The Pickle Jar
Posted by: root <root@...>
dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty
his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.
As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they
were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was
almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was
filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the
copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun
poured through the bedroom window.
When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the
coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always
a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were
placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.
Each time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully. "Those
coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son.
You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you
back." Also, each time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter
at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly.
"These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his
life like me."
We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I
always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla.
When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show
me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling
the jar again." He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As
they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other.
"You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said.
"But you'll get there. I'll see to that."
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town.
Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and
noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been
removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser
where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and never
lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith.
The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the
most flowery of words could have done.
When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly
pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than
anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got
at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.
Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve
dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar.
To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my
beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to
make a way out for me. "When you finish college, Son," he told me, his eyes
glistening, "You'll never have to eat beans again...unless you want to."
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday
with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the
sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper
softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms.
"She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my
parents' bedroom to diaper her.
When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her
eyes. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me
into the room.
"Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside
the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood
the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to
the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins.
With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I
looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the
room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt.
Neither one of us could speak.
Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our
blessings.
Sorrow looks back. Worry looks around. Faith looks Up!
This is a heartwarming story of a different way of life--a time when people
didn't throw away money on foolish, unnecessary things; it was a time when
children didn't expect the world handed to them on a silver platter, when
people were grateful for the small, more important things in life.
--
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