1
1.
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 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."