The Pickle Jar 咸菜壇子

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.

When the jar was filled, we would take the coins to the bank. Each and every time, as he slid the box of 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."

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job. Once, while visiting my parents, I noticed that the pickle jar in my parents' bedroom was gone. 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. 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.

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Susan carried 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 took 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 the strong emotion choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw Dad who is carrying Jessica. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt.

Neither one of us could speak.

　　在我記憶的深處，那只咸菜壇子就放在父母臥室梳妝臺(tái)的旁邊。每當(dāng)爸爸準(zhǔn)備睡覺的時(shí)候，他總是把衣兜里面的硬幣都拿出來扔到壇子里面。

　　當(dāng)壇子裝滿的時(shí)候，我們就會(huì)把硬幣存到銀行去。每次當(dāng)爸爸把裝滿硬幣的盒子順著柜臺(tái)遞給銀行職員的時(shí)候，他總是驕傲的咧嘴笑著：“這是給我兒子上大學(xué)準(zhǔn)備的基金。他永遠(yuǎn)都不用像我這樣一輩子在這個(gè)工廠里工作。”

　　許多年過去了，我大學(xué)畢業(yè)找了一份工作。一次，我回家看望父母，我發(fā)現(xiàn)父母臥室里的那個(gè)壇子不見了。我盯著梳妝臺(tái)旁曾經(jīng)放壇子的地方，喉嚨一陣哽咽。爸爸不善言語，從來不會(huì)給我講決心，毅力和信仰這些大道理。咸菜壇子教會(huì)了我所有的美德，它比那些華麗的辭藻更有說服力。

　　結(jié)婚的時(shí)候，我把那只卑微的咸菜壇子在我生命中所起的重要作用講給了我的妻子。在我心里，它比任何東西都更能表達(dá)我父親對(duì)我的愛。無論家里過的多么艱難，爸爸總是堅(jiān)持把他的硬幣投進(jìn)壇子里。

　　我們和父母一起度過了我的女兒杰西卡出生后的第一個(gè)圣誕節(jié)。晚飯過后，蘇珊把孩子抱進(jìn)父母的臥室換尿布。當(dāng)蘇珊再次回到起居室的時(shí)候，她的眼睛里面閃著奇怪的淚珠。她拉著我的手來到了父母的臥室。

　　“看，”她輕聲說，順著她的眼神，我向梳妝臺(tái)邊望去。讓我驚訝的是，就在那兒，放著那口舊咸菜壇子，就像從來沒被拿走一樣，壇子底部已經(jīng)放慢了硬幣。我走近壇子，從衣兜里掏出一大把硬幣來。

　　強(qiáng)烈的感情讓我哽咽地說不出話，我把硬幣扔進(jìn)了壇子。我抬頭看見了抱著杰西卡的爸爸，我們目光相對(duì)，我知道他此刻和我有著同樣的感受。

　　我們都激動(dòng)得說不出話來。