Short Stories

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 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.

"A Son's Dying Wish"  

The 26-year-old mother stared down at her son
who was dying of terminal leukemia. Although her heart was
filled with sadness, she also had a strong feeling of
determination. Like any parent she wanted her son to grow
up and fulfill all his dreams. Now that was no
longer possible. The leukemia would see to that. But she
still wanted her son's dreams to come true. She took
her son's hand and asked, "Billy, did you ever think
about what you wanted to be once you grew up?
Did you ever dream and wish what you would do
with your life?" "Mommy, I always wanted to be a
fireman when I grew up." Mom smiled back and said,
"Let's see if we can make your wish come true."
Later that day she went to her local fire department
in Phoenix, Arizona, where she met Fireman Bob, who had
a heart as big as Phoenix. She explained her son's
final wish and asked if it might be possible to
give her six year old son a ride around the
block on a fire engine. Fireman Bob said, "Look,
we can do better than that. If you'll have your
son ready at seven o'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him
an honorary fireman for the whole day. He can come
down to the fire station, eat with us, go out
on all the fire calls, the whole nine yards! "And
if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real
fire uniform for him, with a real fire hat-not
a toy one-with the emblem of the Phoenix Fire
Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber
boots. They're all manufactured right here in Phoenix, so we
can get them fast." Three days later Fireman Bob picked
up Billy, dressed him in his fire uniform and escorted
him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and
ladder truck. Billy got to sit on the back of the
truck and help steer it back to the fire station.
He was in heaven. There were three fire calls in
Phoenix that day and Billy got to go out on
all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines, the
paramedic's van, and even the fire chief's car. He was
also videotaped for the local news program. Having his dream
come true, with all the love and attention that was
lavished upon him, so deeply touched Billy that he lived
three months longer than any doctor thought possible. One night
all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and
the head nurse, who believed in the hospice concept that
no one should die alone, began to call the family
members to the hospital. Then she remembered the day Billy
had spent as a fireman, so she called the Fire
Chief and asked if it would be possible to send
a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with
Billy as he made his transition. The chief replied, "We
can do better than that. We'll be there in five
minutes. Will you please do me a favor? When you
hear the sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will
you announce over the PA system that there is not
a fire? It's just the fire department coming to see one
of its finest members one more time. And will you
open the window to his room? About five minutes later
a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital, > > extended
its ladder up to Billy's third floor open window and
16 firefighters climbed up the ladder into Billy's room. With
his mother's permission, they hugged him and held him and
told him how much they loved him. With his dying breath,
Billy looked up at the fire chief and said, "Chief,
am I really a fireman now?" "Billy, you are," the
chief said. With those words, Billy smiled and closed his
eyes one last time.

  "All the Good Things"
He was in the first grad class I taught
at Saint Mary's School in Morris, Minn.
All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark
Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in
appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude
that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.

Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again
and again that talking without permission was not
acceptable. What impressed me so much, was his
sincere response every time I had corrected him for misbehaving-
"Thank you for correcting me, Sister!?". I didn't know
what to make of it at first, but before long,
I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.

One morning my patience was growing thin when Marked
talked once to often, and I made a novice-teacher's
mistake. I looked at Mark and said, "If you say one more
word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"

It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out,
"Mark is talking again. "I hadn't asked the students
to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated
the punishment in front of the class, I had
to act on it.

I remember the scene as if it had occured
this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately
opened my desk drawer and took out a roll
of masking tape. Without saying a word, I
proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of
tape and made a big X with them over his
mouth. then I turned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing,
he winked at me. That did it!! I started
laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's
desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first
words were, "Thank you for correcting me Sister."

At the end of the year I was asked to teach
junior-high math. The years flew by, and before
I knew it Mark was in my classroom again.
He was more handsome than ever and just as
polite. Since he had listen carefully to my
instructions in the "new math," he did not
talk as much in the ninth grade as he had
in the third. One Friday, things just didn't seem right.
We had worked hard on a new concept all
week, and I sensed that the students were frowning,
frustrated with themselves-and edgy with one
another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got
out of hand. so I asked them to list the
names of the other students in the room on two
sheets of paper, leaving a space between
each name. then I told them to think of the
nicest thing they could say about each of their
classmates and write it down. It took the remainder
of the class period to finish the assignment,
and as the students left the room, each one
handed me the papers. Charles smiled. Mark
said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister.
Have a good weekend."

That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each
student on a separate sheet of paper, and
I listed what everyone had said about that individual.
On Monday I gave each student his or her list.
Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?"
I heard whispered. "I never knew this meant anything
to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me
so much!" No one ever mentioned those papers in
the class again. I never knew if they
discussed them after class or with their parents,
but it didn't matter. the excerise  had
accomplished its purpose. The students were
happy with themselves and one another again.

That group of students moved on. Several years later,
after I had returned from vacation, my parents met
me at the airport. As we were driving home,
Mother asked me the usual questions about
the trip-the weather, my experience in the
general. There was a light conversation. Mother
gave Dad a side-ways glance and simply said, "Dad?"
My father cleared his throat as he usually did
before something important. "The Eklunds called last nite, "he began.

"Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in years.
I wonder how Mark is. "Dad responded quietly.
"Mark was killed in Vietnam. "he said." the funeral
is tomorrow and his parents would like you to attend.
"To this day I can still point to the
exact spot on 1-494 where Dad told me about Mark.

I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin
before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature.
All I could think at that moment was,
Mark, I would give all the masking tape in
the world if only you would talk to me.

The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's
sister sang the "Battle Hymn of the Republic."
Why did it have to rain on the day of
the funeral? It was difficult enough at
the graveside. the pastor said the usual prayers,
and the bugler played taps. One by one those
who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin
and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the
last one to bless his coffin. As I stood there,
one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came
up to me. "Where you Mark's math teacher?"
he asked. I knoded as I continued to stare
at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a
lot, "he said.

After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates
headed to Chuck's farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother
and father were there, obviously waiting for me.
"We want to show you something, "his father said,
taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They
found this on Mark when he was killed. We
thought you might recognize it." Opening the billfold,
he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook
paper that had obviously been taped, folded

and refolded many times. I knew without
looking that the papers were the ones on
which I had listed all the good things each of
Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank
you so much for doing that, "Marks mother said.
"As you can see, Mark treasured it."

Mark's classmate started to gather around us.
Charles smiled rather sheepisly and said,
"I still have my list. It's in the top
drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife
said, "Chuck asked me to put this in
our wedding album." "I have mine too,
"Marilyn said. "It's in my diary. "Then Vickie,
another classmate, reached into her pocketbook,
took out her wallet and showed her worn and
frazzled list to the group. "I carry this
with me at all times, "Vickie said without
batting an eyelash. "I think we all saved our lists."

That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried
for Mark and for all his friends who would
never see him again.  

THE END written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosla

Like any good Mother, when Karen found out that another
baby was on the way, she did what she could
to help her 3 year old son, Michael, prepare
for a new sibling. They found out that the new
baby was going to be a girl
and day after day, night after night, Michael sang
to his little sister in Mommy's tummy.

He was building a bond of Love with his little sister
before he even met her. The pregnancy progressed
normally for Karen, an active member of the
Panther Creek United Methodist Church in Morristown,
Tennessee. In time, the labor pains came.
Soon it was every 5 minutes, every 3 minutes, every
minute. But serious complications arose during delivery and
Karen found herself in hours of Labor. Would a C-section
be required? Finally, after a long struggle,
Michael's little sister was born, but she was in
serious condition. With a siren howling in the night,
the ambulance rushed the infant to the
Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at St. Mary's Hospital,
Knoxville, Tennessee. The days inched by, the little girl
got worst. The Pediatric Specialist regretfully
had to tell the parents, "There is very little
hope, Be ready for the worst."

Karen and her Husband contacted a local cemetery about
a burial plot. They had fixed up a special
room in their home for the new baby, but
now they found themselves having to plan for
a Funeral. Michael, however, kept begging his
parents to let him see his sister. "I
want to sing to her, "he kept saying. Week
two in Intensive Care looked as if a
Funeral would come before the week was over.
Michael kept nagging about singing to his sister,
but kids are never allowed in the Intensive Care.
Karen made up her mind, though. She would take
Michael whether they liked it or not! If he didn't
see his sister right then, he may never see her
alive.

She dressed him in an oversized scrub suit and
marched him into ICU. He looked like
a walking laundry basket, but the head nurse
recognized him as a child and bellowed, "Get that
Kid out of here now! No children are
allowed!" The Mother rose up strong in Karen
and the usually mild mannered Lady glared
steel-eyed right into the head nurse's face, her
lips a firm line. "He is not leaving until he
sings to his sister!"

Karen towed Michael to his sister's bedside. He
gazed at the tiny infant losing the battle
to live. After a moment, he began to sing. In the
pure hearted voice of a 3 year-old Michael sang:
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
you make me happy when skies are gray. "Instantly
the baby girl seemed to respond. Her pulse rate
began to calm down and become steady.
"Keep on singing. Michael, "encouraged Karen with
tears in her eyes. "You never know, dear, how much
I Love you, Please don't take my sunshine away.
As Michael sang to his sister, the baby's ragged,
strained breathing became as smooth as a kitten's
purr. "Keep on singing sweetheart!! "The other night,
dear as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you
in my hands." Michael's little sister began to
relax as rest, healing rest, seemed to
sweep over her. "Keep on singing, Michael. " Tears
had now conquered the face of the bossy
head nurse. Karen glowed, "You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine. Please don't take my sunshine away..."

The next day...the very next day...the little
girl was well enough to go home! "Women's Day
Magazine", called it "The Miracle Of A
Brother's Song." The Medical Staff just called it
a Miracle. Karen and her Husband called it a
Miracle Of God's Love!

Never Give Up On The People You Love, For Love
Is So Incredibly Powerful.

To the World, you may be one person, But To One
Person, You May Be The World!!!!!

© 1997