Message-ID: <3424556.1075851866521.JavaMail.evans@thyme> Date: Wed, 4 Apr 2001 02:37:00 -0700 (PDT) From: mreese@cmsenergy.com To: carrie.d.austin@us.arthurandersen.com, gbrown@prosrm.com, crockodile1@yahoo.com, dkrenzer@unocal.com, stephekb@bp.com, rwagner@altra.com, kim.ward@enron.com Subject: Fw: The Pickle Jar... Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-From: "Melissa Reese" X-To: carrie.d.austin@us.arthurandersen.com, gbrown@prosrm.com, crockodile1@yahoo.com, dkrenzer@unocal.com, stephekb@bp.com, RWAGNER@ALTRA.COM, kim.ward@enron.com X-cc: X-bcc: X-Folder: \Kim_Ward_Nov2001\Notes Folders\Discussion threads X-Origin: WARD-K X-FileName: kward.nsf ---------------------- Forwarded by Melissa Reese/MST/CMS on 04/04/2001 09:37 AM --------------------------- "Julie Stevenson" on 04/03/2001 07:41:09 PM To: "Carol Willman" , "Laura Ward" , "Stevenson, Rita" , "Mark Stevenson" , "melissa reese" , "Craig Reese" , "Albert Reese" , "linda powers" , "Debra Nameth" , "Annette Johnson" , "Robin Helleck" , "Maribeth Granger" , "Shelly Gallo" , "Don Ehrett" , "John Currie" , "Carol Currie" , "Brenda Colwell" , "Sheri Battle" cc: Subject: Fw: The Pickle Jar... ----- Original Message ----- From: To: ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; 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. >>