My dad was not the chatty type and never lectured me about life, the values of determination, perseverance and faith. I felt a lump in my throat as I looked at the spot by the dresser where it used to stand. It had done what it was meant to do and was now no longer there. I finished college and got a job in another town.ĭuring one of my visits to my parents, I went to use the phone in their bedroom and was surprised to see the pickle jar gone. He’d say, “You’ll go to college on these pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters. As we listened to the musical sound, we would grin at each other. He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed over the change, Dad would show me the coins on his palm and say, “When we’re home, we’ll start filling the jar again!” Once the coins were deposited, we would celebrate by stopping for an ice cream cone. I loved the chocolate and Dad always got vanilla.
He will never work at the mill all his life, like me.” This old mill town is not going to hold you back.”Īnd during each visit to the bank, when he slid the box of coins across the counter to the cashier, he would smile proudly, saying, “these are for my son’s college fund. As we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me, hope in his eyes, and say, “These coins will keep you out of the textile mill, son. He stacked the coins neatly in a little box and placed it between him and me on the seat of his old truck.
I enjoyed squatting on the floor in front of the jar and admiring the shiny coins, glinting like treasure when the sunlight fell on them through the bedroom window.Įach time the jar was full, Dad sat at the kitchen table and rolled the coins before taking them to the bank to deposit. Gradually, as it filled up, the tones turned into a dull thud. It sounded like a merry jingle especially when the jar was empty. When I was small, I found it exciting to hear the sounds made by the coins as they were put into the jar. Every night, just before he went to bed, Dad emptied his pockets and put the coins into the jar. The pickle jar, for as long and as far back as I can remember, sat on the floor next to the dresser in my parents’ bedroom. Have a read! I’d love to hear what you think in the comments! ♥ The Pickle Jar More than anything, it warms my heart, because my Mom did exactly the same for me. It speaks of a parent’s unconditional love.
This story, “The Pickle Jar”, author unknown, makes me cry each time I read it.
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