welk2party
06-27-2004, 12:34 PM
I red this today and thought it was a nice story. Enjoy!
>>
>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.
:)
>>
>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.
:)