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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 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
quietly 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.
~~~ Author
Unknown ~~~
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