Steel Pennies
In 1943, at the height of World War II, U.S. coins of the smallest denomination—pennies—were made of steel. Copper was needed to make ammunition and to wire battleships. There were still plenty of steel pennies around when I started school in 1958.
Those little sealed waxed paper cartons of milk that they handed out in school cost 3 cents. Given the typical kindergarten student's propensity for losing things, parents were advised to tie up their child's milk money in a small handkerchief or similar contrivance.
This precaution helped the lunch ladies to keep the milk line moving. I've seen the occasional student come up short on milk money, having lost part of his funding on the school bus or in the sandbox. You didn't want to be that kid. No, it's not a lot of money. However, to use Mark Train's analogy of a hen that lays an egg and crackles "as if she had laid an asteroid", a lunch lady working a part-time minimum wage job who had grown up on the farm during the Great Depression can make a similar fuss over the inconvenience and the loss of personal funds that they sometimes had to kick in.
My father, ever the science nut, issued me a tiny magnet probably from an electric motor—and told me to keep it in my pants pocket. My parents then took care to always give me my milk money in steel pennies which would stick to the magnet and thus would never get lost. I've since wondered whether those pennies, themselves having become magnetized, caused any problems at the bank.
I was told, in no uncertain terms, that if I found a 1943 penny that DIDN'T stick to the magnet I was to guard it with my life—even to forgo my little carton of Raritan Valley Farms milk if necessary. As the story goes, only 12 copper pennies were minted in 1943 making them one of the rarest of collector coins. At last report, the entire dozen hadn't yet been found. Equally rare is the 1944 steel. The last of these coins to surface sold for $250,000.
For the unscrupulous among us—yes, in a very simple home operation it is possible to copper plate a steel penny. Forget it, it's been tried. The magnet tells all.
But, on this late spring day in 1958, the milk line qued up behind a small refrigerated milk delivery truck beneath a spreading maple tree. We ate our lunches that our moms had packed for us on table cloths spread on the grass. On that perfect sunny day, we were visiting the Auten farm.
These little day trips were an informal affair. The farms we visited belonged to teachers, school bus drivers and so-on. We even visited an extensive greenhouse operation owned by our head janitor, Eddie Burton.
Our "official" class trips had to be planned well in advance. Huge Greyhound-type busses had to be chartered and arrangements had to be made with the destination. Over the years, these trips would include riding the Hudson River Ferry, touring Admial Dewy's flagship and visiting the site where General Washington crossed the Delaware. Less nautical destinations included Philadelphia's Franklin Institute, New York's Meseum of Natural History, the United Nations and even a Ford assembly plant. We were required to dress up—tie and jacket, the whole bit.
These farm visits were spur-of-the-moment by comparison. A driver, defined as anyone who could manage the crashbox transmission in our 1940's International "spare" school bus, would be nominated and away we would go.
We visited the Van Nuys farm in Belle Meade, New Jersey. There, scientists from Rutgers University first developed and refined the process of artificial insemination for dairy cattle in 1930. There were no demonstrations—this was kindergarten so there existed some likelihood that some of us still hadn't been indoctrinated regarding the basic principle involved. Besides, the sight of a newly expelled calf placenta was shocking enough.
Another trip took us to the village of Triangle, named for an unusual railroad confluence there. At Triangle, we visited Ammerman's apple orchard. I loved apple orchards—and still do, especially the old style with their larger, more widely spaced trees. This orchard would have a special significance in my adolescent years. My grandfather was a friend of Mr. Ammerman and was allotted a piece of ground at the orchard for his truck-farm operation.
I was being groomed—reluctantly—to take over the family's precision metal tubing business. My father would send me to help my grandfather with the tomato harvest in hopes that the heat and hard labor would cure my love of agriculture and cause me to embrace that indoor world of noise, concrete floors and fluorescent lights. It didn't work.
Recently, I was thinking about how these farm visits would work out today in this era of litigation. Back in the day, any minor injury was considered the fault of the victim. These occasions would then be used as an object lesson based on the belief that what doesn't kill you just makes you stronger.
"See there. Now you know how an electric fence works and why you shouldn't tease the goose. Good for ya."
I had assumed that the era of the elementary-school farm trips must be over and lamented the same to my wife, Stephanie, a Hampshire County, West Virginia school bus driver. She was quick to inform me that the tradition was still very much alive, having driven a few such trips herself.
Great! Keep up the good work, teachers. As for that 1943 penny, after 64 years the search continues, but I think I'm getting vibes.