by Jim Noles
The Congressional finding that prefaces the new act speaks for itself:
The Congress finds that it is appropriate and timely to honor the unique Federal republic of 50 States that comprise the United States; and to promote the diffusion of knowledge among the youth of the United States about the individual States, their history and geography, and the rich diversity of the national heritage; the circulating coinage of the United States has not been modernized during the 25-year period preceding the date of enactment of this Act; a circulating commemorative 25-cent coin program could produce earnings of $110,000,000 from the sale of silver proof coins and sets over the 10-year period of issuance, and would produce indirect earnings of an estimated $2,600,000,000 to $5,100,000,000 to the United States Treasury, money that will replace borrowing to fund the national debt to at least that extent; and it is appropriate to launch a commemorative circulating coin program that encourages young people and their families to collect memorable tokens of all the States for the face value of the coins. (Public Law 105-124, Section 2)
The specifics of the program would be as follows: beginning in 1999, and continuing for the next decade, the U.S. Mint would issue five new quarters per year, each commemorating a new state in the order that the states joined the Union. Castle’s home state of Delaware, admitted to the Union on December 7, 1787, would lead the charge, followed at ten-week intervals for the remainder of 1999 by quarters for Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Georgia, and Connecticut, respectively. After ten years, the program would end, forty-five quarters later, in 2008, with the issuance of quarters for Oklahoma, New Mexico, Arizona, Alaska, and Hawaii. The order of issuance is reflected in the order of chapters in this book—starting with Delaware and ending with Hawaii.
Over the course of the program, the U.S. Mint’s presses in Denver and Philadelphia would mint particular state designs in quantities reflective of the national economy’s need for quarters (and thus reflective of the relative vibrancy of America’s economy as a whole—the more economic activity projected, the greater the need for coinage). In other words, there was no guarantee that California (the most populated state) would see any more quarters than Wyoming (the least populated state). For the record, as of the typing of these words, Virginia can claim to have had the most quarters minted (with over one and a half billion of them minted in 2000). Ironically, Maine, whose quarter is widely recognized as among the most aesthetic of the group, trails the rest of the Union with a mere 448.8 million quarters minted in 2003.
In a program of such magnitude, Castle and his fellow members of Congress knew that the selection of fifty acceptable designs would be particularly challenging. To that end, their legislation mandated a particular process. Specifically, each of the fifty designs would be selected by the secretary of the Treasury, but only after consultation with the governor of the state being commemorated and the federal Commission of Fine Arts, and review by the Citizens Commemorative Coin Advisory Committee (a federal committee later abolished in 2003 and replaced by the Citizens Coinage Advisory Committee).
The act also established certain standards for would-be designs, noting that as “it is important that the Nation’s coinage and currency bear dignified designs of which the citizens of the United States can be proud, the Secretary shall not select any frivolous or inappropriate design for any quarter dollar minted under this subsection.” The act also added that “no head and shoulders portrait or bust of any person, living or dead, and no portrait of a living person may be included in the design of any quarter dollar under this subsection.”
To that list of prohibitions and admonitions, the Mint offered further guidance. Quoting directly from the U.S. Mint’s Web site, the following became the relevant design criteria:
Designs shall have broad appeal to the citizens of the state and avoid controversial subjects or symbols that are likely to offend.
Suitable subject matter for designs includes state landmarks (natural and man-made), landscapes, historically significant buildings, symbols of state resources or industries, official state flora and fauna, state icons (e.g., Texas Lone Star, Wyoming bronco, etc.), and outlines of the state.
State flags and state seals are not considered suitable for designs.
Consistent with the authorizing legislation, the states are encouraged to submit designs that promote the diffusion of knowledge among the youth of the United States about the state, its history and geography, and the rich diversity of our national heritage.
Priority consideration will be given to designs that are enduring representations of the state.
Inappropriate design concepts include, but are not limited to, logos or depictions of specific commercial, private, educational, civic, religious, sports, or other organizations whose membership or ownership is not universal.
With the act signed into law at the end of 1997, and the first coins due to be released in 1999, states such as Delaware and Pennsylvania had little time to waste and little precedent to employ. But rising to the challenge, the U.S. Mint issued Delaware’s quarter on January 1, 1999, and in doing so, inaugurated the program with a coin that generally gets high marks both from historians and for its aesthetics.
As the years passed, however, and as more and more quarters were issued, time proved that, to play a little with George Orwell, some quarters are more equal than others. Some quarters would go on to earn high marks for their originality and artistry; others, to put it simply, would not. Meanwhile, a handful of highly publicized controversies regarding the ultimate implementation and engraving of selected designs on certain quarters—notably Missouri’s and Cal-ifornia’s— arose as well. Adequate recognition of winning designers at the state level also raised recurring questions.
One could certainly argue that the level of attention and angst being generated provided proof positive that the 50 State Quarters® Program was a success. Nevertheless, to help address the various artistic concerns the program faced in the state quarter program (and others), the U.S. Mint instituted its Artistic Infusion Program (AIP) in 2003. Following a nationwide call for artists, the Mint inducted a total of twenty-four artists in its initial AIP class. Their assignments included work on designs for the 2006 state quarters—those of Nevada, Nebraska, Colorado, North Dakota, and South Dakota. Meanwhile, in 2005, the U.S. Mint changed its design solicitation and acceptance policy. Rather than accepting drawings from the states of their preferred designs, the Mint began requiring that design concepts or themes simply be submitted in narrative form.
Regardless of such issues, Congressman Castle could not have been happier with the result of the modest piece of legislation he introduced back in 1997.
“The country has really gotten into it. It’s been an absolute success— in every way possible,” Castle said. “First, some estimates are that it has generated $6 billion in seigniorage, so it’s made that money for the government. How many government programs can say that?
“Second, people are excited about it,” he added. “People who never collected coins before are collecting the quarters and are anticipating when the next designs will be out. People are receiving change and immediately looking at it to see what quarter they have.
“Finally, it’s educational, and that’s important for the kids,” he concluded. “The program provides a vehicle for them to learn about our country’s history, and culture, and geography.”
In the end, the program may prove to be even more successful than Castle ever envisioned. Proving that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Representative José E. Serrano (D-NY) successfully introduced an amendment to the Consolidated Appropriations Act of 2008 that required the U.S. Mint to issue six new quarters in 2009— honoring Washington, D.C., American Samoa, Guam, Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands.
But for now, fifty quarters—and the fifty chapters that follow— will have to suffice.
1
DELAWARE
Hail, Caesar!
&
nbsp; When Delaware first solicited prospective designs for the 50 State Quarters® Program’s inaugural quarter, high school arts and drama teacher Eddy Seger did not even have to look beyond his own campus for inspiration. Seger teaches at Caesar Rodney High School in Camden, Delaware, and as he well knew, his school’s namesake held a special place in the hearts of Delaware’s citizens.
“In my Art II classes, we do bas-reliefs,” Seger explained, “and that spring, I had my students sculpt designs to submit for Delaware’s quarter. As an example, I did a relief of Caesar Rodney on his famous ride.”
Outside of Delaware, however, Rodney’s ride is far from famous, and nationally, his is hardly a household name. But in 1776, Rodney stood foremost among America’s patriots—for his dedication to the cause of an independent United States, if not necessarily for his looks. “The oddest looking man in the world,” John Adams described him.
“The oddest looking man in the world,” John Adams described him. “[S]lender as a reed—pale—his face is not bigger than a large apple. But there is sense and fire, spirit, wit, and humor in his countenance.”
Caesar Rodney was born in 1728, on a Kent County, Delaware, plantation called Byfield. Orphaned at seventeen, Rodney was left to help run Byfield and raise his seven siblings. In 1755, already a captain in Delaware’s militia, he emerged on Delaware’s political scene as high sheriff of Kent County. From the outset, Rodney seemed a natural statesman, with “a great fund of wit and humor of the pleasing kind, so that his conversation was always bright and strong and conducted by wisdom.”
Once engaged in politics, Rodney occupied a series of colonial offices, ranging from register of wills to justice on the Delaware Supreme Court. In 1761, his fellow colonists elected him to Delaware’s House of Assembly, where he eventually served four terms as its Speaker. Today, Rodney is recognized as having held more public offices than any other citizen of Delaware.
But even as Rodney’s political career flourished, his personal fortunes waned. A cancerous sore appeared on his nose and soon spread to the left side of his face. Although doctors in Philadelphia managed to halt the cancer’s spread, the results were repellent. Rodney eventually took to wearing a green silk veil to cover his scarred face and its unsightly sores. Bouts of asthma, pleurisy, and gout also plagued him, even as he represented Delaware in the First Continental Congress in 1775.
In that Congress, and in the one that followed, Rodney preserved a reputation as a moderate—one of the “cool, considerate men,” as such statesmen were later called when the Second Continental Congress convened in Philadelphia on May 10, 1776. A month later, when delegates introduced a resolution calling for independence, cool consideration was needed more than ever.
By June 28, a draft declaration lay before the Congress and required a vote. Even though the thirteen colonies’ delegation sizes varied, each colony possessed only one vote in the matter of independence. Unanimity was the ultimate goal. A unanimous vote would send a strong message through the colonies and to London. Indecision would have the opposite effect.
But when the first vote on the resolution came on Monday, July 1, only nine colonies voted in favor. Both Pennsylvania and South Carolina voted against it. New York’s delegation, still hoping for reconciliation rather than revolution, elected to abstain. For its part, the Delaware delegation did not vote when two members of its three-man delegation—Thomas McKean and George Read— deadlocked.
At the time, Rodney, the delegation’s third member, was home in Delaware, some eighty miles away. While the Continental Congress debated, Delaware’s population had become increasingly polarized. Opposed to rebellion, loyalist Tories had gathered a force several hundred strong in Sussex County, and Rodney, in his role as a militia brigadier general, had returned to Delaware to deal with them. His efforts, coupled with a show of force by the Delaware militia, bore fruit. The counterrevolutionaries either vowed no further mischief or escaped offshore to British ships. Relieved, Rodney repaired to Byfield to recuperate.
Meanwhile, in Philadelphia, McKean was well aware of Rodney’s yeoman service against the Loyalists. He also knew of his friend’s precarious health. At the same time, however, McKean refused to allow Delaware’s deadlock to stand. He scribbled a note to Rodney, warning him that the critical vote loomed, and dispatched an express rider to summon him.
The rider, galloping through a driving rainstorm, reached Rodney’s distant plantation shortly before midnight. As soon as he read the note, Rodney rushed to leave for Philadelphia. But how he actually undertook the ensuing journey remains one of the unsolved mysteries of American history. Some people point to a subsequent comment by his younger brother that refers to Rodney “call[ing] for his carriage.” Indeed, that would have been the likely manner in which most country gentlemen—and certainly an ailing middle-aged asthmatic—would have traveled.
Popular legend, however, offers a different story. According to that version, the sickly Rodney pulled himself onto his best horse and, ignoring the pelting rain, galloped north to Philadelphia. Throughout the night, his horse’s hooves thudded and splashed along the King’s Highway. Stretches of the rutted road, poorly drained, became muddy quagmires that sucked at both steed and rider. Branches and limbs cracked and broke in the tempestuous wind, littering the dark road with dangerous obstacles. Once-gentle streams swelled into raging torrents, buffeting wooden bridges and turning fords into treacherous cataracts. The ride would have been grueling for a man half Rodney’s age in the best of health. For him, it must have been torturous.
Nevertheless, Rodney forged ahead. Reaching Philadelphia on the afternoon of July 2, he met his old friend McKean at the door to the Pennsylvania State House where Congress had convened. Taking the muddy, gangling apparition by the arm, McKean led Rodney into the brick building.
No sooner had they taken their seats than the clerk began calling for votes on the declaration. When Delaware’s turn came, Rodney spoke in a tired but clear voice.
“As I believe the voice of my constituents and of all sensible and honest men is in favor of independence, and my own judgment concurs,” Rodney exclaimed, “I vote for independence!”
With independence declared, Rodney focused his immediate efforts on raising levies for the Continental Army. Later, Delaware appointed him as a delegate to the Continental Congress and, in short order, elevated him to the governor’s office in 1778. But by 1781, Rodney’s cancer returned—“that horrid and most obstinate disorder,” as he called it. Although selected to represent Delaware in the United States Congress, his illness forced him to decline the honor. Within three years, he was dead.
Today, a statue depicting Rodney’s ride graces Wilmington’s Rodney Square. Another statue of him stands in the U.S. Capitol’s Statuary Hall. But when Eddy Seger decided to honor Delaware’s favorite son, he kept in mind that Rodney, ashamed of his cancerous face, never sat for a portrait. Certainly, Seger reasoned, he would not have wanted the left side of his face shown. Accordingly, Seger’s suggested design depicted Rodney on a horse galloping from right to left—so that only Rodney’s right side was visible.
Eventually, three designs emerged as finalists for the state quarter— Seger’s, another design depicting a piece of parchment and a quill (intended to symbolize Delaware’s historic ratification of the U.S. Constitution), and an allegorical image of Lady Liberty holding a baby Delaware. With regard to the latter, Seger minced no words.
“It looked terrible,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you—she looked like a slut showing up with a surprise at a family reunion. It was a mess.”
At that point, however, Seger was not particularly happy with his design, either. In the final mock-up, which was out of his hands, Rodney’s direction of travel had been reversed: He was galloping from left to right. In real life, such a perspective would have exposed the cancerous left side of his face, though it was shown as unscarred.
“Rodney would have never allowed himself to be portrayed that way,” Seger said s
orrowfully.
Nevertheless, despite Seger’s misgivings, a telephone and e-mail poll convinced Delaware’s leadership to select what is generally recognized as Seger’s design for final submission to the U.S. Mint for engraving. On December 7, 1998, the U.S. Mint struck the first quarter bearing Delaware’s design. When the first coins were shipped to the Federal Reserve on January 4, 1999, the 50 State Quarters® Program became a reality for the American public.
So did the program’s first—but not last—controversy. Although the U.S. Mint originally identified Seger as the designer of the quarter, Delaware officials reportedly disagreed, subsequently maintaining that Seger’s was only one of several designs submitted that featured Rodney’s ride.
Regardless of the state’s disavowal, Seger remains unruffled. This is not a surprising reaction from a man who once, about to embark upon a solo canoe trip down the Mississippi River, realized that he had lost all his cash. Undeterred, he cast off on the two-month-long voyage anyway, financing his way downstream by drawing and selling artwork along the way.
“Now, I give out the quarter when I travel overseas and tell people that I designed it,” he said. “It’s a great way to start a conversation.”
2
PENNSYLVANIA
The Key to the Keystone
Although Pennsylvania and Delaware were originally part of the same colony, the two states took distinctly different artistic paths when it came to the imagery on the reverse of their state quarters. Whereas Delaware relied on a literal image—the iconic ride of Caesar Rodney—to represent and reflect its identity, Pennsylvania opted for a more symbolic approach.
Pennsylvania’s design centers on a well-proportioned, toga-clad woman, unabashedly showing a flash of her left thigh as she looks coyly over her right shoulder. Framed by an outline of Pennsylvania’s borders, she grasps a ribbon mace in her left hand, while her right arm extends down, palm open, and slightly to the side. The mace symbolizes justice; the outstretched hand, kindness. The woman’s name is Commonwealth, and she resides atop Pennsylvania’s state capitol in Harrisburg, at 250 feet above the street.