A story of love

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.
Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small
gesture you can change a person's life, for better or for worse.
The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or touched -
they must be felt with the heart ~ Helen Keller

Very cool... Dad.

I'm all choked up... in a good way.

Very nice ....

That was downright cool JD, made Slap feel good. Thank you for bringing that into the Neighborhood.

Awesome story JD, thanks for sharing it in da hood

that was cool indeed

Very cool!! Definitely worth reading. Thanks JD.

Welcome indeed...

That was wonderful!

WOW!!!! THATS WAS TRULEY AWSOME. I HAVNT BEEN SPENDING ANY OF MY COINS FOR A FEW YEARS NOW, AND I HAVE SAVED UP QUIT A BIT!!!! NOW I DONT SPEND ANY ONEs, AND NEXT THING WILL BE FIVEs. IN THE PAST 3 OR SO MONTHS, IVE SAVED UP ABOUT 300 ONEs.... NOT TOO MUCH, BUT STILL.... THATS 300 BUCKS I COULD HAVE SPENT ON SODA IN THE MACHINES, BUT DIDNT, RIGHT....

I allways put the coin in the jug. You never know when it will come in handy.