This is a Mercury dime. This particular 1917 “full band” uncirculated edition is worth over $8,000. It got me to wondering: How many thousands would my extensive dime collection be worth?” The shocking answer stunned me.
Few people know that when I was young, I was a serious coin collector. From age six until 25, I collected Mercury dimes.
Fun fact: The Mercury dime was minted between 1916 and 1945. It was replaced in 1946 by the Roosevelt dime after the death of FDR in April 1945, as a way to honor his legacy.
The current value of Mercury dimes ranges widely. Some of them are worth barely more than their face value. But a 1935-S Mercury dime (The “S” means it was created at the San Francisco mint) has been appraised at $90,000. And one exceptionally well-preserved edition of the 1938-S Mercury dime has been assigned a value of $364,000 – or roughly $363,998 more than the current value of my Topps 1963 Major League baseball card of Willie Tasby of the Washington Senators. (He had a bad year that year.)
Several factors influence the market value of a coin: How many were produced, whether they ever entered into circulation, the coin’s overall condition, and whether or not they were ever part of Tim Jones’ private collection, in which case they would be considered primarily for their meltdown value.
When I first started collecting, I often asked my mother to take me to the bank where I asked the tellers whether they had any Mercury dimes they could exchange for my Roosevelt dimes. Initially, they were happy to trade with me. It was when I started asking the tellers if they’d trade me their Mercury dimes for my 1963 Willie Tasby baseball card that I started to run into some serious resistance.
This is a page from my Mercury dime collector’s book. Look at how many of the dates I had filled in! As I drove to the the coin shop to get my collection appraised, I reflected on an impending life-changing decision: Might this be the day I finally can retire? What car would I buy?
For reasons unknown, by the early 1960s Mercury dimes suddenly became almost impossible to locate – much like my middle school classmates, who, during recess, apparently decided hanging out with a coin-collecting nerd like me might ruin their chances to get girls to go out with them.
As a budding numismatist (which is nerd speak for coin collector), I bought a coin book specifically designed to display Mercury dimes, with a space for every year and every mint where the coins were produced – Philadelphia, Denver or San Francisco. By the time I reached age 18, I had populated my collector’s book with 42 dimes – a figure that exceeded the total number of dates I had gone out on in my life by 40. Some of them were rather scuffed up and had worn-out faces, but others were very well preserved. Sorry if that last sentence was not clear. I was referring to my coins, not my two dates.
I had one coin that was either a 1917-S (valued, depending on its condition, at between $1,000 and $5,000) or a 1917-D (today worth only 25 cents). It was hard to tell whether it was an “S” or a “D.” So, I told everybody it was an S, thinking that might make me seem cool to girls. Fun fact: It did not.
My father always told me my dime collection would be worth something someday if I just held onto it long enough. As I got older, I thought about perhaps handing it down to one of my kids someday as a precious heirloom. I hid away my Mercury dime collection in the back of my closet, right next to my 1963 Willie Tasby baseball card – safe from any potential thieving intruders – for decades.
Fifty years after I saved my first Mercury dime, at the age of 56, I finally decided, for the first time in my life, to bring my rare coin collection to a reputable coin shop to have it professionally appraised.
In my mind I envisioned that our encounter would be like a scene from an episode of Antiques Roadshow. I could almost hear the life-altering words of the coin appraiser: “Tim, I would say your impressive assemblage represents one of the finest private collections of Mercury dimes I have ever seen. I see you even have the rare 1917-S coin, although at first glance I thought it might have been a 1917-D. I would say, based on the immaculate condition of your coins, conservatively, it has a current value of between $150,000 to $200,000.”
Did I mention I also have an extensive collection of over 100 PEZ dispensers? I’ve been collecting them for years. I’m sure someday they’ll be worth almost as much as my Mercury dime collection.
Oh My God! Can you believe it!!! Then I opened my eyes and realized I was still in my car in the parking lot. I entered the store. Over the past 50 years, my modest initial collection had swelled to 75 Mercury dimes, meaning the face value alone was $7.50. It did not take the appraiser long to return with his assessment: “I would say the current value of your collection is around $10.00. I’d be willing to give you $13.00.”
“What about my rare 1917-S coin? Isn’t that worth something?”
“You mean your 1917-D? Yeah. It’s worth about 25 cents, give or take.”
Seriously? I’d been holding onto my collection for over 50 years, and its value had increased by roughly the price of a large Wendy’s Frosty? I was completely deflated. I thought long and hard about what to do next. Should I continue to hold onto my collection and give it to my daughter someday – perhaps when its value had soared to $15.00? I finally decided to accept the coin store owner’s offer of $13.00 and I said goodbye to the “precious” coin collection I had zealously guarded for the past half century.
I no longer have a single Mercury dime. But I still have my 1963 Willie Tasby baseball card. I’m sure eventually it will be worth a lot of money. Someday. It’s just a matter of time.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This is my neighbor Rick. Rick is my friend. Why, might you ask? Is it because we share common interests? Heck if I know. I have no idea what his interests are. What I DO know is that Rick is very handy. Recently, he installed a new NEST thermostat for me that my daughter gave me for Christmas. What a great neighbor. I love Rick.
I don’t like to brag. But I’m a bit of a home improvement guru. Be it erecting a backyard fence or wallpapering the bedroom, I can do just about any project with minimal mistakes. And I only need one tool to do it all: my cell phone – which I’m very handy working with to call a contractor to complete these projects.
What I’m trying to say is – and this is something that will surprise nobody who has known me for at least five minutes – I have absolutely no Do-It-Yourselfer skills. NADA. Zilch! I blame this on my father, because, well, he passed away 43 years ago, so he’s not here to defend himself. My dad was a workaholic, usually coming home from the office well after nightfall and often working weekends. He never taught me how to unclog a plugged drain; or light the pilot light on the furnace; or change a flat tire. So, I never learned any of that stuff when I was young.
By the time I finished grad school and dove headlong into my career, I worked crazy hours like my dad. So, I had no time to do household maintenance projects – nor any burning desire to learn how. Fast forward forty years, and I’m now in my sixties and retired. I live in a semi-rural island community populated mostly with other retirees. Everybody here is frugal. All of these people know how to handle all sorts of home repairs and improvements. They’re all self-reliant. – a word nobody has ever once accused me of being when it comes to fixing anything around the house.
Everybody here is a DIY-er, a Do-It-Yourselfer. A week does not go by that I don’t hear one of my neighbors explain how they just finished installing a ceiling fan or renovating their kitchen. By themselves, of course. And it’s not just the men. All the women here know how to fix stuff. And half the men here have the skills to become a finalist on Top Chef. How do I compete with that? I may not be as talented in the kitchen as any of my neighbors, but I can microwave a mean Stouffers Spaghetti in Meat Sauce. (The key is to poke at least six holes in the plastic covering, but no more than eight.)
This is my neighbor Jim. I can’t stand Jim. What a jerk. Why do I say this? Because recently, Jim and his wife invited us over for a sumptuous home-cooked meal. Jim did all the cooking himself. And now my wife is asking me, “When will you start making me meals like Jim does for his wife?” Thanks a lot, Jim!
I don’t know how to cook, build, or fix anything. Heck, I consider it an achievement when I can reset the time on my Fitbit watch. And don’t ask me how to set up the new router for my computer. That’s why you have teenage children, isn’t it?
The closest I came to fixing something mechanical was when at the age of 14, I built a minibike and installed the lawnmower engine – all by myself. I was so proud of myself – until I pressed the accelerator. The bike immediately responded by going BACKWARDS. I had somehow installed the engine backwards. I was never able to make it fit onto the bike frame in the proper direction. Thus began a long, undistinguished career of calling others to fix things I was too incompetent to do by myself.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I sit on my couch all day watching football and eating ice cream – although, if you ask me, that sounds like a perfectly good way to spend an autumn Saturday afternoon. I know how to power wash my driveway and use my leaf blower to blow away the leaves (into my neighbor’s yard). A couple of years ago, I even planted over 200 tulips and daffodils – while my wife watched and pointed out how I was doing it all wrong.
One time I even erected a colorful 12-foot signpost in my front yard all by myself (and by “all by myself” I mean with the nominal assistance of a carpenter buddy who brought his power tools, a wheelbarrow, and cement, and who knew how to use a circular saw and explained the importance of measuring things).
Recently, a powerful windstorm knocked out all power in our neighborhood. Fortunately, we have a generator and an elaborate auxiliary power grid – which I paid to have an electrician install. I would have tried to install it myself, but I felt that paying a professional $750 was probably cheaper in the long run than the cost of having to rebuild our house after I would have no doubt accidentally burned it to the ground due to a series of egregious electrical wiring mistakes.
Anyway, the contractor walked me through a 16-step process of flipping circuit switches, plugging in the generator, opening up the propane tank, turning on the battery, adjusting the choke, etc. I wrote it all down in great detail, because I knew the chances of me remembering all these steps were about the same as the odds I’d be chosen to be the next Pope
Meet my neighbor Gail. Gail is a stay-at-home mom and a self-taught car mechanic. She figures she’s saved over $15,000 over the years in car maintenance bills by doing all of the work on her vehicles herself. Normally, I’d be inclined to despise her, of course. But in this photo Gail offered to change the oil and filter on my Hyundai. And she even brought over sugar cookies. So, I guess I’ll forgive her for being such a DIY-er.
So, the storm hit, our power went out, and I followed all 16 steps precisely as I had written them down. And to no one’s amazement, the generator would not start. I asked my neighbor Ron to help, because he’s much handier than I. He quickly figured out the problem, which was that I should not be allowed anywhere near complicated mechanical equipment. I apparently had two steps in the wrong sequence.
Ron figured it out and got the generator – and our power – going within minutes. I thanked him profusely – and made a note that the next time our power goes out to call Ron, so I won’t have to tackle this confusing task myself. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’m an excellent delegator.
Sure, at times I feel a little inadequate that my home improvement skills are roughly on par with those of my cat Zippy. And I sometimes get embarrassed about my lack of knowledge about how to do common household things like putting down tile flooring or installing a new bathroom sink or replacing the AA batteries on my TV remote. But that’s a small price to pay to have all that extra free time on my hands to watch the game… on the couch… with a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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If you’d like to add a little adventure to your life, why not take a trek into the Amazon rainforest? If you like 98 degree temps with 100% humidity and if you enjoy being accosted by 10,000 hungry mosquitoes, then the Amazon may be for you. One question: Do you like snakes?
When I say the word “Amazon,” what is the first thing that comes to mind? Okay, I figured you’d probably say Amazon.com, the giant online retailer. But believe it or not, there is another Amazon that has nothing to do with next-day delivery of sporting goods, pet food, or wireless headphones.
I’m talking about the Amazon rainforest. This exotic region spans nine South American countries. Did you know that the Amazon River basin contains 20% of the world’s flowing fresh water and one third of all known terrestrial plant, animal, and insect species?
This OTHER Amazon (the one that is not currently owned by Jeff Bezos) is an incredible place. I know this because my wife and I recently returned from a vacation which included a week in the heart of the Amazon rainforest. We stayed in a lodge overlooking the mighty Amazon River in northeastern Peru, with wild monkeys hanging out, just outside our cabin.
Based on my experience, I now consider myself an expert on what you need to know before you hop on a plane (and then another plane, and then one or two more flights – it’s not easy to get to the Amazon).
Heed my advice before you head to this untamed tropical paradise, and there’s at least a 50% chance you just might make it out alive. Frankly, that’s better odds than you’ll get anywhere in Vegas. While the Amazon is an amazing region, it’s also full of potential hostile hazards at every turn. Here are a few helpful pointers to ensure your journey into the Amazon wilderness is safe and that your kids will have to wait a few more years before they can receive their inheritance.
The weather can be brutal. The part of the Amazon where we trekked was very close to the equator. The average temperature everyday ranges from 93 to 98 degrees. And no, it’s not a dry heat. Sorry, buddy. The suffocating humidity here will make New Orleans in August feel like Anchorage in January.
If you failed to check the calendar and you arrive during the rainy season (which in this part of the Amazon runs from November through April) it can rain for days or even weeks without a break. Hope you brought a poncho – and a life raft.
Wear lots of sunscreen. Even on a cloudy day, you can get badly sunburned down here. Be sure to cover every exposed area with SPF 40 sunscreen or higher. Otherwise, you probably should just stay indoors. But good luck getting EPSN Sports Center in your room. Because the rooms don’t have TV here, BECAUSE YOU’RE IN THE HEART OF THE FREAKIN’ AMAZON! Seriously, dude. Were you actually hoping to catch the Giants – Packers game on Fox?
One risk of visiting the Amazon rainforest is getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. They love the humid jungle environment. If your bug spray isn’t keeping them away, I recommend buying a knight’s suit of armor – which comes with free shipping if you use Amazon Prime.
Don’t forget your shots. In addition to showing proof you’ve been vaccinated and boosted for Covid, you’ll also need the following vaccinations: Hepatitis A, Hepatitis B, Typhoid, and Yellow Fever. While you’re at it, be sure to get a prescription for anti-malaria pills. Don’t worry. If you forget these vaccinations, there’s still a chance you’ll make it out alive – albeit probably without the ability to use the left side of your body – or swallow. A small price to pay for the joy of exploring the unknown, if you ask me.
Don’t Go in the Water. Trust me on this. The Amazon has all sorts of critters that would love to have you as a main course for dinner. First of all, there are caimans (a relative of the alligator) everywhere in the Amazon River basin. And if you fall into the water, and the caimans don’t get you, their little buddies known as piranhas will be happy to swarm to your location in a feeding frenzy and make quick work of you. But don’t worry. Piranhas won’t attack you – unless they smell you. Did I mention, piranhas have an excellent sense of smell?
Don’t Drink the Water. The Amazon has more fresh water than anywhere else on the planet. Just make sure you don’t drink ANY of it. It is filled with bacteria extremely harmful to humans. And if the bacteria don’t kill you, the contaminated water will.
Watch out for ants. Specifically, army ants. They’re small, so you may not even notice them until you look down and discover that there are literally hundreds of them climbing your leg – INSIDE of your pants. They are carnivorous and aggressive. But they only attack while they’re awake. Fun fact: Army ants never sleep.
There are no doctors for hundreds of miles. If you are one of the unlucky ones who comes down with one of the countless illnesses you could catch in the wilds of the jungle, good luck finding medical help. If you get bit by a poisonous critter, then, if you’re lucky, you might be able to track down a local shaman from one of the indigenous tribes.
Admit it, you thought I made it up that we went to the Amazon. This is a photo of me taken on the Amazon River. I’m holding a piranha I caught, using just a stick and fishing line baited with raw meat. Had I fallen out of this boat, most likely I would have become an instant feast for dozens of circling piranhas.
The shaman won’t have a clue about any modern medical technology that could heal you, of course. But he just might have an elixir of frog brains and guava juice, mixed with tamarin monkey intestines and palm fronds that will give you a glimmer of hope that you will recover. Trust me. You won’t.
No cell service. No internet. By now you probably figured this out, but in the heart of the Amazon jungle, there is virtually no place with cell service, let alone a reliable internet connection. So, if you discover that you’re about to run out of insect repellant, good luck trying to order some more online. Because while Amazon.com will deliver just about anything imaginable within 24 to 48 hours to destinations all over the world, there is one place where Amazon won’t deliver: The Amazon. Ironic, isn’t it?
On second thought, I’ve changed my mind. I recommend you cancel your plans to trek into the heart of the Amazon wilderness. Don’t go TO the Amazon. Watch it ON Amazon Prime instead. Just rent the National Geographic documentary, Creatures of the Amazon Rainforest, and imagine yourself being there – all from the air-conditioned comfort of your living room recliner – with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Rainforest Crunch ice cream. Safe travels, my friend.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Once upon a time there was a humble family man named Tim. Tim loved the holiday season more than any other time of year – all the traditional songs, twinkling lights, frosted gingerbread cookies – but most of all, seeing the magic of Christmas in his kids’ eyes. Yes, Tim was blessed with two wonderful daughters, Rachel and Emily. He remembered so many wonderful Christmases from their youth with fondness.
However, in recent years, as his girls grew older and more independent, Tim sensed that the holiday spirit was slipping away from their Christmas gatherings. Indeed, this might be the last year that the entire family would be together for the holiday as both girls were busy with their careers in far-away cities. So, Tim made up his mind. He was going to bring back the magic of Christmas one last time!
The holidays were rapidly approaching. Emily arrived home first. Tim was so excited to see his younger daughter. After all, he’d not seen her in six full moons. Tim had a wonderfully festive plan for just the two of them. They would hunt down the perfect tree, a majestic tribute to Father Christmas. Then they’d decorate it with shimmering ornaments and glittering tinsel. But Emily was jet-lagged from her long flight home from China and went straight to bed – for the next two days. So much for that inspiration. Oh, Tannen-bomb, thought Tim.
Like Indiana Jones, I HATE snakes. Notice how the king cobra has lifted up its head, flattening it into a hood? This means they’re pissed and about to strike. I know. A king cobra did this to me.
My namesake (and second cousin on my dad’s side) Indiana Jones and I share several attributes in common: We both have a fascination with ancient mythology; in the end we both ended up with a gorgeous babe (just trying to score points with my wife here – How am I doing, sweetie?); And, most importantly, WE BOTH HATE SNAKES!
I cannot overstate just how much I despise those disgusting creatures. Everything about them gives me the creeps. There is no such thing as a cute snake. They have no fur, no legs, not even eyelids. How bizarre is that? Worst of all, they can paralyze or kill you with a single venomous bite – unless they’re the kind that suffocates you to death with their viselike grip.
I cannot think of a single redeeming thing about this evil being. Okay, well, maybe one thing. Apparently, some snakes actually like to eat other snakes. In fact, the favorite food of king cobras is, you guessed it, other snakes. How sick and twisted is that?
Snakes will never win any medals for intelligence either. Did you know that some snakes actually eat themselves?True. I’ll admit, when I was a one-year-old, I sometimes obsessively sucked my thumb. But I never gave serious thought to devouring my hand. Some snakes are idiots.
But back to my main point: I loathe those slimy, slithering serpents. (I wrote the previous sentence primarily to show my 9th grade English teacher, Mr. Santee, that I still remember what he taught me about the importance of using alliteration in storytelling. How’d I do, teach?)
Fun fact: The snake on the left will kill you instantly. The snake on the right is totally harmless. Good luck figuring which is which the next time you stumble onto one of these.
When I was young, even the sight of a common garter snake would make me anxious, in part because there was no way for me to tell a harmless snake from a deadly one. (See image at right.) It would be extremely helpful if deadly snakes came with a warning label. Are you listening, God?
I once went tubing in the wilderness with a buddy of mine. He shared my snake phobia. As we drifted lazily down the slow-moving river, other more experienced tubers warned us to keep an eye out for water moccasins. Turns out this is a highly venomous snake that loves to hang out on rocks by the edge of the river, primarily to terrorize novice tubers like me. Its bite can be deadly.
Here’s a question: What’s more alarming than seeing a water moccasin basking on a rock by the edge of the river? Answer: Two seconds later when you turn to your buddy to point out that there’s a water moccasin on a rock by the edge of the river, only to notice it’s no longer there – because it’s decided to make like a torpedo and head straight for your inner tube. Luckily, he changed course and decided to pursue some other tubers, and we finished our journey without incident.
I once heard that snakes can actually swim through the sewer system and up into your toilets. I don’t know if that’s true, but ever since then, I’ve always closed the toilet lid after use. You may say I’m being paranoid, but I have yet to have a single snake attempt to bite my bum while on the toilet ever since I implemented this policy.
Perhaps the event that forever cemented my fear of snakes was the time my wife Michele and I attended a talk at the Miami Zoo by the zoo’s Director of Herpetology (think reptiles and snakes). During his presentation, he brought out several lizards and snakes of various levels of weirdness, including (I’m not making this up) a two-headed ball python.
In the background, I noticed a king cobra which the presenter had kept safely confined inside a glass aquarium. Then he removed the deadly snake from its glass enclosure with a long metal rod with a hook on the end. He delicately placed it on the floor. It immediately started winding its way towards the metal chairs each of us in this 30-person audience were defenselessly sitting on – make that standing on, as we each immediately jumped up in an anxious attempt to avoid the snake that was suddenly checking all of us out. Did I mention I was in the front row?
As the cobra sauntered in my general direction, the presenter grabbed it with his pole hook to pull it back. But then the snake just jumped off the hook again – and was now slithering towards me.
Fun fact: When a king cobra is angry or feeling threatened, it will rise up and flatten its head into a hood. Not so fun fact: The king cobra in our room was pulling that exact same move and was now less than four feet from me.
I saw a trailer for this terrifying documentary called Snakes on a Plane. All I know is that I will NEVER EVER fly that airline – not even if they offered me a seat in First Class and all the peanuts I could eat. No way.
The presenter desperately snatched the snake again with his pole and thrust the misbehaving cobra into the aquarium, slamming the lid. When the director resumed his presentation, the angry snake kept smashing its head against the side of the aquarium. But his many escape attempts were completely in vain – that is, until he tried smashing the lid of his jail cell instead. Yeah, that worked like a charm. The lid instantly popped off.
In a heartbeat – and mine was beating extremely fast now – the villainous venomous viper (how’s that for alliteration, Mr. Santee?) had leapt out of the aquarium and was back on the floor. He made the same threatening move as before, elevating his head and flattening it into a hood. Once again he was coming right at me. Fortunately, my wife was closer to him than I was, so her body partially blocked him from getting a clear shot at me. Thanks, sweetie.
The presenter, now obviously a bit shaken himself, was able to snare the snake and wrestle it into a burlap bag. He then shoved the bagged beast into a box. I later thought about how close my wife and I came to becoming the lead story on the evening news:
“KING COBRA KILLS COUPLE.” (Kudos to the headline writer who came up with that. He knew a thing or two about good alliteration.)
I will thank you not to post comments reassuring me that most snakes are harmless or how they help farmers by eating mice and other varmints. I don’t care if a goddamned snake knocked on my door and offered to paint my house for free. Get him away from me! Besides, I’m pretty sure he’d probably do a piss poor paint job.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
