...found this story recently and thought I'd share...
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 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 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.
Author: Unknown
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!
Hugs and Kisses
TraceyJean
I used the Sophia paper pack from the latest CTMH Idea Book to create two 4x4 cards. For the first, I wanted to try something a little different and ended up with a gatefold card. Not particularly unusual, but not something generally found in a card this size. I used the back of the very colourful floral paper to get a more muted look.
Then I paired the patterned paper with the new CTMH kraft cardstock because I just love pink and brown together. A few pearls and a little sentiment on the inside finished the look. This card uses no foam dots anywhere *gasp* making it very easy to send through the mail.
