I felt that I had to do alone. The problem or conundrum I faced was what kind of a tattoo should I get and what part of my anatomy should I get it on? I remember that I had lots of advice on the matter. My father, mother, sister, grandmother, grandfather, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and friends all had tons of ideas and suggestions related to both questions.
I received numerous suggestions on the best place to have a tattoo. Some suggested it be placed where I could easily cover it up when I did not want it be seen. Others suggested that it be someplace more visible. Some said to get it on my shoulder or thigh where I could show it off during the warmer summer months while wearing shorts or a tank top. Places like my lower arms would be visible more often but also more difficult to conceal. Another dilemma, where to get my tattoo placed?
With the looming appointment for my tattoo, I had even more pressure now to decide “What was I going to get? What would my first tattoo be? How do I find something truly unique?” I thought about it all week. Every TV show I watched, everything I read, more advice and suggestions from well-meaning advisors but nothing really excited me. I went on the Internet. I went to the library. I looked at tattoo magazines with numerous women and men who had tats. I must have looked at a thousand pictures of different tattoos but still nothing resonated. I did not want any of the tats that I had seen.
The point of this story is that if we had not been siting vigil at my sister’s deathbed, we would not have been able to prevent a premature death. This is merely one example of the value of an “advocate” when you must go to a hospital. I am sure everyone reading this blog has at least one example that highlights how important it is to have someone as an advocate when you are in the hospital.
An alarm might go off in an intensive care room but not be noticed for quite some time. I have personally observed many times when a patient needed to call someone for assistance but no one came. Unable to get out of bed, a patient may have to wait a long time before someone is finally able to help them. In many cases, an advocate in the room can help a patient with minor personal needs. If more severe needs exist, the advocate can be of assistance if finding someone to help and making sure that the patient needs are not overlooked or even forgotten.
Another function an advocate can provide is to stand up for the patient when needed. Most of the time when we are feeling sick or hurting, we are in no position to stand up for what we need or want. In such instances, a patient only wants the pain to go away. Hospitals and health care providers often have needs that transcend the needs of the patient. The patient that must play second fiddle to a variety of administrative and financial procedures. Another example might clarify this.
Aging Capriciously 