The Pickle Jar
THE PICKLE JAR
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!
