Foursquare Stories

By Stephen Smith

Foursquare means bold and forthright. Here you will find a dozen such stories. They are stories that will appeal to everyone from teenagers to seniors. They are stories which are entertaining, but with all the references to art, folklore, geography, history, literature, numismatics, and science they are also informative.
Open the book and begin reading the first story. I think you will be pleased. I believe you will enjoy reading all twelve of these tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 12, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462841981

Book preview

Copyright © 2008 by Stephen Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/15/2021

Xlibris

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Contents

1. Coin of Vantage

2. Carolina in the Morning

3. Jovanna

4. Liquid Gold

5. Tico Fever

6. The Unbroken Circle

7. The Teller of the Tale

8. A Trunkful of Literature

9. Der Liechtensteiner Poker

10. Twofer

11. A Piece of the Puzzle

12. Forty Thousand Winks

Dedication

To my father, Daniel Smith, who enjoyed reading these stories and who inspired me to have them published.

Introduction

Foursquare means bold and forthright. Here you will find a dozen such stories. They are stories that will appeal to everyone from teenagers to seniors. They are stories which are entertaining, but with all the references to art, folklore, geography, history, literature, numismatics, and science they are also informative.

So turn the page and begin reading the first story. I think you will be pleased. I believe you will enjoy reading all twelve of these tales.

Coin of Vantage

A good story always rings true—like a new penny.

My name is Peter Brasher. I was brought to the United States as a youngster and, wonder of wonders, I eventually became a dealer in 19th and 20th-century American coins. Numismatics is my pastime as much as it was a business, so I took delight in my work and made a marvelous income at the same time.

Although I sold my establishment on Nassau Street a few years ago my enthusiasm for the hobby remains undiminished. In fact, a monograph I wrote on the topic of half cents (coins which circulated between 1793 and 1857) was recently published and has been well received by serious collectors.

As you can imagine, quite a few rare and valuable coins passed through my shop and, over the years, I heard many extraordinary—even incredible—tales relating to numismatics. But the most astonishing, the most remarkable developments concerning a coin—a series of events which touched me personally—occurred only recently. I doubted that I would ever be able to make the facts known, but the other person most directly involved in the swirl of amazing circumstances has given me leave to do so. I’m very eager to tell you the story.

I hadn’t thought of Libby for years—for decades to be more precise. As children we lived on the same street and played, along with a group of other boys and girls, on porches and in backyards, whenever we had the chance. Libby and I were the same age. We actually shared the same birthday—July 4. Her brothers, Ellie and Garr, were two years younger than us. When I was twelve Libby and her family moved away. I think it had something to do with the Depression.

On a summer’s day more than sixty years later I was taking a leisurely walk in my neighborhood and discovered that Libby lived ten blocks away from my own home. She was standing in front of a red-brick apartment house huddled with a few elderly ladies. She was wearing navy blue slacks and a white blouse with red trimming. Her hair was dyed silver, but her face—a pleasant one—hadn’t changed much in all those years. I also observed that she was as talkative as ever. (Libby is as noisy as three green parrots, her papa used to say.) Libby recognized me immediately and even remembered my name.

Soon we were standing apart from her neighbors and talking in the shade of a massive, leafy, sycamore tree. Libby told me she had married, but was now a widow. Her daughter, son-in-law, and their four children live in Charleston, South Carolina. Libby’s brothers (wiseacres she called them) settled in Costa Rica forty years ago and made a fortune in ábaca and hemp. (Those are fibers used to make rope, she explained.) Libby hinted that she hadn’t been in touch with Ellie and Garr for many years. I informed Libby about my family, my work, and my semi-retirement. After half an hour of chitchat I bid Libby goodbye and resumed my stroll.

Three weeks later our paths crossed again. I saw Libby at the bottle redemption center, which consists of three automated machines alongside our local supermarket. She was taking bottles out of a shopping cart lined with black plastic, pushing them into the machine, and retrieving nickels from the slot. I waved to her from afar. She returned my greeting and continued working along with two other women. The trio looked like automatons feeding other automatons. What a noisy business, I remarked to myself. Little did I know how appropriate the word business really was.

As the weeks went by I realized that Libby was outside the supermarket processing bottles more often than not. No one, I thought, could possibly consume that much soda. It occurred to me then that Libby was one of those individuals who scour the streets looking for bottles and cans in trash baskets to make a few dollars. I couldn’t suppress the thought—it had already formed. Libby was a scavenger, a bottle lady if you prefer a euphemism.

My suspicions were confirmed when Libby appeared with her cart in a part of the neighborhood where I wouldn’t expect to see her. The black plastic bag was bulging with empties (though I couldn’t actually see them). The tools of the trade, I mused to myself. To Libby I said, "What are you doing here?"

I’m meeting a friend, she replied.

Have a nice time, I said smiling and went on my way.

A few weeks later I saw Libby at dusk on a very cold day going from house to house with her cart. She was rifling through refuse bins, plucking out bottles. I pretended not to notice her. I don’t know whether she spotted me, but she may have.

Many times I asked myself why Libby had to gather empties for nickels. Didn’t she have enough to live on? Wasn’t she getting help from her daughter? I also wondered how well an amateur like Libby could do competing against so many others. Well, I thought, perhaps after all this time Libby has become a pro. In any case, I knew that one has to nudge twenty empties into the machine to earn one dollar. Even if Libby amassed a hundred bottles a week she could make only five dollars. I just couldn’t understand it. My wife, whom I introduced to Libby, wasn’t able to figure out the situation either. I began to feel sorry for my childhood friend. I wished I could be of some assistance. What could I do? I asked myself. Nothing. I could do nothing, I concluded.

During the course of an entire year I observed Libby looking for bottles and redeeming them more often than I cared to count. Sometimes we greeted one another and occasionally, when I could stand the clatter of plastic and metal being gobbled up by the machines, I stopped to chat with Libby for half a minute before I did some shopping.

Soon it was summer again. While taking a walk early one morning I happened to pass Libby’s building. I heard her voice calling my name. I looked up and saw Libby at a second floor window.

Peter, may I speak with you? It may be important.

What is it, Libby? I asked.

I’ll buzz you in. My apartment is 2C.

A few minutes later I was in Libby’s apartment. It was small, simply furnished, and clean. She led me into the kitchen and asked me to sit at a small laminated table. Sunlight filtered into the room through yellow-orange curtains giving the kitchen a soft, golden glow. Libby boiled water for tea and set a plate of cookies before me (making small talk all the while). After sipping some tea and sampling a cookie I finally asked, Is everything okay?

Yes, she said. It’s just that a coin came out of the bottle machine which I’d like you to see.

A nickel?

No, a gold coin. I think it may be valuable and I know you’ll tell me what it’s really worth.

I’d very much like to see it, I said.

Libby left the room and returned a few moments later holding a small, black, lacquered jewelry box. She raised the lid, removed a coin, placed it on the table, and sat down opposite me.

I picked up the coin and studied it carefully. For a moment I was too flabbergasted to speak. I looked at Libby and said, Do you mean to tell me that this coin was thrown out by the bottle machine? My tone was somewhere between amazement and incredulity.

It happened two days ago—on Tuesday afternoon. For a second I thought it was a Sacagawea dollar. Then I took a closer look and saw that it’s a twenty dollar gold piece. I know it must be worth more than twenty dollars.

Libby, listen to me. Listen to me very carefully. This coin is a 1933 double eagle. A ten dollar gold piece is called an eagle and a twenty dollar gold piece is known as a double eagle. (Here I pointed out the majestic eagle on the reverse, that is, the back of the coin and the beautiful representation of Lady Liberty on the obverse or front of the coin.) The double eagle was designed by the famous sculptor, Augustus Saint-Gaudens. It went into circulation in 1907. But a double eagle dated 1933 is not an ordinary gold coin. It is a fabulous find of historic importance.

Libby was all ears.

The last such coin which came up at auction once belonged to King Farouk. That coin fetched more than seven and a half million dollars including, of course, the usual buyer’s premium of fifteen percent. I don’t want to overwhelm you with numbers, but that coin sold for $7,590,020.

And twenty dollars, Libby repeated, laughter in her voice.

"The twenty dollars was to match the face value of the coin.