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 to 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.' 

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 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: he 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. 
 
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. 
 

Your contact for all your real estate needs in Waukesha County, WI,                  

Kristin Johnston

PLEASE ASK ME ABOUT MY GIVE BACK PROGRAM, WHERE I MAKE A CONTRIBUTION TO AN ANIMAL SHELTER IN YOUR NAME UPON CLOSING!!! 

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