A penny in my pocket full of rye

Us: January 2014

It was a random Sunday at a not-so-random restaurant, and I found a penny on the floor. A penny! Joy! Piggy bank bound! Not sure what to do with my new-found wealth, I slapped the coin on the table. "You should put it in your pocket, Ken," said Mom -- ever the font of wisdom and ideas.

YES -- my pocket! A perfect rescue from the salt-laden snow boot or the sticky-fingered little sister (who's newest word, incidentally, is pocket). Into the abyss of denim it went -- snug as a bug. As we finished our dinner, I checked on my penny a few-twenty times. Crazy as it seems, I continued to find my pocketed penny. Sip of lemonade. Pocket. Penny. Check. Bite of food. Pocket. Penny. Check. Swipe of the napkin. Pocket. Penny. Check. 

Now, there were instances when I had to stand and fish in order to confirm the presence of the penny, but like a steadfast companion, the cut of copper appeared in my pocket upon each quest. Who knew that something so innocuous -- so causal -- as a pocket could serve such a solid and trustworthy purpose? We arrived home, and I promptly slid my treasure into the communal kid piggy (compliments of Access Bank), still a-wonder at the luck of the find and the magical reliability of a pocket. Sure, I let go of my penny, but it's now part of a larger collection of serious coin: A collection that will one day serve my sibs and me better than one copper Lincoln. ** 

Ken with coin

And as Mom, Dad, Sam Georgia and I swing along to our not-so-new anymore routine of dad's new job and our new nanny, I often think about this habit of us pocket-checkers. It seems that we find what we know, and we put what we know into a safe space. Snug as a bug. And on any random day, we find ourselves searching for the penny in our pocket -- just to be sure that what we know is still there, still safe, and still true. To place this penny -- this knowledge -- into the communal piggy bank is to risk change. (Pun?) And so, to my fellow pocket checkers and loyal readers, I say three cheers for finding pennies, for reliable storage, and for communal piggy banks. Check your pockets, give thanks for your pennies, and slide that treasure into a space that is new, different, and accessible to the change of some day. 

Until next time,

Ken

** Since then, the pocket has continued to serve me well. I can fit a tennis ball into my sweatshirt jacket pocket, and a matchbox car or two into my sweatpants pocket. Most notably, the pockets of my winter coat serve as a trusty 'nother layer during this relentless Minnesota winter. (We've decided -- Mom and I -- that Hell is not hot. It's cold.) Hooray for extra pockets.