“Learn How A Simple Pickle Jar Can Teach You All You Will Ever Need To Know About The Values of Determination, Perseverance, and Faith”
The Pickle Jar
by: Author Unknown
The pickle jar, as far back as I can remember, sat 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 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
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 and say, “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 a 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. Then 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, but
we knew nothing had to be said.