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 by the sounds the coins made. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty, then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as it filled up. I used to squat in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure in the sunlight.
When the jar was filled, Dad would roll the coins and we'd take them to the bank in his old truck. Each time, he'd say hopefully, "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me." At the bank, he'd grin proudly and tell the cashier, "These are for my son's college fund."
We'd always celebrate each deposit with an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate; Dad always got vanilla. When he got his change, he'd show me the few coins 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 with a happy jingle, we'd grin at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he'd say. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."
The years passed. I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, visiting my parents, I noticed the pickle jar was gone from its spot beside the dresser. A lump rose in my throat. My dad was a man of few words who never lectured me on determination, perseverance, or faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than any words could have.
When I married, I told my wife Susan about the jar. To me, it defined how much my dad loved me. No matter how rough things got, Dad doggedly dropped his coins in. Even the summer he was laid off and we ate beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. Instead, looking at me across the table, he became more determined. "When you finish college, son," he said, eyes glistening, "you'll never have to eat beans again unless you want to."
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we visited my parents. After dinner, Susan took Jessica to my parents' bedroom to change her diaper. When she returned, there was a strange mist in her eyes. She took my hand and led me quietly into the bedroom.
"Look," she said softly, directing my gaze to the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there stood the old pickle jar, as if it had never been removed, its bottom already covered with coins.
I walked over, dug into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped them into the jar. I looked up and saw Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked. Neither one of us could speak.