[FrankChastain]

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 tableand 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.'