The Penny Jar

I had seen my Grandpa this way before.  It happened ever so often that I would hear the shuffle of his baggy cargo pants against the wood, the tingle like wind chimes, as the sweet tea and exactly five ice cubes rustled, inside a clean glass cup, along with his rolling gate.  He would drag his tired and ancient body towards the porch, where he would drop himself into the aged rocking chair in a careless way, then lean far back and observe the sun with the hour it had before it would disappear into the gathering dusk.  He would rock, back and forth back and forth, the creaking and moaning of the broken rocking chair added a sort of thrill to this mysterious custom.  I was but a lad of nine when I really took notice of this. I wondered often about these peculiarities, when I asked about it my mom would shrug her shoulder, shake her pretty brown hair and tell me he had something called, “nostalgia”.  I assumed it was some sort of non fatal disease and left it at that.  But even still I would find myself watching him from the living room window, past all the dirt of unwashed filth, as he would rock away in the growing moonlight, completely transfixed on the wondrous orb’s majesty and a past never again to be relived. 

It was on such a day that I found none of my playmates were available to play baseball in our Lot and so I laid about the house that day feeling sorry for myself as most nine year olds do when they are in such a predicament.  I was almost bored to tears when I heard the steady shuffle of my Grandpa, the tinkle of the ice cubes, and something else that resounded like a strange harmony to his gate, it sounded almost like a maraca.  The door opened and then slammed shut behind him as I then heard him collapse into the chair with a gasp as long creaking sounds ensued from his persistent rocking.  

It was then I decided I should be made clearer of his “nostalgic” circumstances and I walked out onto the porch resolutely, my arms crossed to make my point more clear without saying so.  He turned his weary eyes upon me; as he did so I cannot express the strange mix of emotions I read in his eyes, as I remember now.  His large grey eyes that sagged about the sides, due to extensive wrinkles, looked through me as if I was as translucent as a ghost.  He sighed heavily, as though overrun with a great burden. 

‘Grandpa?’ I had asked him, almost expecting no reply.

My assumption was correct, he merely shrugged his shoulders, and turned his attentions back towards the sky.  

I suddenly felt intrusive and awkward, as if this was the only moment in my life my Grandpa did not want me here, a special moment he did not want to share with me.  But curiosity got the better of my wise judgment and I pointed my chubby finger towards the jar that had made the noise that was unknown to me.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, pushing my brown crop of hair out of my youthful face.

‘A jar.’ Came the gruff response.

‘Don’t be silly, I know that!  What’s it for?’ I pushed.  Grandpa turned towards me, and eyed me hard right in the eyes as he always did when he was trying to see if I was lying or being truthful.  Even if that wasn’t the case now I found myself quaking on the inside, some sort of mortal fear overcoming me as it always did when Grandpa looked at me that way. 

‘It’s mine that’s what it is.’ Was the brief response.

I wasn’t about to give up, I was captivated by the strange object, simple it might have been, but its meaning obviously peculiar.

‘Are them pennies?’ I asked of him, giving into my childish obsession of having to touch everything I saw.  He slapped my hand gently before it reached its destination and I drew back, not from pain, but from shock. 

‘Yes they are pennies.’ He answered leaving his hand upon the jar protectively. 

I looked at him incredulously.

‘You been collectin pennies?!’ my face must have been radical, as I scrunched it up in my wondering for he chuckled a bit at it.

‘No.  I’ve had this jar for many years.’

‘You has?  But if you aren’t collectin then whats em for?’ I was stubborn and I believe my Grandpa understood that I would not give up until I knew the truth.  So he leaned close to me and whispered, his raspy voice tickling my ear,

‘If I tell you, will you promise not to tell another human being?’ he looked so solemn and so confiding I felt special to have been chosen for this secret and nodded readily.  Even though I had pushed so hard I hadn't really given him much of a choice.

‘Allright, then sit down and I’ll explain. (I dropped where I was and watched him with clear energy making him chuckle once more, causing his beard and mustache to rise and take over his nose and most of his ruddy cheeks.) This here is my Penny Jar.  My Grandfather took me aside one day, just as I am telling you now, and swore me to secrecy, (I wriggled in excitement) A Penny jar is a tradition,(he continued) as you might call it, I began mine when I was ten or eleven.  At the end of every year you drop a single penny with that same year on it into the jar.  And every time you see that penny you try to remember everything extraordinary that happened that year so you can always have the memories with you.’

I nodded again, stating nonverbally that I understood. 

‘So every good year or so I take it out, and I go over a good amount of pennies and try to remember all those times passed; it takes a lot of practice but you get the hang of it.’

I was a bit disappointed that that was it, and after he finished talking I remained seated where I was and pondered about it.  Suddenly the idea came to me.

‘Grandpa,’ I said. ‘Might you tell me a few stories about so long ago?’

Even to this day I don’t think I had ever seen such a look of pleasure as I had seen that moment roll across his features.  Immediately it was as if the old grey man that rocked away in a lifeless state was suddenly alive.  He sat up a little straighter, rocked away with a little more energy, and clasped his worn hands together as he did whenever he was particularly pleased about something.  He then reached for the decrepit jar and took the rusted lid from it; he fingered the pennies for a moment then set them down before me.

‘What do you want me to do Grandpa?’ I asked, a little confused at his actions.

‘Pick a penny, and I will tell you a story from each year that is engraved upon its surface.’

I decided that I would like this game very much and dug my fingers into the mix of dust and copper and didn’t take hold of a penny until my hand was halfway in the jar.  I pulled back, in between my fingers, shone an older looking penny that was growing brown and ugly. 

‘Whats it say?’ asked he, leaning forward expectantly, his piercing grey eyes that were as large as a basset hounds’ watched my every move.

‘It says 1923.’ I thusly set the penny aside and turned my attention completely toward Grandpa, who looked towards the bright blue sky in search of a memory, trying to recollect a past that seemed so tragic, yet dear to this old man.  A few moments was all he needed to set his face alight with remembrance and the chair to begin creaking once more as he merrily rocked away,

‘1923, ah yes, I recall that I was, around, twelve.  It was at the beginning of summer, when we really felt freedom from the tyranny we had viewed school as.  I don't even think we knew what tyranny meant, but we knew it meant something bad so we associated it promptly with school.  Anyways, I remember the morning my dad walked through that big kitchen door of our small white country home lugging around a big box.  We weren’t exactly a rich family if you want to know so you can imagine our surprise when he opened up that great big box and pulled out the nicest radio money could buy!’

‘Radio?  But we have CD’s now.’ I couldn’t believe the idea of ever getting excited about a simple radio.  Grandpa glared at me, I closed my mouth resolutely and motioned for him to finish.

‘Actually we had TV’s by this time.  I remember watching it around once a month or so at a rich neighbor’s house.  How exciting it was.  As I was saying, we took great store in our radio, Pop proudly showed it off to every single visitor we had, even if they had one he would direct then on turning the knobs as if they had not the slightest idea.  Some got annoyed at his excitement, others understood it, since a great many respected my father and how hard working he was.  I remember it was on such a bright, crisp summer morning that me and my brother Jim, thirteen I believe he was, were playing around the house in a way we weren’t suppose to.  Pop was at work and Mama was out getting food for supper.  My Grandma was off in her bedroom napping as she always seemed to do leaving all of us to fend for ourselves.  

Me and Jim were real mischief makers as we never seemed to listen or obey.  So since we felt no responsibility we decided a nice game of catch in the house would be fun.  I am shamed to admit it was from my hand that the ball flew and it was from my hand that it hit that beautiful ornamented radio that fell to the wooden floor.  It was beyond reviving.  All I could think was the endless days that would be spent in my room by myself as everyone enjoyed the great outdoors in the summer heat.  It was too much to bear, so me and Jim, picked up every single piece and buried it far out in the woods, covering any signs that could lead to detection.  

We considered that to be an end to it and tried to appear as normal as possible.  Even so, we still couldn’t wipe away the guilty feeling we both felt.  Mama returned home and actually took no notice of its disappearance, but when Pop returned the first thing he did was plop down in his chair and reach for the knobs that were now non-existent.  He didn’t ask about it until dinner when everyone was gathered. 

“I would like to know…what has happened to the radio?” he asked, he didn’t yell, but his low voice held an edge of danger that made me and Jim shake in our boots.  Everyone, including us, denied having seen its disappearance or where it was to be found now.  We must have sounded convincing because Pop left it at that.  He didn’t say another word about it; which fairly surprised me and Jim, but also made us feel all the more guilty.  P

op didn't push because he trusted us.  After everyone had gone off to bed, Jim and I scurried downstairs like a couple of silent jack rabbits and crouched low behind the couch so we could listen to Mama and Pop as they talked on in low voices.  Nothing was more moving or made us feel such guilt as that moment when we heard our Pop sigh and mention to Mama how upset he was and how he had worked so hard and saved for so long just so he could get that radio for us.  Me and Jim felt so bad we both, at that moment, started crying like two babies and ran for our Pop explaining everything and begging to be forgiven and crying that even if he did forgive us we didn’t deserve it.  

My Pop would have been wrong not to spank us and ground us, and I admit I could not blame him at all since he did.  But I will never forget him hugging us and thanking us for fessing up.  A few weeks after the incident and precisely two weeks after our period of being grounded was up Jim and I were walking home from the drug store drinking the soda pop we had proudly bought with our own shiny nickels when we passed by one of the wealthiest houses in our neighborhood.  We passed it nearly every day but today was different because the woman who owned it was out front and she was in the midst of throwing out a intricately carved radio that looked almost identical to the one we had broken.  You can imagine our shouts and hoots as we ran for her.  She told us the radio was broken but we could have it anyway just to please our childish fancy.  So we lugged that thing home and took if up to the barn and spent an entire week pulling it apart and doing everything we could think of to get it working again.  And to think, all it took was Jim tripping over it accidentally to set it working straight. 

Now let me tell you, there is no sight more wonderful than seeing your father’s face light up like Christmas.  Now whenever people came by he never bragged about the knobs or the different stations we had, he would always tell them how we worked so hard to give back to him what he had lost.’

I stared blankly at my Grandpa just as he stared blankly at the sky that had begun to gradually turn a light shade of pink.  We were both lost in thought, lost in the story, lost in his memories that he was passing onto me.  I had read a book like that once about a man who gave all the memories of the world, the good and the bad, to another little boy. 

‘Now pick another one.’ My Grandpa said, looking amused at my thoughtful gaze.  I reached into the jar again it nabbed one that had lingered near the surface. 

‘This one says 1941.’ I replaced it, and then crossed my legs in anticipation of his next tale.

He carried the same thoughtful look that I often had.  My mother had told me that I was exactly like my Grandpa.  She said that me, my dad, and my Grandpa had the same sheepish grin and thoughtful look, along with our stubborn nature.  I wished to believe her, I never knew my dad.  He died when I was a young boy of three.  I wondered often what it would have been like to have a dad, maybe to play catch with on days when I was bored, or to be able to talk to just whenever I felt like it.  I had always believed that a father was superhero.  I had watched my friends with their fathers, and envied the way that their fathers would pick them up and spin them around or wrestle with them, or how they would lovingly teach their sons baseball.  

A few years back I began the tradition of taking my mitt and my dirty old baseball to the park on my own and throwing it up against a decaying brick wall, and as I did this I talked to the wall and pretended it was the daddy I never had the honor or privilege to know.  I used to meet with this “pop” every Tuesday and Thursday but recently had waned in doing so, it made me wonder, listening to my Grandpa tell about his own father, if I should go back, because it was only then did I really feel like my father was present.  

My own melancholy thoughts were broken by my Grandpa’s hoarse voice and a sudden gulp as he sucked down half of his sweet tea then relaxed and began his second story.

‘1941…as I remember was an incredibly rough time for my family.’

I believed my poor Grandpa for the heaviness of his features, and the depth of his forlorn sigh was enough to make even the heart of a cruel, cold human feel pity.

‘It was the year that America decided it was going to war once again.  World War 2 had begun just two years before and America had done its best to remain completely out of it; even though it had picked its side definitely.  I was twenty-six around this time and my father was reaching the tail end of forty-nine.  

As you well know hearing of war and the never ending prospect that something may occur that could thrust America right in the midst of it we felt it our duty to sign up.  Even my father signed on.  We had five boys and five girls in our household.  I feel sorry for the pain my mother must have felt having to let go of four of her sons, and her husband.  Little Eddie, the fifth son, was much too young to sign on.  Even if there is no danger one still fears the mere mention of war.  

Anyways, we all were recruited.  Me and Danny were stationed far away from any danger in a small town I can’t even remember the name of.  Since we were placed in a town that proved to be of no interest, ever, our captain decided to run us through ridiculous boot camps and training exercises just to keep us occupied.  When we finally earned our well deserved breaks we spent them on the town, going to movies, going to clubs feeling more important than we were and trying our hardest to impress the ladies.  Actually I met Rosa that year.  We didn’t think much of each other at the time.  There was no “love at first sight” or any of that nonsense.  As I was saying, my other two brothers were stationed much like I was, both of them separated and sent to other districts in need of no services whatsoever, only liable to boredom and pointless exercises.  

My father was placed on what we potentially thought was boring.  Honestly not many people thought Pearl Harbor would be any source of attack from anyone.  So they treated life as a soldier as lax as we did all the way inland.  My father would write to us and my mother, play cards like everyone else and wait for the day when he could have enough leave to visit home.  None of them really foresaw the raid.  Sometimes it pains me to even think of what my father went through.  One man who survived who happened to bunk in my father’s rooms told us that he had been in the midst of writing my mom another letter when the attacks happened.  I even wish I could say that he was some sort of hero and died an honorable death.  But I suppose there was nothing more honorable than dying in the midst of thinking of your family.  

When the bombers hit he didn’t have a chance.  He was one of the first to die.  The Japanese didn’t just hit Pearl Harbor or my Pop that day, the hit every single person that lost a loved one in that attack, they hit every single human being that believed so solidly in our country and struck a match on our patriotism.  Of course we went to war.  I wish I could say I was also some sort of war hero, honestly I was never placed anywhere near danger, I did lose a brother though, your great uncle John.  He died in the trenches somewhere in Italy I believe.  Danny was later stationed in Germany and actually did have war stories; he was able to go home though after he was shot. 

I don’t think there is anything more brutal in life than the knowledge that the man who had laughed every evening at the end of the dinner table would never be present at any of the important things that would occur in your life.  He never got to see me marry my Rosa, he never got to see Danny’s child, his would have been first grandchild, and he never got to be there when my youngest sister Annie died of Polio.  My Mama moved out of the white farm house that had been our home ever since I could remember, and she moved into a small home closer in the city. 

She sold most everything that went with the old house.  Including that beautiful radio my Pop had bragged on all his days, before he left for the war.  Mama never knew that it was I that had bought that old thing at the auction, but I couldn't let it go you understand?  It meant far too much.'

I watched, my heart breaking, as a single tear slipped down the weathered, wrinkled cheek of my Grandpa.  His rocking was slow and even, its vivacity gone in the remembrance of such sorrow and the everlasting impact it had.  I remember feeling a strange closeness, a bond that linked my Grandpa and me.  

I had never realized or thought to inquire about how his parents passed away.  I never knew that deep down we were both connected in a sense that we had both lost our fathers, and we both felt that echoing void deep inside the pit of our stomachs at our loss and the consequences it had on both of our lives.  My Grandpa quickly brushed the tear away and smiled at me, his eyes were completely red, making the grey in them appear more resolute.  He ran his fingers through his grey patch of hair and drew a shaky breath before turning towards me once more.  

The sun was beginning to seep down in the abyss of the horizon and the sky behind our home was taking on the colors of night and the sounds of creatures only associated with the darkness.

‘Now only one more is all these weary bones can take.  Make sure it’s a good one.’ Said he, the chair creaked beneath his weight.

I cupped the jar with my hand and shook it about trying to randomize the already unsorted pennies as best as I could.  Then I drew out a penny that looked a lot more recent, still old, but a little more recent. 

‘1962.’ I called out as though an announcer for bingo.  I returned all three pennies to the jar and handed them back to Grandpa who replaced the lid and set it aside.  He took a final swig of the sweet tea before draining it completely; unaware of the remnants he had of it charming, scraggly beard. 

‘1962 eh?  I don’t remember much of that, nothing really big happened that year…wait…except…I might have something, (he chuckled at himself, the pink tone returning to his cheeks, and the brightness to his watery grey eyes.) I was around forty-seven or forty-eight around this time, Me and Rosa had been married about nineteen years.  Your dad was about sixteen, his younger brother, your uncle Ben, around thirteen, and dear little Missy only five years of age.  We had recently moved far out west to fulfill one of my daydream fancies.  I had recently discovered a yearning passion for farming.  

We lived in a townhouse somewhere in Chicago for about six years and on one very random spring day I gave the news to my family.  Rosa, my dearest, pitched such a stubborn fit I practically carried her to Wisconsin!  Your dad, James, I’m afraid wasn’t very easy to persuade either, but Ben and little Missy were so excited at the prospect.  I had bought a homestead on a few acres out west.  So we moved out to that small ranch and set right nicely; as you can tell my “passion” for ranching and farming quickly dissipated.  So we sold the acreage but kept the beautiful white farm house that reminded me so much of the house I grew up in before the war.  

One day, around the time of early fall when the leaves became crisp and crunched beneath your feet with every step you took, your father and I took upon ourselves the liberty of the land and decided we should go camping.  So we packed up and left early that morning and set out, not knowing where we were headed but seemed pretty sure we were going in the right direction, we hiked for a full day when we finally stumbled upon a beautiful crystal like river near sunset.  We spent an entire day here fishing, talking, and enjoying each other for the first time in a long time, as your mother has probably told you me and your father didn’t always get along 

(I nodded my head and grinned slyly at this knowledge as he continued.) So we decided we should sleep in a small hollow cave in the tall bank a few feet from the river.  That night while we slept very soundly rain decided to make its appearance and did not end until far into the morning.  When we awoke, we found that one of our backpacks had been carried away down the river that had risen and roared right below our little fortress.  We were marooned in this cramped little cave with no way of climbing up the bank or swimming through the torrent until the weather decided to be merciful; which it didn’t even seem to be contemplating that at all.  

We only had one backpack supply of food which we organized and rationed in a way that could last us only three days.  We rearranged the cave and started a fire and made it nice and cozy, and would you believe it if I told you that those two days in that small dirty cave cramped up with spiders, rocks, and smoke from the fire, were some of the best days of my life?  

We were left to the fate of ingenuity and creativity to keep us entertained and occupied for those hours, so we invented odd games with the sticks and stones we had collected, and also found that fishing was an interesting experience when the water was rushing at insane speed and the fish were fighting to grab your hook.  We had told my Rosa we would only be gone a single day and night.  So when the water finally died down enough for us to make a swim for it we were only an hour into our hike home when we were discovered by a Mountie!  He led us home to my worried wife and darling children and we disclosed to them our adventures and with grins how much we enjoyed that old cave fortress.’

The sun had finally laid to rest beyond what our eyes could see and the stars, not fully visible, twinkled and sputtered in the night sky.  A small gust of wind whistled through the porch making the boards beneath me moan.  I shivered as the coldness of the night air crawled beneath my skin. 

‘And I do believe that it’s time to go in.’ Grandpa finally stated having probably noticed my shivers.  I thanked him heartily for the wonderful stories and begged him that he should tell some more to me some other time.  In which his reply included a smile to himself as he nodded his assent, pleasure lining his creased features as he shuffled back indoors.  The screen door closing behind him against the night air in which I still found myself. 

My young thoughts traveling once more over the stories and the words my Grandpa had shared me.  Almost feeling the pain and loss of his Pop’s death, or the fear of seeing that water rushing beneath your very feet and being completely dependent on nature to preserve your own life.  In those few hours I realized that a bond between me and my Grandpa had formed.  Something irrefutable that, I believed, would remain consistent.  I decided that tomorrow I would take my mitt to that park and that old dirty ball and tell my make-believe daddy everything that Grandpa had told me.  I couldn’t wait for the possibilities so I ran inside out of the frigid night air and looked out into the darkness once more; vowing I would remember it all. 

With such a resolution made I slowly closed the door and shut out any remnants of the world beyond, and as I walked towards my room gently caressed the old beautifully crafted radio, as I passed, that stood like an old friend in the corner of the room, marveling at all it had seen.       

                 

 

 

Author's Note

Please pardon any grammatical stuff :)