The $2 bill is the unicorn of American currency. Everyone has heard of it, few people actually see it, and when one appears, you are not quite sure if you should spend it or frame it.

As a kid, getting a $2 bill in a birthday card felt like hitting the financial jackpot. Forget savings bonds. This was cold, spendable cash with flair.

I used to save every $2 bill I got. Hoarded them, really. Treated them like tiny green heirlooms. Today? I struggle to find any. They have apparently joined the witness protection program with my missing socks, Tupperware lids and the one house key that actually worked.

So what’s a $2 bill worth? At the gas station, the answer is two bucks. To collectors, some rare ones go for $4,500 or more. The most valuable bills date back to the 1800s, but even some newer ones can be worth hundreds — emphasis on can. This is important, because hope is free, but disappointment is also very affordable.

The $2 bill first showed up in 1862. Others are still in circulation today, quietly doing their thing, confusing cashiers nationwide. They feature Thomas Jefferson now, though Alexander Hamilton had a brief cameo before the redesign in 1869.

Collectors say anything printed before 1976 might be worth more than face value. They will also tell you, with great enthusiasm, about paper quality, serial numbers and ink variations, at which point you will nod politely and slowly back away.

Honestly, the best use for a $2 bill might be pure joy. Slip it into a birthday card. Watch someone’s face light up like you just handed them a winning lottery ticket from 1997. Or, if you are like me, weaponize it.

I like to send birthday cards with a $2 bill inside and sign them from people like Burt and Helen or Frank and Ethyl, names that sound like they come with hard candy and strong opinions about lawn care. Then I add something unsettlingly wholesome: “You are such a good kid. Tell your parents hello for us.” It keeps people guessing, with just enough mystery, if Burt and Helen are real — and possibly watching.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
President and Publisher
Big Green Umbrella Media
shane@dmcityview.com
515-953-4822, ext. 305
www.thedailyumbrella.com

Candlelight. Today, that word suggests romance, prayer or a birthday wish. But before the 1930s, candles weren’t mood lighting — they were survival. If you wanted to see after dark, it was candles, the moon or walking into furniture.

Of course, candles also had a habit of burning down more than just wicks. Entire wooden structures were lost to them. Even now, according to the National Fire Protection Association, U.S. fire departments respond to about 7,400 home fires started by candles each year. So, yes, that cozy glow comes with a side of “maybe don’t.”

And yet, we love them. The National Candle Association says Americans spend about $3.14 billion a year on candles — which is impressive for something we technically no longer need.

Most of us met candles as kids. I remember my brother, Steve, showing me he could run his finger through a flame without getting burned. I was convinced I was living with Houdini. He offered to teach me. I declined and instead stuck my fingers in melted wax, which felt safer and somehow still like a bad decision. (Fun fact: More than 1 billion pounds of wax are used to make candles sold in the U.S. each year. That’s a lot of questionable childhood choices.)

Years later, candles got their revenge on Steve. One night, while Mom and Dad were out, he was in charge — which immediately became a problem when matches entered the picture. While lighting a candle, he leaned in to inspect it and accidentally introduced his curly hair to the flame. It ignited instantly. What followed was a frantic, bongo-style head-slapping performance that successfully put out the fire. He survived. His hair… learned a lesson. I, meanwhile, learned to keep a respectful distance from anything involving fire, wax or Steve.

I avoided candles for years — at least until I got married. My wife loves candles. Not for light, but for scent. Apparently there are more than 10,000 candle fragrances, which explains why our house can smell like “Coastal Breeze” in the middle of Iowa.

At one point, a contractor informed us that the black soot on our walls was from candles. We didn’t believe him — mostly because we had just discovered our water heater flue had disconnected in the attic (a story for another day). Still, we cut back on candles … briefly. Old habits burn hard.

Today, candles come in every form imaginable: tapers, votives, pillars, tealights, jars, floats, outdoors, indoors, religious, decorative and “why does this exist?” varieties. I’m fairly certain we own at least one of each, all hiding in a cupboard, waiting for their moment.

They are also a go-to gift, especially at Christmas when about 35% of candle sales happen. Nothing says “I didn’t know what to get you” quite like a cinnamon-scented pillar.

So go ahead — light a candle. Set the mood. Enjoy the glow. Just maybe keep it — and your hair — at a safe distance.

Have a fantastic Friday, and thanks for reading. 

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

I am not entirely sure how old I am. When someone asks, I have to stop and do the math — which assumes I know what year it is. That’s not a given. I have confidently given the wrong answer more than once, only to be corrected by my wife, my friends or, on one occasion, a cashier who seemed far too pleased to announce it.

It sounds ridiculous, but I know I’m not alone. If we’re being honest, some birthdays matter a lot, while others are about as meaningful as those college textbooks you refuse to throw away — just in case “Intro to Economics” makes a comeback.

Turning 13 was a big deal. You were officially a teenager. Did anything actually change? No. But it felt important, which is really what matters at 13.

At 14, things got serious. You could legally drive — with an adult in the car, of course, presumably to keep you from immediately steering into a cornfield. Still, that tiny taste of freedom was everything. You could also drive a moped, which felt incredibly cool at the time and incredibly not cool about two years later.

By 16, you had a real driver’s license and the ability to go places alone. Freedom. Independence. The open road. Today, I’m amazed at how many 16-year-olds aren’t in a hurry to get their license. I practically sprinted to mine. I begged a friend for a ride to another county just to take the test sooner. Now, between parents, ride-hailing apps and friends with cars, “I’ll just wait” has apparently become a strategy.

At 18, you could vote, get married or be drafted — all very adult activities I was in no rush to participate in. What I did understand was that getting into trouble suddenly came with adult consequences, which took some of the fun out of bad decisions.

Turning 21 and legally drinking wasn’t quite the cinematic moment I expected. No confetti. No parade. Just the realization that beverages are expensive. But 25? Now that was a milestone. My car insurance dropped, and I briefly considered celebrating by buying a sports car — until I learned the insurance would cost more than the car payment. Reality remains undefeated.

And that, I think, was the last truly exciting birthday. Now I’m somewhere in the neighborhood of 57, give or take a calculator check. The milestones are less about freedom and more about discounts. I find myself asking questions like, “Is this restaurant age-discriminating in my favor?” and “Do I qualify for that yet, or do I need to age another six months?”

In the meantime, I’ll keep doing the math every time someone asks my age. And with a little luck — and maybe a calculator — I might even get it right.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
President and Publisher
Big Green Umbrella Media
shane@gctimesnews.com
515-953-4822, ext. 305
www.gctimesnews.com

“Open sesame” is one of those phrases that lives rent-free in your brain. You have heard it. You have probably said it. Maybe you have even whispered it dramatically at an automatic door, hoping for a little extra flair.

At first glance, it sounds like something you would say to an Amazon Alexa when you want to hear the theme song from “Sesame Street.” I tried it. Alexa did not open anything. Not even emotionally.

It could also pass as a polite request to a box of Keebler Toasted Sesame crackers. “Open sesame,” you say, preparing for a sophisticated cheese-and-cracker moment. The crackers, however, remain sealed. Cold. Unmoved.

But if your brain goes straight to “magic words that open a secret door,” congratulations — you are on the right track and possibly ready for a career in treasure hunting.

The phrase is most famously tied to “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” part of “One Thousand and One Nights.” In the story, Ali Baba unlocks a cave full of stolen treasure with the phrase “Open, O simsim.” And just like that — boom — instant wealth.

Naturally, things go sideways. His brother tries the same trick, blanks on the phrase and starts guessing like he is on some ancient version of a game show. Nope. Still trapped.

There is a theory that “open sesame” came from “open, says me,” which sounds reasonable until you remember that magic phrases are rarely that grammatically cooperative.

Another idea is that sesame seeds — which pop open when they are ripe — inspired the phrase. Tiny plant. Big dramatic energy.

There is even talk of sesame being tied to ancient Babylonian magic. Because, apparently, sesame seeds weren’t content just being bagel toppings.

The truth? No one really knows where the phrase came from. Scholars debate it. Historians circle it. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here testing it on garage doors and snack packaging.

So go ahead — say “open sesame” a few times today. Best case: You unlock hidden treasure. Worst case: You confuse everyone within earshot. Honestly, both feel like a win.

Have a fantastic Friday, and thanks for reading. 

“Built to last.” That phrase used to mean something. Now it sounds like a punchline.

These days, the routine goes like this: Buy it cheap. Use it. Break it. Toss it. Replace it. Repeat until your trash can files a complaint. But, every now and then, you run into something that refuses to die.

Take cast-iron skillets. Those things don’t wear out — they get promoted to family heirlooms. I swear my mom had one that predated electricity. That skillet didn’t cook meals. It survived eras.

Same with old garden tools. Shovels, rakes and hoes that just keep going. Meanwhile, I’ve had plastic tools snap if you look at them the wrong way. My garage is basically a museum of “they don’t make them like they used to” — and a graveyard of things they do make now.

And then there was my dad’s Thermos vacuum bottle. He took it to work every day, full of coffee. It had more dents than a freshman’s first car, but it never quit. I wouldn’t be shocked if it is still out there somewhere, keeping coffee hot and judging our modern life choices.

So what happened? Why doesn’t anything last anymore? Pick your theory. Plastic. Mass production. Or the crowd favorite: planned obsolescence — designing products with an expiration date just shy of “inconvenient.”

Consider the modern coffee maker. In a just world, it lasts forever. In this one, it lasts until the warranty card expires. Try finding one from the 1980s still working. Meanwhile, I have gone through three single-serve machines in five years — and I don’t even drink that much coffee. At this point, the coffee maker is working harder than I am.

And don’t get me started on extended warranties. You can’t buy a toaster without someone asking if you would like to insure it like it is a vintage sports car. Here’s an idea: Build the toaster so I don’t need a long-term relationship with customer service.

Maybe the biggest clue we live in a throwaway world is this: Where did all the repair people go? Fixing things used to be a skill. Now it is a financial mistake. Why repair something for $75 when you can replace it for $60 — and get a free headache included?

Technology has taken this to an art form. You buy a phone, a computer or a tablet, and it is already halfway to obsolete. The moment software updates stop, your device basically clears its throat and says, “It’s been a pleasure. Please see the newer model.”

And, of course, the new model requires new chargers. New cords. New accessories. Because heaven forbid anything actually be compatible.

So, no, “built to last” doesn’t describe much these days. But a few things still qualify. If you would like to experience one, you are welcome to borrow my cast-iron skillet. Just be careful. It’ll probably outlive you.

Have a marvelous Monday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
President and Publisher
Big Green Umbrella Media
shane@gctimesnews.com
515-953-4822, ext. 305
www.gctimesnews.com