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| THE PICKLE JAR |
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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."
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 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.
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 parent's 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.
God puts us all in each other's lives to impact one another in some way. Look
for Good in others.
The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or touched - they must be felt
with the heart ~ Helen Keller
- Happy moments, praise God.
- Difficult moments, seek God.
- Quiet moments, worship God.
- Painful moments, trust God.
- Every moment, thank God.
MUCH LOVE FAMILY |
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| To add a comment to "THE PICKLE JAR" |
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| August 21, 2008 |
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| This was a powerful story Mary....and it made me reflect on my own parents....It wasn't a pickle jar...but you can bet there were, and still are, containers full of coins that my parents have saved over the course of the years, and they are both 74 years old, and getting ready to celebrate their 55th Wedding Anniversary next week. Powerful Lessons have been learned from them, just as powerful lessons are learned from everyone who crosses our path in this life....Thank you for sharing ;o) |
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| August 21, 2008 |
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This made me want to cry......brought back alot of good memories and lessons! Our pickle jar was Ken and my 3 lb. coffee can....we still have it going.....it was for hard times....there's always enough to buy bread and dried beans :)
Thanks for posting this! |
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| August 22, 2008 |
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| Beautiful story! |
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