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 seatof
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
beansagain...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' bedroomto
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.
Sent by my friend Madhuri Roy. Author: Diane D
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