---------------------- 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. >>
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