Fw: The Pickle Jar...

---------------------- Forwarded by Melissa Reese/MST/CMS on 04/04/2001
09:37 AM ---------------------------

"Julie Stevenson" <pjkstevenson@austin.rr.com< on 04/03/2001 07:41:09 PM

To: "Carol Willman" <willflyh47@aol.com<, "Laura Ward"
<Lauraeward@earthlink.net<, "Stevenson, Rita" <ritatstev@yahoo.com<,
"Mark Stevenson" <mark.stevenson@us.abb.com<, "melissa reese"
<mreese@cmshq.com<, "Craig Reese" <craigreese@pzlqs.com<, "Albert
Reese" <reeser3@aol.com<, "linda powers" <lpowers@clearcommerce.com<,
"Debra Nameth" <dnameth@qwest.net<, "Annette Johnson"
<brettannette@earthlink.net<, "Robin Helleck"
<rhelleck@fulbright.com<, "Maribeth Granger"
<egranger@houston.rr.com<, "Shelly Gallo" <shellgallo@aol.com<, "Don
Ehrett" <Ehrett@bellsouth.com<, "John Currie"
<jcurrie61@hotmail.com<, "Carol Currie" <cacurrie1@email.msn.com<,
"Brenda Colwell" <bcolwell@artisticsystems.net<, "Sheri Battle"
<herschms@netzero.net<
cc:
Subject: Fw: The Pickle Jar...

----- Original Message -----
From: <EL58PICKLE@cs.com<
To: <Kelley.Brochtrup@mpfresearch.com<; <rchristman@pdq.net<;
<patdapra@flash.net<; <jdylan@pdq.net<; <Farris101@aol.com<;
<lehrmanns@hotmail.com<; <lmcmillin@houston.rr.com<; <JGPLove@aol.com<;
<pjkstevenson@austin.rr.com<; <ALBERTURRU@aol.com<; <svasinda@hotmail.com<;
<Bgw1830@aol.com<
Sent: Monday, April 02, 2001 10:56 AM
Subject: The Pickle Jar...

< 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 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 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."
< <
< < 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.
< <
< < Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles
< < that we forget to
< < count our blessings.
< <
< < Sorrow looks back. Worry looks around. Faith looks Up!
<
<
<
< This is a heartwarming story of a
< different way of
< life--a time when people didn't throw away money on
< foolish, unnecessary
< things; it was a time when children didn't expect the world
<
< handed to them
< on a silver platter, when people were grateful for the
< small, more important
< things in life. <<