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A bedtime story " The Pickle Jar "
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Jun 8, 2023 19:18:26   #
plumbob Loc: New Windsor Maryland
 
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.

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 19:52:19   #
Frank romero Loc: Clovis, NM
 
Plum you have posted good ones before but I believe this one is the best one. Thanks

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 19:55:19   #
Foodfisher Loc: SO. Cal coast
 
plumbob wrote:
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.
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat o... (show quote)


You did it again! Sniff

Reply
 
 
Jun 8, 2023 19:57:22   #
nutz4fish Loc: Colchester, CT
 
plumbob wrote:
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.
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat o... (show quote)


Bob, You're killin' me. GF walked in the room & sez, Max, what's wrong ? Me : " Nothing Darlin', must be the Canadian smoke in my eyes." 🥲.
Beautiful story !

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 19:57:40   #
plumbob Loc: New Windsor Maryland
 
Frank romero wrote:
Plum you have posted good ones before but I believe this one is the best one. Thanks


Thanks Frank I need to pass on the kudos to a friend too. Figured it was a good bedtime read to call it a night.

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 19:58:27   #
plumbob Loc: New Windsor Maryland
 
Foodfisher wrote:
You did it again! Sniff


I know what you mean Ff. But happy sniffs though.

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 19:59:42   #
Frank romero Loc: Clovis, NM
 
nutz4fish wrote:
Bob, You're killin' me. GF walked in the room & sez, Max, what's wrong ? Me : " Nothing Darlin', must be the Canadian smoke in my eyes." 🥲.
Beautiful story !


At least you can blame the smoke, none here in New Mexico this year.

Reply
 
 
Jun 8, 2023 20:01:56   #
Grizzly 17 Loc: South central Pa
 
plumbob wrote:
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.
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat o... (show quote)


Great story Bob.
Those jars do add up over time.

Superstition says tails up let a penny lay. I pick them up regardless.
A penny richer n I did a toe touch.
Counts as exercise 🤣

It is hard at times to count our blessings in times of turmoil.

Opening my eyes ea morning.
Being able to walk outside with Chylo.
Two blessings to start every day right away.

Then there's y'all telling your tails 👍😊

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 20:02:02   #
plumbob Loc: New Windsor Maryland
 
nutz4fish wrote:
Bob, You're killin' me. GF walked in the room & sez, Max, what's wrong ? Me : " Nothing Darlin', must be the Canadian smoke in my eyes." 🥲.
Beautiful story !


I know the feeling Maxx. I played around with it during the day to break up one big paragraph.

Transferring it from email to word to here jumbles it all up. Read it quite a few times and same affect on the eyes here each time.

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 20:04:34   #
plumbob Loc: New Windsor Maryland
 
Grizzly 17 wrote:
Great story Bob.
Those jars do add up over time.

Superstition says tails up let a penny lay. I pick them up regardless.
A penny richer n I did a toe touch.
Counts as exercise 🤣

It is hard at times to count our blessings in times of turmoil.

Opening my eyes ea morning.
Being able to walk outside with Chylo.
Two blessings to start every day right away.

Then there's y'all telling your tails 👍😊


You aren't alone Butch, I will pinch a penny from the street too.

I was telling Oz earlier 1 of the kids filled up a 5 gallon water bottle and put a nice deposit down on his first truck.

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 20:09:18   #
OldBassGuy Loc: Temecula, CA
 
plumbob wrote:
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.
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat o... (show quote)


Awesome story Plum, thnx for sharing!

Reply
 
 
Jun 8, 2023 20:20:01   #
plumbob Loc: New Windsor Maryland
 
OldBassGuy wrote:
Awesome story Plum, thnx for sharing!


Thanks OBG.

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 20:46:00   #
DozerDave Loc: Port Orchard Wa.
 
I’ve been doing this for probably the last 20 years. Not for any specific reason, it’s just a habit that I got into. I never spend a single penny. All coins go into containers. I cashed out the first time about 5 years ago at $3500. And then started all over again…🐟on

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 20:48:14   #
fishyaker Loc: NW Michigan (Lower Peninsula)
 
What a great read Plumb! Outstanding!

Reply
Jun 8, 2023 20:49:00   #
DozerDave Loc: Port Orchard Wa.
 
I’ve been doing this for probably the last 20 years. Not for any specific reason, it’s just a habit that I got into. I never spend a single penny. All coins go into containers. I cashed out the first time about 5 years ago at $3500. And then started all over again…🐟on

Reply
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