This photograph is one that really caught my attention, whilst I was traveling through the Flickr world of photography. The artist, Leaca, has truly captured the quality of the coins inside the Mason jar. I do not know the reason they are called Mason jars. Perhaps I should research the name to figure it out.
When I was just a tiny girl, my Father would allow me to play with the change, which he removed from his work pants before dinner. I would climb upon my parents tall bed and taking my place in the middle of the mattress, would settle in and balance myself with both of my legs akimbo and spread to either side of my small frame. Expectantly, I would place my hands together, face up, the left one on top of my right.
Father would look into my little face. Upon seeing the excitement shining from my blue eyes, he would pat me on the top of my brown curls, then stretch his large hand above my own. Just for a second, he waited, my indrawn breath was audible in the hushed air. Opening his fingers, a stream of beautiful coins streamed like a colorful cascade to rain down into mine.
Naturally, many of the coins would spill over and out onto the bedspread. However, the remaining ones were mine by challenge, to keep … if I dared play the game of my own making. Tossing the coins into the air, I would reverse my hands and catch the falling coins onto the backs of my hands. Now my fingers were splayed as far apart as I was able, but without letting any coins slip through the cracks. I would repeat this many times.
Toss and release was played until my Father decided to finish the game. Whichever coins were on my hands when he said, “Stop,” were mine to keep. Taking my treasures of coins and heaping them into a pile, I would examine them by turning them over and over and searching the monumental figures of dead people’s faces and old buildings. There was a wonderful buffalo and a few rare nickels had a large bust of the animal.
My favorite coin has always been the dime, silver and intricate in its design. I was always amazed that even though is was smaller, it had twice the value as the much larger nickel. It was easy to see the age of many coins, by their darker shades and dirt embedded within the numbers, lettering and etchings. Sometimes I would get an old toothbrush and clean the faces by scrubbing, as best as I was able to reveal a slightly shinier jewel.
I have always loved the clanking sounds that coins make against the inside of a piggy bank, tin can or glass jars chosen to hold loose change. The much gaudier and loud sounds of slot machines does it for me. It is one of the best aphrodisiacs to mine ears. The rich drumming of falling and clanging coins makes my heart sing and brings a smile to my lips. My eyes light up and immediately I am taken back to the times spent as a small girl sharing a special time with the most important man in my world … my Father. I love you Daddy!
One more thing. There has yet to be a coin bank that I have ever actually filled up. I always end up removing the coins as I love touching their surfaces and shaking them together.