The pickle jar..

...... sorry, a tear jerker!


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 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.

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.


The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or touched - they

must be felt with the heart.......

:smt022

Now I look like a Panda

Aaahhhh :smt058

Now I've got a soggy keyboard..... *sniff*

libs :smt089

That's so true.

oooh now my boss is looking at me as thow i am nuts!

:smt022

That takes me back to a day twenty years ago, my son then aged six came up to me and said 'Mummy hold out your hands'. Into my hands he placed an assortment of coins and a £5 note, money given to him by kind family members who been back to our house after attending his fathers funeral..'You are going to need it more than me' he said.....