英语情感故事-The Pickle Jar

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???-The Pickle Jar

As far back as I can remember, the large pickle jar 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 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.

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.

across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly.

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.

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.

said.

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 th

e 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.

finish college, son,

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.

changed,

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 quietly leading me into the room.

softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if

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