Bubbies pickles
Image by milele via Flickr

The pickle jar

As far back as I can remember a jar 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 to 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: he 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 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. 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.

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