To Sense Worth

By EF Clark

If a penny could speak, what stories would it tell?
Orphaned by the devastating San Francisco earthquake of 1906, young Elizabeth Sullivan stumbles upon a simple copper penny that forever changes her life. Is it magic? Lucky? Or something more?
Set against the tumultuous events of the 20th century, the seemingly insignificant coin sustains her through a lifetime of love, heartbreak, and ultimate victory.

Sometimes humorous, yet sometimes heartbreaking, "To Sense Worth" is an epic adventure of love, tribulation, faith, and triumph. Follow the journey . . . To Sense Worth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EF Clark
• Release date: Apr 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452442327

EF Clark

While not exactly an eccentric childhood recluse, I do recall being elated to receive a portable Smith-Corona typewriter for my 10th birthday! Ah, the good old days of ink ribbons and whiteout.Whether scriptwriting television commercials for my family music business, or implementing multimedia promotions for various bookstores, I have thoroughly appreciated the art of writing and marketing.I am an Internet Content Writer, editorialist, songwriter, and musician. My true passion, however, is historical fiction like the latest novel "TO SENSE WORTH," and children's books, such as the "NELLIE GREEN the JELLY BEAN" series.Visit my blog "writercamp," which encourages aspiring writers to share in the legacy of literature.

Book preview

TO SENSE WORTH

Tales of a Penny ahead of its Time

Published by .EF Clark / Smashwords edition

Copyright 2010 Edward F. Clark

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All characters are fictitious. Historical persons are represented in a fictitious setting. Due to descriptions of war violence and racial issues, some parental review is suggested.

CHAPTER 1

I am well over one hundred years old, yet I still recall the day of my birth.

In the summer of 1909 America honored her favorite president, and San Francisco celebrated famously. Fate would forever link me to this legendary man, his humble beginning would secure my place in history as well.

There are no others like me. I’m the first of my kind. Many had come before, and so many since that you couldn’t count them all in a lifetime. Sure, I resemble the others, but there is something special that stands out from all the rest.

You see, I am a penny. My name is not Penny. Rather, I am a penny. You know, the small humble copper coin you see on the pavement. Find a penny pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck, and all that stuff.

Tossed in a tray at the corner store, discarded on a dirty sidewalk or a parking lot, pennies aren’t very useful anymore. But in those days, we were highly treasured. Mine has been a journey to discover genuine value. To sense worth, my deepest desire.

Extracted from the finest copper mines, we were designed for a noble purpose. A tribute to the centennial of Lincoln’s birth, the first coin ever to bear the likeness of an American president. I was privileged to be among the very first ones ever minted. Proudly, the Minter stamped the finishing touch next to Lincoln’s image on our shiny copper surfaces.

LIBERTY

Enthusiasm had grown for months. What a fantastic event, the day we were first displayed. The entire city packed the streets with parades and music. Children pressed through the crowds for a glimpse of what grownups gathered to see.

The nation obsessed over the new coins. One by one they dispersed us among the anxious visitors, as if divine treasure had been discovered.

Before we could even say goodbye, one was gone with a girl from Brazil. Twins from Spain took two cents each. And a dozen pennies were delivered to the Prince of Denmark, or so they say. It’s rumored that the nephew of Levi Strauss tucked a penny in the pocket of his jeans, where it remained for seventy-five years.

With a deep sense of pride, Americans anxiously sought the new pennies. Honoring the sixteenth president in this particular way proved to be a huge success.

Like beggars eager for bread, citizens across the nation waited patiently, but some went home with empty hands and broken hearts. There simply were not enough to go around.

A tall thin gentleman, whose grey moustache curled on each side of his cheeks like a vine, claimed me for his prize. Gripping a fancy walking cane topped with an ivory handle, he gazed with gladness at my shiny face. Considering his stylish Derby and tweed overcoat, I thought a person of royalty must have handpicked me.

Removing his glove, he gently clinched his token and strolled away. A smile was fixed on his wrinkly face. Every so often he opened his fingers to stare at me as if he had forgotten what I looked like. Surely I would be taken to his mansion for a life of luxury as his prized possession.

But just then, a small group of lads ran by shouting and laughing at who knows what. Their childish antics led one of them to bump his elbow. Away I flew, higher and higher into the air.

I feared I would fly away forever and never come down- or hit the earth so hard I would shatter into hundreds of pieces. It seemed like an eternity spinning through the sky. Finally, I bounced along the sidewalk with the jingly sound of a tiny bell.

I could not believe I had survived. At that moment I supposed my skin to be made of some super strong indestructible metal. Yet I had heard of many older copper coins, dutifully sacrificed, their metals melted down to make way for shiny new pennies. I should not be so conceited, as my destiny surely lay in the hands of a much higher power.

I began to look around for the elderly gentleman to come to my rescue and continue our journey to his castle. At last a pair of polished black shoes bolted toward me. Beaming with joy, I anticipated our reunion. Delighted that he found me so fast, I rejoiced when those rude young men disappeared. They could surely never appreciate my genuine value.

I stretched to see him coming my direction. But a different pair of shoes, unpolished and dirty, pranced to the place I came to rest. A tiny hand scooped me up. The little pirate had stolen me away without the slightest regard for personal property.

A messy, copper haired little girl with coal-smeared cheeks and a ragged dress, she could hardly compare to the refined person to whom I rightfully belonged.

I could never be seen with this homeless little hobo. This could not be my lot in life, an occasion for my colleagues to share a good laugh.

My fear vanished in a sigh of relief as I recognized the towering figure standing behind her. What a contrast between the two. A grubby little girl with filthy fingernails, and a fine upstanding gentleman of the utmost caliber. I had already decided where I would rather spend my days.

The girl grinned with delight. Considering the condition of her teeth, she lacked any sense of humiliation.

I felt certain the gentleman would snatch me away and scold the little bandit. But he stood there calmly and did not speak a word. The child turned and tilted her head to look at the tall man’s face.

Does this belong to you? she asked, dreading the obvious answer.

Indeed it does, came his deliberate reply.

I sensed a hint of sympathy as she slumped her head and slowly rolled open her little fingers, exposing the treasure on her palm. As I waited for the gentleman to lift me up, what came next surprised me perhaps more than her. Believing he had finished answering, I witnessed something unimaginable.

But I want to give it to you, my dear, he said.

Resuming her impish little smile, she rushed away in gleeful gratitude. In shock, I certainly did not share her sentiment over the swift transfer of ownership.

After smuggling me into her shabby dwelling, she locked me away in a small dark box. There I noticed other items of little or no value. I kept to myself, as I had no interest in associating with any object of inferior quality. Lincoln pennies were intended for majestic purposes and fine museums, not a child’s trinket box. Couldn’t she tell by the superb craftsmanship of my shiny copper surface?

I refused to believe fate could bring such misfortune. Some sort of error had occurred and the mystical forces attempting this commotion would surely be brought to justice.

My faith began to fade as daylight disappeared.

Panic-stricken, my mind raced with plans of escape. But where could I go, what would I do?

This is so unfair.

I remembered the word etched on my copper surface.

LIBERTY

Yes, liberty for others but not for me. Lincoln fought a great Civil War to free the slaves, but I had become the servant of a little vagabond.

At first I reasoned it would all soon change. The bravery of some heroic gesture, or the sheer brilliance of some lofty scheme would secure my release. After all, how long could a destitute little child possibly keep me detained? I realized President Taft was quite busy, but my abduction was a national scandal worthy of widespread investigation.

Trying to remain optimistic, I convinced myself that captivity could be a useful tool, strengthening my resolve to achieve greatness. Perhaps this prison was part of a bigger plan. Through this fiery trial, I might forever be purged of any blemish from the copper mine, flawless and pure, just as the Minter had intended. I accepted this noble quest with earnest expectations.

In the meantime, I began to take notice my surroundings. Despite the darkness of this dingy little dungeon, I distinguished a few of the other objects. A ceramic thimble, a button, and a small red ball made of India rubber.

The girl did not have many possessions. I must have been of great worth in her little world. Except for a tarnished bronze cufflink, the only thing that came close to rivaling the beauty of my decorative copper surface, she had acquired a diverse collection of useless castaways.

The walls of the box, barely more than paper-thin, enabled the muted voices to penetrate. There were two, one belonging to the girl, the other a bellowing masculine baritone, short of breath, and with a frequent raspy cough.

Common people, who knew neither luxury nor indulgence, they spoke with simple words of ordinary things.

Soon, the little girl scurried to the room and opened the squeaky lid. Lifting me out, she examined with a keen eye. When she spoke, her solemn tone revealed a maturity I would not have imagined. Only nine, she possessed the disposition of someone much older.

You are my favorite secret treasure, she said.

I had already made that assumption, so her first words were of no surprise to me.

For as long as I shall live, you will be my lucky charm.

She seemed sincere, though I remained skeptical. After all, this winsome little renegade practically abducted me, holding me against my will.

I thought she might mistreat me. But then she began spinning and rolling me, holding me close. For hours, she whispered her secrets and sang childhood songs, treating me more like a friend than a plaything. I began to feel a strange closeness, making me a bit uneasy.

She appeared to be a good person, but being a child’s playmate had never been my intended designation.

Perhaps there could have been a lasting bond had she been an heiress, or some social aristocrat. I did pity her, lacking a better place to live and proper clothing, though she appeared to be content and did not complain.

Elizabeth, come to dinner, the raspy voice called from another room.

Yes, Grandfather.

The child carefully set me back down in the box, but not before giving me a quick kiss. I had never been kissed, and so I assume it was a customary gesture for articles of importance, such as myself.

Weary from the day’s events, I had no choice but to settle into the less than desirable habitat.

Her visits became a regular routine, day after day displaying the same tender affections, telling her fabled stories, and dancing to her familiar songs. Slowly, her innocence began to win me over.

I became curious about her family. It seemed that only the two of them dwelt in the run down bungalow, not that it could hold many more. Wallpaper peeling in most places, windows cracked, and the ceiling woefully in need of repair. The drafty floorboards creaked as she stepped into the room.

Days dissolved into weeks. And months into seasons. With the passage of time, I pieced together the puzzle of her past. I learned of recent events that had changed her life, revealing the nature of her somber maturity.

It seems her mother, father, and younger brother all perished in the great earthquake of 1906. Elizabeth’s grandmother also lost her life, leaving her grieving grandfather alone to worry for the little orphan.

Now in his seventies, Robert Sullivan, Sr. bore the burden as the sole breadwinner. The hard labor of a blacksmith became more difficult for Mr. Sullivan, and with the turn of the century, demand for his service decreased significantly.

Although they loved each other, neither could find much middle ground. So Elizabeth did the best she could to find childhood happiness, keeping busy with school and household chores, cleaning, mending clothes, and cooking.

She admired her grandfather as a hardworking, loving provider and did all she could to help. One day Elizabeth brought him to see me. In the middle of a discussion, she opened my box.

You see Grandfather, I still have a penny, she said.

I perked up, ready to meet someone new. He leaned over to take a look. Squinting, puffy eyes, and thick white eyebrows were the only part of his face I could see. The lines etched around his eyes told of a lifetime of tears, both of joy and of sorrow.

Elizabeth, you keep your penny. We’ll make it okay.

His reply concerned me. It seemed as if she wanted to give me away.

But we need bread, she said. I can always find another penny.

Find another penny? How could she say this? I was no common cent. A well-bred first edition Lincoln penny minted for noble purposes should not be bartered for bread.

By her kind words, and unique ability of persuasion, and with no regard for my say in the matter, Elizabeth convinced him to bargain with the baker for the evening meal.

I could hardly believe they were going through with this insidious plot to exchange me for a ration of wheat. Soon enough, I found myself planted firmly in his hand, heading down the street and into a store filled with delightful aromas.

Good evening, Mr. Sullivan.

Judging from his cheerful greeting, and smiling through a large handlebar mustache, the baker surely had advance notice of my imminent arrival.

How are you today, sir?

Fine, Sam.

And how’s that freckled face grand-daughter?

She’s fine.

Are things going well for you at the shop?

Yes.

Mr. Sullivan seemed the type more interested in conversation only when you got to the point.

How may I help you?

Just need a loaf of bread, Sam.

Samuel Thompson had a generous heart. He gave away cookies to children on their birthdays. At Christmas he baked holiday cakes to share with the homeless. Likewise, Elizabeth regarded Mrs. Thompson, her Sunday school teacher, as a trusted civil servant.

Yes sir, Mr. Sullivan, Sam replied as he reached for a fresh loaf of bread from the shelf behind him. It’s a terrible thing, that Titanic sinking, and on her maiden voyage, at that.

Yes. Dreadful. How much do I owe you?

That will be six cents.

Elizabeth’s grandfather counted out the first five pennies. Then he paused and looked at me. I had conceded I would be given away, but found hope in his hesitation.

Slowly, he extended me in Mr. Thompson’s direction. Emma Thompson, who had been busy nearby, now stood next to her husband. Samuel, isn’t the pumpernickel on sale today? she asked as if to remind him.

Clearly surprised, Mr. Thompson stopped cold and stared at her for a moment. Is it?

Mrs. Thompson gently nudged her husband before he could even finish the question. Why yes, dear, she said, turning to Mr. Sullivan with a warm smile, content to settle the matter. For five cents.

Mr. Sullivan may not have noticed, but I recognized a bit of charity that day. He not only saved a penny on superior bread, but Elizabeth and I were spared a painful separation. Indeed, I truly must have been her lucky charm.

A penny saved is a penny earned, Mr. Sullivan commented as he paused on his front porch. Elizabeth eagerly returned me to my place of prominence in her magic lucky box, as she called it.  And, for the first time, I sincerely felt glad to be there.

I slowly grew fond of that box, with its rusty, squeaky hinges, and musty red velvet inner lining. And, of course, there were the other items in her minimal collection.

Those revered items, I came to find out, belonged to the family she had lost, simple reminders of lives taken far too soon. Her younger brother’s little red ball, the thimble belonging to her mother, and the bronze cufflink, a token tribute to the father she never really knew.

I alone became the most honored among the few things that belonged only to her, and her devotion to me continued for many years. Mr. Sullivan eventually passed away, and the Thompsons took Elizabeth in. Over time, their bakery business expanded, and Elizabeth grew up in a loving and prosperous home. I watched her become a beautiful young woman. At times, I felt her life centered on me. Until one day, when he came along.

Rarely did Elizabeth take me out of the box, much less the house, but one crisp autumn morning she wore me to the market.

At some previous time, Mr. Sullivan had fashioned me into a keepsake necklace. He punched a small hole through my surface, threading a thin strand of saddle leather. At first I detested the idea of being defaced in such a manner. But the thought of being worn so close to Elizabeth’s heart appealed to me very much.

As we approached the marketplace, the entire city appeared to be in constant motion. The busy chatter of customers crowding the doors of bustling boutiques. Patrons gathering around vendors’ pushcarts. The clicking sound of hooves from a horse drawn carriage on the cobblestone road.

A young boy standing on the street corner selling newspapers, sporting a wool sweater, gray flannel knickers, and a tweed flat cap, shouted from the curb in the usual manner.

Extra, extra. Wilson re-elected!

Mrs. Thompson and Harriet Meyers, the pastor’s wife, accompanied Elizabeth as they strolled leisurely under the cloth awnings. The ladies wore large flowered hats, with ankle length hobble skirts banded high at the waist. Their parasols twirled ever so slightly on their shoulders.

Chatting and laughing as they walked along, Mrs. Meyers, observed Elizabeth. She was quiet for the most part. Not wanting to leave her out, Mrs. Meyers said, You have never been one for small talk, have you child?

Elizabeth smiled and blushed as she dropped her head. A bit bashful, she preferred to be alone most of the time.

Having an outgoing personality and genuine concern for others, Mrs. Meyers rarely had trouble continuing a one sided conversation. Your grandfather, such a wonderful man. A solid citizen and pillar of the church.

Mrs. Thompson readily agreed. Oh yes, he always found time for others, willing to assist those in need.

It didn’t surprise Elizabeth to hear their praise, having witnessed his kindness first hand. But she eagerly listened to stories from others, knowing he would never have boasted himself.

When Samuel first opened the bakery, Mrs. Thompson continued, Mr. Sullivan showed up, hammer in one hand, saw in the other.

Elizabeth smiled, imagining her grandfather with a much younger body and darker hair.

Pausing from their stroll and taking a more serious tone, Mrs. Meyers recalled the day of the great earthquake. I remember his compassion for others most of all, even in the midst of his own misfortune.

Elizabeth recalled that day all too well. A frightful time for a girl so young. Her eyes began to mist. Being a wise and considerate woman, Mrs. Meyers abruptly changed the subject.

Oh look, Woodrow Wilson re-elected, she said, finding her point of distraction in the paperboy. I certainly did not expect him to win.

Nor did I, or anyone else for that matter, replied Mrs. Thompson. But at least he kept us out of the war.

The Great War in Europe seemed important enough to evoke a response from Elizabeth. That dreadful war, so many pointless deaths, she said, her voice reflecting painful memories. Mrs. Meyers sensed the temptation to change the subject again. Nevertheless, she decided to probe deeper.

My dear, in this life you will find there is a time for everything. A time for war and a time for peace, a time to be born and a time to die. We can not always choose our destiny, but we can most definitely face the future with dignity, if our faith is in the right place.

Elizabeth somehow understood these words of wisdom. Words so familiar, yet foreign. Talk of fate and destiny fascinated her. How often she spoke of the day a handsome prince would sweep her away, and they’d live happily ever after.

It sounded so intriguing and romantic. I genuinely wished her dreams would come true. Just then, as if on cue, in the midst of that dramatic moment, her dreams really did come true.

As the ladies passed the train depot, the hissing steam of locomotive brakes attracted their attention. Among the commotion of passengers crowding out of the train, Elizabeth observed a well-groomed soldier in full uniform standing on the platform.

Tossing a large duffel bag over his broad shoulder, he scanned the station. Mrs. Thompson, recognizing the young man, waved anxiously, and called out.

James. James Hamilton! She led the others on a brisk march in his direction. Why, he’s early, she said breathlessly, looking back to ensure they kept up.

Elizabeth became more nervous with each step, especially when he flashed a smile. Uncertain if he smiled at her in particular, she politely smiled back nonetheless.

Suddenly, Elizabeth remembered him. It had been many years, but she recalled that confident smile. Not the kind of confidence that intimidated, rather the kind that inspired. James Hamilton. Was it really little Jimmy, all grown up, so tall and handsome? They played together as neighbors regularly, until the day her world was torn apart.

Ten years. Has it been that long? she pondered silently.

She had almost forgotten. Being only six at the time, her memories were mostly of the loss and devastation. Somehow, he was part of that memory. Only a child himself, he had rescued her that day.

And then, he had to go away. Having lost his own father, he went to live with his Aunt Helen in Santa Rosa, which was nearby, but may as well been on the other side of the globe. She hadn’t seen him since.

He obviously didn’t remember Mrs. Thompson as she approached, but she quickly reminded him.

James William Hamilton. Just look at you, she said. I am Emma Thompson. I recognize you from your photograph. Your father and my husband were close friends, she continued as his smile softened.

Elizabeth never let her eyes wander from the young man.

I have kept in touch with your Aunt Helen all these years. But she told me to expect you next week, said Mrs. Thompson.

Originally, yes, ma’am, but they moved my furlough up, said James, his voice rich with enthusiasm. You know the army, full of surprises.

Is your Aunt expecting you then? asked Mrs. Meyers, glancing around.

No, ma’am, I thought I’d show up at her front door unexpected.

So you’re full of surprises, too. Why, you’ll give the poor woman a fright, said Mrs. Thompson with a laugh.

As the laughter and excitement resided, a natural pause put Elizabeth center stage. Mrs. Meyers cleared her throat. Mrs. Thompson sighed with a gleeful hum. They all turned to Elizabeth. Then, with some mystic spark of intuition, Mrs. Thompson glanced back at James.

Oh, I am dreadfully sorry, surely you don’t remember Elizabeth, do you?

Elizabeth had most definitely not gone unnoticed to him. With the mention of her name, James quickly searched his memory to solve the riddle of her identity. At first he seemed baffled. All of a sudden his smile returned brighter than before.

Elizabeth? he asked in amazement. Elizabeth Sullivan. It is you. Well what d’ya know.

By this time he had gripped her slender shoulders, poised to embrace her. Stopping short, he shook her hand robustly instead. Clearing his throat, he naively apologized, attempting to contain his thrill.

She, too, was thrilled, and her heart raced with a rhythm of delight. I was suddenly struck with a strange sense of something bittersweet. Her devotion now seemed divided between me, and him.

I was truly happy for her, but I had been her closest confidant for so long, I did not know if I was ready to share her affections. Yes, I made up my mind rather fast.

He had to go.

But if she truly cared for him, who was I to interfere?

This is just a chance encounter, I thought after calming down, and it probably won’t amount to anything.

Then, Mrs. Thompson did the unthinkable.

Oh James, you are just in time, she mused. Tomorrow is Elizabeth’s seventeenth birthday. We are hosting an informal gathering in my parlor, and you must attend.

She seemed to have all the details arranged.

But I must get to Santa Rosa, he said.

You can stay in our guest bedroom. Samuel can drive you himself on Friday. He has a brand new Buick motorcar, it’s the first of its kind in all the Bay area.

But Aunt . . .

Helen doesn’t even know you’re here, you said so yourself. I won’t take no for an answer. Now let’s get you back to the bakery and prepare some lunch. You don’t appear to be eating healthy. You need a good home cooked meal, what with those army rations and such. My, you have grown. The last time I saw you . . .

She had always been a talkative woman, but more so that day than ever, which was fine with Elizabeth. Being so nervous she could hardly put a sentence together anyway.

Mrs. Thompson all but dragged him home. Continuing their dialog along the way, she never once released her captive’s arm.

Following close behind, Elizabeth and Mrs. Meyers shared secret whispers and quiet laughter now and then. I just went along, dangling from Elizabeth’s neck. I had been completely forgotten in her newfound infatuation.

Upon our arrival at the bakery, Samuel Thompson responded to the ring of the bell at the top of the door. Stepping out of the central office, he saw poor James surrounded by the doting ladies. He still wore the same confused smile since Market Street.

I see you’ve picked up a stray soldier, Samuel commented, with his typical wit. Young man, hasn’t military training taught you to fight off your foes? You’d probably prefer an invasion of Germans by now.

Everyone laughed merrily as Mrs. Thompson led James across the checkerboard tile floor. James respectfully removed his cap as Mr. Thompson shook his hand and introduced himself. Before James had a chance to respond, Mrs. Thompson took it upon herself to be his mouthpiece.

This is James, Matthew Hamilton’s boy, she said. He was only eight or so when he moved up with his aunt Helen Carter, in Santa Rosa.

Searching for something familiar, Mr. Thompson stared at James with anticipation. James. Little Jimmy? he said, leaning closer to examine his face. Why of course. Your father and I . . .

Mr. Thompson, obviously distraught, could see the resemblance. The sandy blond hair, the hazel eyes, the same hearty smile.

Your father would be so proud of you.

Mr. Thompson clinched the young man’s shoulder, displaying only the level of emotion acceptable by his standard of masculinity. Everyone stood silent for a moment, a brief memorial to those they had loved and lost.

CHAPTER 2

The day she became seventeen, Elizabeth Sullivan discovered a deeper sense of life’s mysteries. That’s the day she fell in love. I am a first hand witness to all that transpired, but I hesitate to recall the details, it all happened so fast.

The Thompson parlor had been transformed for the evening into a hub of activity. Guests from the list of thirty or so were having a merry time. Elizabeth was the center of attention.

After the customary dinner and opening of gifts, came a sing-along around the upright piano. A game of charades and gin rummy ensued. Smaller groups broke away to foster idle conversations over fresh brewed coffee and birthday cake. Elizabeth was relieved when, at last, the focus shifted to other interests that did not require her involvement.

Seizing a moment, she slipped away for fresh air in the courtyard. Impressed by her graceful maneuver through the formalities, James was glad to see her relax a bit, even if it meant her being alone. But he had no intention of leaving her alone.

As she walked to the edge of the patio, a sweet song, swirling from the Victrola, floated through the night air like a gentle breeze; If I had my way, dear, forever there’d be; a garden of roses for you and for me.

Elizabeth, softly humming in harmony, admired the moon as James playfully joined in the melody from nearby; A thousand and one things, dear, I would do, just for you, just for you.

Both began to laugh with