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!