Hi friends,
We are all familiar with the "Chicken Soup for the Soul" series of books, which has gone from one simple book of endearing and heartwarming stories to a ever-expanding group of books for every subset of reader.
Chicken Soup for the Parent's Soul, particularly appealed to me, and I am sure each of you have your own stories of moments with your parents, or children that would fit right in to these beautiful moments shared on the pages of the book.
ParentsSoul.com shares a few of the stories from their book and I wanted to share them here as well. Follow the link at the end of the story to continue reading further samples and to order a copy.
Enjoy.
(The following stories are excerpts from Chicken Soup for the Parent's Soul. We hope you enjoy these offerings, and also hope that you will order your copy through our website today!)
"The Pickle Jar"
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.
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 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
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.
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.
by A.W. Cobb
Excerpted from Chicken Soup for the Parent's Soul and reprinted by permission of A.W. Cobb. ©1999 A.W. Cobb
Read more here... http://www.chickensoupfortheparentssoul.com/sampleStories.html
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