Archeological Dig Sara Etgen-Baker   © Copyright 2026 by Sara Etgen-Baker

Photo courtesy of the author.

I shook the jar, watching the coins shift. "Bigger like… giant pennies?"

Dad chuckled, the sound low, familiar, and comforting. "Not that big. Just thicker." He pried the lid off with a pop, the metallic scent of old coins hitting the air—musty and sharp, like the inside of Granny's coin purse. "Your great Granddad carried a penny in his shoe for good luck during the Depression. Wore a hole right through his sock."

The book he slid toward me had a blue cloth cover, the words LINCOLN HEAD CENT-Collection Starting 1941 stamped in silver. Inside, each page had little circles waiting to be filled with dates printed beneath them. 1941. 1951. Years I knew nothing about, but Dad did. His thumb smoothed over the spot labeled 1943. "This one," he said, "was the year I entered the war and met your mom.” The penny he dropped into my palm was lighter "This penny is made of zinc-coated steel—part of the war effort.”

I turned it over, feeling its weight. Dad’s hands were rough, a plumber’s hands, but his voice was gentle, quietening when he talked about coins, like he was handing me pieces of himself instead of just money. The kitchen clock ticked, a hiss of seconds escaping and the slow collapse of time. Sunlight caught the edge of the jar, throwing copper streaks across the table.

"Okay," I said, tipping the jar. Pennies clattered out in a rush, rolling into my lap and under the table. Dad smiled and reached for one penny stuck to the bottom. "That’s a 1941. Look closely. See the tiny letter under Lincoln’s picture?"

I squinted. The world got smaller just then, right there in the space between his finger and mine. “It’s a D.”

The table became our archeological dig site. Dad's grease-stained fingers sorted coins into piles—shiny ones here, tarnished ones there. I learned that 1958s have perfect wheat stalks on the back and that some have weird little Ds or Ss near the date. "Denver mint," he said, or "San Francisco—that's where your Grammy remarried."

Bank trips became expeditions; and by the third visit, the teller knew us by name. "The archeologists are back!" she said, sliding fresh rolls of pennies across the counter.

Dad taught me to listen for the ping of silver when I dropped a penny. “See, Sweetie, they sing."

Rainy Saturdays smelled like wet cardboard as we filled old shoeboxes with extra coins. "These will be worth something when you're grown," he said once, softer, like he was picturing me all grown up. I imagined him younger, kneeling by his own father's chair, learning the same archeological secrets he was sharing with me.

One night, I found Dad at the table alone, a single penny spinning under his thumb. "1952," he said without looking up. "Year you were born." The coin wobbled to a stop, Lincoln staring up at us both.

I slid into the chair beside him, our elbows touching. His flannel shirt smelled like WD40 and winter air. "Your mom hates pennies," he murmured, rubbing a smudge off the date. "She calls them beggar's money." The laugh that followed was shorter this time, ending with him clearing his throat. "She kept everyone I ever gave her anyway." We filled the last slot in the book on my sixteenth birthday—a special 1968-D, a soft-struck penny missing details in Lincoln’s hair and beard. Dad's handwriting sprawled across the book’s inside cover: One penny may seem like a very small thing, but it is from this small seed that fortunes spring. I ran my finger over the words, remembering how he'd wink when handing me lunch money, "Don't spend it all in one place."

Sara and Pop. 1963

The jar never emptied. New pennies appeared like gifts: under my pillow when I had the flu, tucked in Christmas stockings, or left in the cupholder after my first driving lesson. By college, I had three filled books and a shoebox of uncirculated rolls. Pop mailed them in brown manila envelopes with magazine clippings—1965 SMS discovered in Toledo!—his letters in all-caps like the coin magazines he read at 3 a.m.

When the phone rang at 2:17 a.m. fifty years later, I knew before answering. Pop’s nightstand drawer held wheat pennies in a tobacco tin, arranged by date. The newest penny was a 2002—minted the month before his stroke. The funeral director handed me a penny with the funeral home's name stamped across Lincoln's face. "Your dad prepaid," he said. "Left instructions."

That afternoon, I spread every saved penny across my kitchen floor, their edges catching the light like tiny suns. Somewhere, a 1922 waited in the pile—the year Pop was born. I pressed one cold penny to my palm until the ridges burned. The house smelled like copper, WD-40, and Dad.