' A Jar Of Pickles '

‘  A Jar Of Pickles  ‘

04/07/12

To my ever dearest, kind, supportive friends, and loyal readers, I thank you for a friendship that has come to mean so much to me; it is a thing I value, and truly treasure; in addition, I am ever grateful for your readership, and for your thoughtful comments; for they remind me just how wonderful you are, and how wonderfully accepting of me you have been.

In knowing you, and reading your diary entries, and treads, and ‘hugs’, I’ve found a genuine privilege, and the pleasure of a gladdened heart; I most willingly credit you with my transformation from idle loneliness, to feeling as if I might have some purpose after all.  And that also makes glad my heart.

And should I prove in some small way to be of help or interest to you, dearest friends—instead of a continued rant about my pain, or of my circumstance, or of the thousand irritations that these days seems to diminish me—in lack of self-aggrandizement and complaining, I find in your special friendship an anodyne to pain, and a greater understanding that causes me to treasure our similarities and differences, and makes so crystal clear your added meaning to my life, and better appreciation of your beautiful uniqueness.  And for all those things, and more, I shall be as ever grateful to you.  I wanted you to know that.

Some twenty years ago, more or less (as memory often is an irresponsible, and unreliable liar, in choosing what truths it wishes to recall and follow), while still my health was good, I had moved back home, then stayed to try to care for my elderly, and increasingly ill father and mother, my schedule was often full, with working full time nights, and running errands for my folks in the morning, after work.

I would do the grocery shopping then, on my way home from work.

On one occasion, I stopped at a grocery store on my way home; and after having worked the night before, was naturally tired, and wanting nothing more than to discharge my errands, and then get home as quickly as I could, in hopes of finding no elapsed calamity had occurred meanwhile, and so I could have a quick bite of breakfast with my mom and dad, and then hit the bed as soon as I could.

For those of you who have ever had to work at night ( and, try to sleep during the day), it is in direct conflict to a zillion years of evolution, as—perhaps—9/10ths of the globe snooze the night away, while being up and functioning during the day is taken, quite for granted as the ‘norm’.  Our bodies simply are not used to working a ‘night shift’, and so, trying to sleep days, when all the world seemed to be awake, moving, and making LOTS of noise, daytime sleep becomes as precious as spun gold. And since I was usually on my feet for six of the required eight hours, I was ALWAYS tired, and, frequently just exhausted, and whenever I had to ‘stay up’ to run errands, I wanted them done and over as quickly as possible, before I fell asleep at the steering wheel of my car.

When usually I had groceries to get, it was from a list, pretty-much adhered to, and so looking neither to the right, nor to the left of me, I would try to breeze-through the store as if on roller skates, particularly as an hour spent at the store, was a potential hour less sleep available to me.

As was usual at that time of morning, and—really, too often an occurrence at stores during the day—there would—out of maybe twenty-five registers, be only two open: one for those with over-ladened carts, who stretched behind out in a line like coal cars, into the man aisle, and pushed by understandably sullen customers, and one ‘express aisle’, wide-advertised with admonitions of ‘ten items, or less’, that I wondered if in presenting twelve items, would warrant the death penalty ?  Were the managers armed?

Oh well…on this particular day, it happened that I had, maybe, eight items in my cart, and I most gladly steered-around all the other shoppers to race to the express line.

But somehow, there was a problem, a quiet commotion, something serious that ground all commerce to a halt; I scarcely gave it notice as I put my trophies on a conveyor belt that had ceased to function.  And waited.  And waited.  The problem seemed so inconsequential to have left me in a state of stalemate with the cashier.

On the conveyor belt ahead of me was a single, large jar of pickles, and the customer, a tiny lady in perhaps her late eighties trying to proffer to the cashier a small and crumpled coupon.  The bright eyes of that older woman, and her faint, apologetic smile while not quite knowing what the commotion was about as she was hard of hearing, began to fade as the cashier explained and explained to her that the coupon—for a goodly amount off—was for the purchase of three jars of pickles….not one.

I could not help but see—somehow—the light go out of her as she gently put the jar of pickles back on the conveyor belt, and, slowly began to limp away.  I watched all this.  Could her simple happiness depend upon a stupid coupon being able to afford a simple treat? How often in life are we all similarly crushed when even little, minor dreams are taken from us and destroyed?

Without thinking, I told the cashier to get the lady back, and to put the pickles on my tab; for God’s sake, they could not have cost more than three dollars.  “But you don’t have to do that, sir,’ the cashier, who was maybe all of eighteen said, “Its not necessary.”

I saw that single jar of pickles, and the distance from it to an old lady’s happiness.  “Its alright”, I told the cashier as she gave the lady her pickles, “I want to do it, and I think it very necessary.”  The cashier shook her head as if in disbelieve, or else that I had lost my marbles; but I hardly cared.  What I was watching was that older lady, who—in some confusion—smiled at me (and yes…that tiny radiance was there!), and, in taking the jar from the cashier, slowly carried it out of the store, cradling it in both arms.

And these twenty-some-odd years later, what I can still recall are her crinkled, fading eyes, and the uncertain, hesitant, but miraculous return of her small, but happy smile.  After a lifetime of dreams fulfilled, and—more often—dreams that failed, that morning, her hopes were pinned on a simple jar of pickles.

As Humans in an indifferent world, while we do on brief occasion experience the ethereal, and the ecstatic in our hopes and expectations, too often we—too—well know when dreams are lost, or pushed aside; to have our even tiny hopes destroyed; our hopes ground into powder often by an idiot, whose only power is to say, “NO”, and who do so only because they can.  Except for the occasional fantasy that we entertain, I think that—by and large—our true hearts and souls are made content by that which is more reasonable, which should be more easily attained, except for life’s real, and drummed-up demands.  And while it has become a catch phrase about ‘random acts of kindness’, what about ( instead), my dearest, sweet and loving friends, ‘random acts of Altruism’, done without thought of thanks; or expectations of repayment; or of seeking self-appointed sainthood?   For ‘good’ that’s done for ‘good’, rather than for ‘Self’?  In this case, is full-derived the term: selfishness.

That long ago, jar of pickles did not confirm upon me any moral superiority, but, later—though—it did allow my soul to rest more easily in itself.  And, you know, dear friends, I may have even slept a little better that day…who knows?

My very dear, and dearest friends, and ever constant, loyal readers, I wish for you a long, and pleasant weekend (and more!) of much-lessened, or of ‘no pain’; compassionate in your dealings with others; full-surrounded by those you most love, who truly love and care for you;  happy, balmy days and afternoons free from want or care; quiet, and lazy afternoons free of worry; and oh…dear friends, of untroubled nights, of solid, blissful sleep, kept ever safe, and comfortable by, “flights of angels to sing thee to thy rest!”

Please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles