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作者小时候时常目睹父亲把硬币投进泡菜坛子，为他将来上大学攒钱，等到作者大学毕业，有了工作，也成了家后回到父母家里时，却没看见父亲的泡菜坛子，作者不免思绪万千。作者会再次看到父亲的泡菜坛子吗？
The pickle jar as far back as I can remem?ber sat on the floor in my parents bedroom.
When he got ready for bed， Dad would empty his pockets and throw his coins into the jar.
As a small boy I was always fascinated by the soun
ds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then， the fuller the jar， the duller the sound.
Taking the coins to the bank was always a big job. Each time we drove to the bank， Dad would look at me hopefully， saying， “Those coins are going to keep you out of the small town.”
Also， each time he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier， he would shout proudly， “These are for my sons college fund. Hell never work at the mill（工廠） all his life like me.”
When we got home， we would start filling the jar again. He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. We smiled at each other as they made a brief， happy jingle. “Youll get to college on pennies，” he said.
No matter how rough things got at home， Dad continued to drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill， not a single coin was taken from the jar.
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（坚持不懈）， and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues.
Languag
The pickle jar as far back as I can remem?ber sat on the floor in my parents bedroom.
When he got ready for bed， Dad would empty his pockets and throw his coins into the jar.
As a small boy I was always fascinated by the soun
ds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then， the fuller the jar， the duller the sound.
Taking the coins to the bank was always a big job. Each time we drove to the bank， Dad would look at me hopefully， saying， “Those coins are going to keep you out of the small town.”
Also， each time he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier， he would shout proudly， “These are for my sons college fund. Hell never work at the mill（工廠） all his life like me.”
When we got home， we would start filling the jar again. He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. We smiled at each other as they made a brief， happy jingle. “Youll get to college on pennies，” he said.
No matter how rough things got at home， Dad continued to drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill， not a single coin was taken from the jar.
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（坚持不懈）， and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues.
Languag