Restless tonight cause I wasted the light

Currently Listening To: Finger Eleven-One Thing
The Pickle Jar


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 in
the mill.
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 parlour 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.
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.
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