An update on a post of August 2, 2012. As a kid, I lived in the one room attic of a Chicago brownstone on Byron Street. I remember with clarity that my family didn’t have much money. I decided to do something about it. At the age of 4, I sold water in front of my house for a penny. The water came from a garden hose and was dispensed in one of four small colorful hard plastic cups. My father seriously advised that I should pick up any stray pennies (or nickels or dimes) that I might happen across. My big score was finding a crisply-folded dollar bill lodged under a counter at Sears Roebuck at 6 Corners in Chicago. I gave it to my mother and she called me her “hero.”
To this day, I still pick up pennies and dimes and wallets and watches and cell phones and rings and other jewelry and even (once) a one hundred dollar bill that I find laying in public places. I always repatriate the personal (identifiable) items. But the few which have no claimants (like the wedding rings), I keep. Some items are verrry nice. . . . .
My habit is to put “found” money in my left pocket (my change is in my right) and toss it in a bowl when I get home. And each year, I donate the proceeds (plus some extra) to a charity. My granddaughters are both now keenly watching for pennies on the street. Eve found a pair of eyeglasses and a nickel under a table in a restaurant. Elin has picked up nails found on the street (another penchant of mine). I’ve told Donna that when I retire, I will simply walk the streets. And come home with bags full of coins, bills and diamond rings . . . . .
