The Pickle Jar

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 by the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. When the jar was almost empty, they landed with a merry jingle. 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, admiring 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 roll the coins at the kitchen table 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.

Every time we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me, hopefully. ‘Those coins will 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, every time 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. We grinned at each other as they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle. ‘You’ll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters,’ he said. ‘But you’ll get there; I’ll see to that.

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to drop his coins into the jar doggedly. Even in 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.’

Years passed, and I finished college and worked 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: he never taught me 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 loved me.

We spent the holiday with my parents the first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born. 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 returned to 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 into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. A gamut of emotions choked me, so 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 my emotions. Neither one of us could speak.

This truly touched my heart. Sometimes, we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings. Never underestimate the power of your actions. You can change a person’s life, for better or worse, with one small gesture.