Number 4 of 5 "Father's Day" type stories. This one I have seen several times. It is currently a popular pass-around email:

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 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."

    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 c

oins 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.

~~

The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or touched - they must
be felt with the heart ~ Helen Keller

~~

Shared by Joanne Schleck