When I was a kid, my uncle Roger lived across the street from us. He was a roly-poly man, quite short and not very attractive. He was my dad’s younger brother. And he lived alone.
I didn’t see Uncle Roger very often during the week. But every Sunday morning, without fail, he would lumber over to our large suburban home to look after me. That’s because my dad, being the big amateur athlete that he was, would be off on one of his many cycling races or club rides. He’d always come back a wreck, eat like a starving animal, and promptly retire to his bedroom for a nap. Meanwhile, my mom, ever the social-butterfly, would be busy with her weekly ladies’ yoga and lunch crowd. Uncle Roger, as far as I could tell, never seem to have anywhere to go himself.
Invariably, Uncle Roger would bring his collection of coins with him. I can picture him still. Our houses were no more than 100 yards apart, but he’d arrive huffing and puffing from the effort, his upper lip beading with sweat. His collection, neatly organized in a wooden case, would be tucked under his arm.
After he’d prepare us some breakfast, Uncle Roger would sit across the table from me with his hands on his lap. He’d pause in that position for what seemed like forever, look deeply at me in a way that sort of got under my skin, and give me a large, toothy grin. And then it would start. “You won’t believe what I managed to get my hands on this time,” he’d say, turning his attention to his wooden case.
Carefully, Uncle Roger would proceed to reveal his latest acquisition. He’d go on at length about it, holding the coin between his thumb and index finger to give me a good look. I can honestly say that I barely listened to a word he said, preferring to focus my attention on the box of cereal on the table, which usually featured the kind of famous athlete I so desperately hoped to become.
Uncle Roger didn’t live long. He died of a heart attack on a hot, steamy summer night. I remember the day well because I was out with my buddies celebrating getting into my chosen college on a full athletic scholarship. I was finally getting out of town. And on a full ride, no less. My Dad had called my cell to break the news. He was very matter-of-fact about it, saying his sudden death was all so inevitable given the way Uncle Roger over ate and never exercised. I couldn’t help but agree.
The day of the wake was also crazy hot and humid. I had been expecting a somber affair made sadder by the emptiness of the funeral home. But, to my surprise, the place was packed and brimming with energy. The look on my dad’s face told me that he, too, was taken aback.
Turns out that many of those in attendance were what you would call numismatists, which are basically people who study and collect coins. One older man, who bore a striking resemblance to my Uncle, gave a heartfelt eulogy. With a slow, southern drawl, he gushed over my uncle’s knowledge of history, gained through his meticulous study of ancient coins. I walked away from the service feeling empty, like I had lost something that I never really had.
Later that week, I learned that I had inherited Uncle Roger’s entire coin collection, which was far bigger than I had realized as a kid. It included no less than 30 of those wooden cases he would bring to show me on Sunday mornings, each one fitting at least 50 coins. In the weeks that followed, I started picking through each case. In the process, I learned a great deal about coin collecting. I also tracked down the man who gave the eulogy at his funeral. His name was Burt. Burt said he was happy that I had reached out to him. He said my uncle had often mentioned how fond he was of his only nephew. He added that he was a special person who died far too young, and that the numismatics community was in mourning.
Thanks to Burt, I gained a better appreciation of my new collection. It included several beautiful Mercury Dimes, as well as a very rare Franklin Half Dollar. Perhaps the jewel in the collection was a Canadian 50-cent piece worth upwards of $25,000. Eventually, my dad got wind of the fact I had inherited thousands of dollars worth in rare coins. He pushed me, repeatedly, to sell. My mom did the same. But I convinced them every time that it wasn’t the right time, that it was best to wait.
To this day, now over 40 years since my uncle’s death, I can’t bring myself to sell any of the coins in my collection — a collection that has grown substantially with coins I have painstakingly added myself. Those coins are the only things left I have of Uncle Roger.
