The Pickle Jar 

 1   As far back as I can  remember,  the  large  pickle jar 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.

2   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 towards 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.”

3  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.”

 4  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.”

5 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.

6   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.”

7 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.

8  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 quietly 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.

9  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.

Translation

爸爸的泡菜坛

1        自从我记事起，那个大大的泡菜坛就放在父母卧室的橱柜旁边的地板上。每当准备上床睡觉的时候，爸爸都会把他的衣兜倒空，将兜里的硬币投进坛子里。小时候，我对那些硬币落在坛子里发出的声响总是很着迷。当坛子几乎还是空着的时候，硬币落进去时发出的是欢快的叮当声。等到坛子快要装满的时候，叮当声便渐渐变成了沉闷的砰砰声。每当太阳透过卧室的窗户照进来的时候，坛子里圆圆的铜币和银币会像海盗的珍宝一样闪闪发光，而我便蹲在坛子前的地板上欣赏它们。

2     坛子装满后，爸爸会坐在厨房的餐桌旁，将那些硬币用纸卷起来，然后再拿到银行去把它们存起来。把硬币存入银行可是件大事。那些硬币整整齐齐地码在一个小纸盒里，放在爸爸那辆旧卡车的车座上，在我和爸爸之间。每一次，在我们开车去银行的路上，爸爸都满怀希望地看着我，对我说：“那些硬币会让你远离纺织厂的，儿子。你会比我强。这个古老的纺织城镇是留不住你的。”每一次，当他把那盒卷好的硬币推过银行柜台交给收银员时，他都会骄傲地咧着嘴笑个不停。“这些钱是我儿子将来上大学的基金，他绝不会像我一样在纺织厂干一辈子的。”

3     每次存完钱，我们都会买两个蛋筒冰淇淋庆贺一下。我的那一份总是巧克力味的，而爸爸的总是香草味的。当冷饮店的服务员把找回的零钱递给爸爸时，他总会把那几个硬币摊在手心里给我瞧，“回家以后，我们就又要开始往坛子里存硬币了。”

4      他总是让我把第一把硬币投进空空的坛子里。当它们发出清脆欢快的叮当声时，我们就相对咧嘴一笑。“你上大学就要靠这些1分、5分、10分和25分的硬币了，”他说，“不过，你会上大学的，我一定会让你上大学的。”

5       许多年过去了，我完成了大学学业，在另一座城镇找到了工作。有一次，我去看望父母。我到他们的卧室打电话，注意到那个泡菜坛不见了。它已经完成了使命，被移走了。我凝视着橱柜旁那个放过泡菜坛的地方，心潮起伏，不由得一阵哽咽。爸爸是一个沉默寡言的人，从来没有对我讲过决心、毅力和信仰等的重要性。但是这个泡菜坛却教给了我这些品德，它的说服力远远胜过华丽的词藻。

6      结婚以后，我跟妻子苏珊说起这个不起眼的泡菜坛在我的童年生活中扮演的重要角色。在我看来，它比任何一件事都更充分地体现了爸爸对我的爱。不管家里的日子多么艰难，爸爸总是坚持不懈地往那个坛子里扔硬币。甚至在爸爸被工厂解雇的那个夏天，妈妈不得不每星期做上几顿干豆子，可他们却没有从那个坛子里拿出过一分钱。相反，爸爸为我寻找出路的决心反而比任何时候都更加坚定。他看着坐在餐桌对面的我，把番茄酱倒在我的豆子上，让它们吃起来味道更好些。“大学毕业后，儿子，”他对我说，眼睛里闪着光，“你再也不必吃豆子了，除非你自己想吃。”

7      我的女儿杰西卡出生后的第一个圣诞节，我们一家与父母一起过节。吃过晚饭后，妈妈和爸爸挨着坐在沙发上，轮流抱他们的第一个孙女。后来，杰西卡开始轻声地哭起来，苏珊便从爸爸的怀里接过她。“大概要换尿布了，”她说着，就抱着孩子到父母的卧室里去了。

8      苏珊回到客厅后，眼睛令人奇怪地有些潮湿。她把杰西卡递给爸爸，然后拉着我的手，一言不发地将我领进卧室。“你瞧，”她轻轻地说，我顺着她的目光向橱柜旁边的地板上看去。令我感到惊讶的是，那儿放着那个旧泡菜坛，坛底已经铺满了硬币，就好像从来不曾被拿走过。

9        我走近泡菜坛，把手伸进口袋，掏出了一把硬币。我百感交集，默默地把硬币投进坛子里。我抬起头来，看见爸爸抱着杰西卡悄悄地走进了卧室。我们四目相对，我知道他此时的心情和我完全一样。我们都激动得说不出话来。