DBackFan
05-29-2004, 03:45 PM
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 m! e ! 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 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.
>
>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 m! e ! 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 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.
>