Pickle Jar

[Spidey's mom, ADN, BSN, RN]

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.

[Brownms46]

Now that one made me cry, and I'm when my pickle jar is empty I'm going to start collecting coins for my grandson!

[Noney]

Yep, I got tears in my eyes, too!

Noney

[AussieAIN]

Tears here too. Whos got a tissue?

[gwenith, BSN, RN]

Tissue - I think I need a bed sheet lol! My eyes are misted.

[jnette, ASN, EMT-I]

Beautiful... absolutely beautiful.

Thanx so much, Steph !

[altomga, ADN, BSN, MSN, DNP, RN, APRN]

That is such a moving story!! sniffle..........

[boopchick]

That was beautiful.

[NICU_Nurse, BSN, RN]

My *nose* hurts, I teared up so bad. *sniff* Thank you for sharing that!

[NICU_Nurse, BSN, RN]

Dang...when I'm tired, my grammar goes right in the hopper.

[FutureRN~Pookie]

Such a beautiful story. Thanks for sharing! :)

Kacy

[Burnt Out, ASN, RN]

That is so sweet!!