The pickle jar as far back as I can remember, sat on the floor beside the
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 and every 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 and every 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
away 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.
This truly touched my heart..... I know it has yours as well. 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! AMEN!
Author unknown. If anyone has a proprietary interest in this story please
authenticate and I will be happy to credit, or remove, as the circumstances
dictate.
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