The Pickle Jar.....

[DianaB]

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 th at.'

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 o ther
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.

[judy]

Thank you Diana! That is a beautiful story.

When Mackenzie was born, I started my own jar. I kept it in the kitchen, under the sink. My father had kept his jar in his closet. When I moved, I looked at the jar, and decided to leave it there. I just felt that whoever ended up with that jar would get something from it.

[gja1000]

That is a great story! Thanks for sharing it with us!

[Janet]

What a great story Diana...I loved it. I wish we would have done something like that when Ricky was small.

[Marilyn]

That's a great story. We saved, but not quite that way. Sounds like a good idea for the grandkids though. They would appreciate it more.

[DianaB]

It does sound like a good idea, doesn't it! I know that when you save change like that you really don't miss it.

Our Children's Church from church on the first Sunday of each month, comes into the sanctuary and sings a song and then gathers change from those in the congregation. A few people throw in a few dollars too. The kids pick up anywhere from $150 to $180 every month. Everyone chips in and some even save their change all month and bring it. I think that it's a cool idea!! The money goes to missionaries.