I’m six years old. And like normal six-year-olds, I am fidgety, shifting my little body back and forth in a wooden church pew in a community called Plateau, which, by the way, most people mispronounce. I’m clutching coins in my hands. They’re mostly pennies, a few nickels, and some dimes. But, no quarters. I would have kept those. A minute earlier, my mom had handed me the now tightly clutched coins in preparation for, “The Collection.” This was not a particularly joyful occasion. Judging by the looks on peoples’ faces, I’d say it was more like a romantic breakup. “Goodbye. I’ll miss you, little dollar. Write me!” Then, the obligatory…