Last Friday, it was yet another foray into the piled-up boxes in the garage. I am determined to get through the last of my mother’s stored items that landed here last fall… from her last rented storage unit. Friday was a success. A friend and I emptied, sorted, and dispatched a dozen boxes.

Some of the boxes were light, some heavy, but there was one large covered laundry basket that felt like it was nailed to the floor. Each tug on it required a loud grunt. WHAT did she store in this thing? The answer was layers of glossy coffee table books, 3 and 4-pounders. Plus a porcelain piggy bank. The colorful little porker was so heavy, so full, that I was unable to add another coin, not even a dime. I’d never seen it before. I have no idea where my mother had it stashed.

My mind began racing with lucrative possibilities. If this piglet was full of dimes and quarters, it could equal a fun Saturday. Breakfast at Ida Mae’s in Russell? Or a little further north to Ekloff’s Bakery? Better yet, split the total and give some pocket money to my two grandchildren? It certainly felt like dimes and quarters. I took it to the kitchen scale. Almost twelve pounds. I thought, “This is exciting! I guess I know what my evening’s entertainment is going to be.” It never occurred to me it would be work.

Suddenly I was feeling less exhausted from the afternoon of tugging and hauling. While I made dinner, I began to look forward to my after-dinner pig emptying.

The black rubber plug at the bottom of the piggy was stubborn. In fact, it seemed to be glued in. It took almost fifteen minutes using both a knife and spoon to pry it out of the pig’s belly.

As the first coin fell, disappointment sent in. Pennies. Pennies. Pennies. Aw come on! There have to be some dimes and quarters in here, too. But as I used the knife to loosen the densely packed coins, I built a good-sized mound of copper, copper, copper, before the first quarter fell. Another mini-avalanche produced a couple of dimes. And so it went. Old copper, new copper, moldy, corroded copper. And an occasional piece of silver.

The mountain of coins grew to four or five inches high and spread across the folding TV table. I decided if I was going to spend the evening rolling coins that I’d find something entertaining to watch during my labors. It took all of Jeopardy, Shark Tank, and a few Antique Road Shows to finish the rolling job. Lots longer than I planned, for a lot less reward.

I sorted them in piles of ten and began rows of 5 stacks, which I quickly expanded to rows of 10 stacks – a buck a row. As I worked through the mound, I occasionally rooted out a dime or quarter to toss in their own tiny pile. Interestingly, only one nickel showed up. I also found Canadian pennies, Euro dimes and a few English “new pennies.” I’m going to add those to the velvet bag of foreign coins my mother kept for decades – a few francs, some shillings, and piles of pesos. Not a lot of anything much.

As the dense penny pattern formed, the left of the table began to look like an orderly building project as the big pile on the right gradually diminished. After a few hours, I had to ask Dear Richard to move the heavy table in front of me. And he had to lift it straight up – no jostling my 10-cent stacks. All 210 of them.

Yup, 2,103 pennies. $21.03. And the grand sum of $3.80 in silver. Hmmpf. That’s only enough for Eggs Benedict for one. Plus coffee, tax, and tip. With enough left over for coffee for Richard.

Luckily, my old can of paper coin rolls had 42 penny wrappers. All filled, the wrappers are now in a cloth shopping bag ready for their trip to the bank – the same bank that used to have a coin sorter. After I spent an entire evening accomplishing this dirty-fingers project, I realized I earned just a skosh over $6/hour. So much for dreams of silver. But hey, it was $24.83 I didn’t have that morning.

Mom always quoted Ben Franklin, “A penny saved is a penny earned.” And because she truly believed that, I just received the next installment on my inheritance. The Eggs Benedict on corned beef hash was delicious. Thanks, Mom, for being such a penny pincher.

Marcy O’Brien writes from her home in Warren, Pennsylvania.