XIV. Coin shooting 1

When I was transferred to Greenville, Mississippi, back in 1974, I left the relic fields of Vicksburg behind. I had the disease, though, and Greenville had many old house sites. I sought them out, and I hunted them one at a time. Take note of this fact: I never once asked permission to hunt a vacant lot, and I never once had anyone object. Back then, people must have been nicer than today. Over the four years I lived in Greenville I dug thousands of coins, the best being a 1916 Standing Liberty quarter dug from beside a sidewalk near downtown. There were only 52,000 of these coins minted. Who would have thought there was one lying beside a sidewalk in Greenville? I still have the coin, which was graded “Fine-15” by PCI: its value continues to increase every year.
When I returned to Vicksburg in 1978 I began exploring some of the old towns that lived and died in the area, some as old as or older than Vicksburg (including Warrenton). I bought a motorcycle that was a big help in reaching these out-of-the-way sites; it also gave me a bit of anonymity in that it could be parked invisibly, far off the roads. On a sunny day in 1978 I pulled the bike up on a rise near the Mississippi River and spotted a gleaming little coin, an early Spanish half-real, lying atop a mound of freshly plowed earth. That discovery led to my unearthing hundreds of like coins in the area over the next few years, the oldest being a 1738 Peruvian half-real (I know there is a Peruvian coin dated in the 1690s somewhere in my collection, but I’ve been unable to locate it). I pulled many fine early American and Spanish (Peruvian) coins from the site, probably the most interesting a large silver Spanish “piece of eight.”
You’ve heard stories of coins and paper money being hoarded and hidden away behind a loose brick in a chimney, or between panels in a wall, only to be forgotten by the owner of the house and discovered years later by some lucky person. Well, I have just such a story.
About fifteen years ago I learned of an old house that sat beside one of Vicksburg’s oldest homes – one of the original Vick homes – that was slated for demolition. I knew the owners, and I obtained permission to search the house for relics. I did. I combed the interior with my detector and came up empty handed. I gave up.
A month later, as the house was being demolished, a workman responsible for tearing out the chimney removed several bricks from the main fireplace chimney, and in the process found a jar filled with silver coins and Confederate bills. The foreman on the job – the man from whom I later learned of the event – was able to verify that the discovery had taken place, and to describe the contents of the jar – but, as he related to me, when he attempted to claim a share of the treasure, the workman walked off the job and disappeared. We don’t know what became of him, but suspect he’s on some beach somewhere.
And I’ve kicked myself black and blue for not being more thorough during my search.
Several years ago I was searching an old lot here in Vicksburg upon which nothing of significance had been found in several earlier visits. But it was there that I eventually recovered a US coin of remarkable rarity – an 1829 “curl-base two” dime. Look that one up in your coin book, and you’ll see what a great rarity it is.
I have a large collection of old rings that I’ve dug, many of which have little value. One, however, is dear to me, an intricately embossed gold ring that I recovered from the river near a huge Confederate stronghold. There is no way of knowing whether it belonged to a Confederate or a Yankee, or was perhaps lost by one of the early pioneers who settled along the river. It is, though, a beautiful piece, one whose history I can only imagine.
There is another ring that I recall with a great deal of glee, one dug from behind a football-field bleachers in Greenville, Mississippi.
It was a large, gold, well-made ring with a bright stone, an Ole Miss graduation ring. The pharmacist to whom it belonged had his name inscribed in the interior circumference. Now, any of you familiar with graduates of THE University of Mississippi are aware of that certain air of superiority that emanates from each, the source of numerous giggles from most of us of the non-Ole Miss populace who recognize their sometimes pompous nose-in-the-air stance as opportunity for a bit of fun-poking. As this was that period of time when men were prone to wear gaudy gold nuggets about their necks, I considered giving the Ole Miss ring its just reward by combining it with several wedding bands from ex-wives for a melt-down to fabricate a large nugget that I could wear, and thereby be “in style.” But conscience got the best of me. Even an arrogant Ole Miss graduate must attach some significance to his graduation ring. I determined to call this man and offer him his ring, free of charge, merely to satisfy my inner need to do the right thing.
He was easy to find. The pharmacy was his name. I reluctantly made the call and got him on the phone. The conversation went like this:
“Hello, Mr. …. This is Malcolm Allred.”
Hurriedly… “Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I think I’ve found something that belongs to you.”
“Yes. What is it?”
“A ring. Your Ole Miss graduation ring.”
“My ring?”
“Yep.”
After a pause… “That CAN”T be my ring.” Haughtily… “MY ring is in my safety deposit box.”
“What? You’re sure?”
“Yes. Goodbye.” Clank
Well… I couldn’t understand how it couldn’t be his ring, but he’d said it.
A day later his beautiful ring and my old wedding bands were joined in permanent matrimony to form the largest (and gaudiest) nugget to be worn to the Yacht Club on Lake Ferguson in the City of Greenville. Many were the compliments I received on its size and shine.
Now, as I may have mentioned, it’s my habit to read the classified ads in search of that next wonderful treasure, and so, several days later, as I scanned that source of fun and adventure, I noticed a very interesting ad. It read, “Would the person who found my Ole Miss Graduation ring PLEASE call me at ….”
I couldn’t bring myself to call him and report the demise of that proud symbol of his accomplishment. But I think of him anytime I come across that nugget, buried amongst the other out-of-fashion jewelry hidden in the drawer of my bureau.
Life is sweet.