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The Pickle Jar - Author Unknown
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 we re 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 t he 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.
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.
Never underestimate the power of your actions.
With one small gesture you can change a person's life, for better or for
worse.
Submitted by Andy, Gettysburg, Pa.
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