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.
