by Jason Wright
Snow Cones and Dimes: A Christmas Jars Story
Snow Cones and Dimes: A Christmas Jars Story
Midpoint
Snow Cones and Dimes
A Christmas Jars Story
Jason F. Wright
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Jason F. Wright
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Snow Cones and Dimes
A Christmas Jars Story
Jason F. Wright
What is the Christmas Jars tradition?
“...one by one, family members will empty their pockets and delight at the cling-clang of change hitting the empty glass bottom. Most days will yield a quarter, a dime, perhaps two nickels and a stray penny. Occasionally Mother will make change for herself by drop- ping in a worn dollar bill and pulling out an appropriate combination of cool silver coins. Over the months that follow, the gathering change will leave no recognizable void. Occasionally the temptation to borrow for laundry, a movie, or the ice-cream truck will float through the house, over the jar, and out the back door. But it never lands. The money is spoken for.” (Excerpt from Christmas Jars, copyright 2005, published by Shadow Mountain.)
Christmas Jars, a New York Times bestselling novella by Jason Wright, first became a phenomenon during the 2005 holiday season. Readers across America reacted to the message of daily giving and sacrifice by creating their own Christmas Jars.
Today, thousands of glass jars rest on kitchen countertops, slowly collecting the spare change generated each and every day. On Christmas Eve, each jar, now overflowing with both money and goodwill, will anonymously find a new home. In turn, the grateful recipients will put the money to good use in their lives and begin their own jar. Thus hearts and lives are changed and the cycle continues.
Snow Cones and Dimes
A Christmas Jars Story
“Mr. Stafford, your three o’clock is going to be a few minutes late.”
TJ missed Peggy. She’d been with him since he opened his office nearly twenty years ago. She was older than he and at least called him Tom. The new girl—polite as she was—made him feel older than sand. It didn’t matter; Peggy wasn’t coming back. She was enjoying a comfortable retirement living off the nest egg his good advice helped her build.
“Thank you, Jenny,” he answered through his open office door. Jenny was young, very pretty, and very white. He would never admit it, but his decision to hire her was based as much on her looks, gender, and race as on her potential skills as an office manager. He knew she would make rich people feel comfortable. Once someone spent a couple of minutes with Jenny, he—or she for that matter—would be ready to talk about entrusting their retirement fund to the middle-aged black man in the big office.
Thomas Jefferson Stafford III did not like to be idle. He looked nervously around the office trying to find something productive to do until his next appointment. A small frame on the wall caught his eye. In the center of the frame was one of his most prized possessions, a 1958-dime. Those few visitors to his office who noticed the dime assumed that it was a rare collector’s item. TJ smiled as he remembered why the coin deserved an expensive frame and prominent spot on his wall.
*****
It was 1966 and TJ had just turned ten. His favorite birthday gift that year was a Frosty the Sno-Man Sno-Cone machine. It was easily the coolest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Ice went in the top and, after a few minutes of vigorous cranking, snow came out of Frosty’s belly to fill a white paper cone. Cherry or grape syrup turned the shaved ice into a tasty treat.
It wasn’t long before TJ was winning friends with free snow cones and wondering if others in the neighborhood might be willing to pay for them. During the sweltering weeks of the Philadelphia summer, there was always at least one lemonade stand on TJ’s street. TJ even tried one himself but lost the competition to some new kids down the block. But now he had something different to offer. He was sure nobody else had a Frosty and nobody else would be selling snow cones.
His father, as usual, was very supportive. Any time TJ showed initiative, Tom Senior was firmly behind him. He helped get the old lemonade stand out of the basement and paint a new sign.
TJ’s Snow Cones
10¢
By the time the sun went down on the same day he first hatched the idea, TJ’s snow cone stand was in place at the edge of the small yard and ready to open for business the next morning. TJ spent the evening gathering supplies. He borrowed one of his mother’s huge kidney bean cans – it hadn’t held beans for years – so that he’d have a place to keep all the money he was bound to earn. Tom Senior disappeared from the house for an hour and returned with four more containers of syrup. “You can pay me from your gross,” he said. The ten-year-old knew exactly what dad meant.
TJ hardly slept that night. He hid a flashlight under his covers and every few minutes, until he first dozed off, he shined it out onto the yard to ensure his stand was secure and undisturbed. He even snuck downstairs sometime shortly after midnight to be sure the folding chair he needed was where he thought it was. As he tried to fall back asleep a list of all the things he was going to buy with his profits scrolled through his mind. He even imagined a chain of ‘TJ’s Snow Cones’ stands dotting street corners throughout West Philly.
The two Thomas Staffords walked out the front door at the same time on that bright August morning. They were both headed for work. Dad was off to manage the staff at a fancy hotel and son was getting ready for his big grand opening. TJ noticed a new look in his father’s eye as they said goodbye to one another. He was young and sheltered from the world his parents still faced as lower-middle-class blacks in the ‘60s. His dad’s eyes reflected the hope and faith of previous generations of Staffords that TJ would have opportunities they would not—or dared not—have dreamed of.
TJ straightened the two-by-four legs of his table and set out his equipment and supplies. He sat in the folding chair and waited for the customers to stream by. Finally, a woman walking her dog came down the sidewalk toward him. “Can I offer you a snow cone for just one small dime,” he asked. He was only slightly aware of the great sales power of his smile: brilliant white teeth against his black face with one tooth missing in front. The woman could not resist.
“I don’t have my purse but I can come back and pay you later, if that’s all right,” she offered.
“That’s fine, Ma’am,” he answered as he reached for the ice pot. The only container his mother would allow him to take outside was an old sauce pan. That’s where he’d kept the ice or, by now, ice water. He looked in the pan and found little ice had survived the morning sun. As he tried to use the lid to drain off the water, a few small cubes of ice slipped by. He quickly adjusted the lid but only succeeded in spilling very cold water on his lap. By the time only ice was left in the pot, there wasn’t enough to fill the machine.
“Never mind,” the lady said as her dog strained at the leash, “I’ll come back later when you have more ice and I have my purse.” She didn’t come back.
TJ’s day was a disaster. He made only one sale and the single dime in the bean can seemed to mock him. He wanted to give up at after his lunch break but couldn’t bear the thought of explaining to his dad what happened. Staffords
didn’t quit. So he sat there in his chair watching familiar cars pass by without slowing, smiling neighbors walking by without saying a word and others waving from across the street with a pleasant, “maybe I’ll be by later.”
At just past six he saw his father’s old Buick turn the corner. It pulled up to the curb in front of the stand and Senior gave TJ a smile and a wave. With tears welling up in his eyes, TJ jumped from the chair and started around the rickety table. The belt loop of his blue jeans caught the corner of the plywood top and two of its legs folded as if they, too, had no more strength for the day. The snow cone machine, coffee can, ice pot, and all of the syrup containers tumbled into the grass. Cherry and grape syrup mixed together with grass to form a sticky sweet mat. Right in the middle of the mess was the lone 1958-dime.
“Daddy, I’m so sorry,” TJ cried. He couldn’t pretend to be strong any more.
“Sorry about what?” Tom Senior asked.
“It all messed up. I only sold one snow cone all day long.”
“Let me see the money.”
TJ moved the upside-down can and saw that the dime was gone. He combed the lawn with his thin fingers and found it, covered in syrup, buried deep in the grass. He was sobbing now. “Forget it, just forget it,” he cried and took his feet, turning quickly toward the house.
“Thomas Jefferson Stafford, come back here.”
TJ turned around and came to his father.
“Let me see the money,” Tom Senior repeated evenly. TJ reached down and retrieved the dime. Attached with cherry glue were several blades of grass. His tears mixed with the syrup as he wiped it off as well as he could. He handed it to his dad.
“Somebody gave you this money because you had something they wanted,” Tom said solemnly. “That’s how it works. That’s how you will feed your family. You have to make sure you have something or know something that other folks want bad enough to pay you for it,” he finished.
“But I ruined everything,” TJ answered. “I’ll never be able to pay you for the syrup.”
Tom Senior smiled and pulled his sticky son to him.
*****
TJ’s smile gave way to a distant, nostalgic look as he thought about Tom Senior. His dad passed away on TJ’s 45th birthday, five years ago. His dad had been washing another Buick – this one a brand new model given to him by his son – when he dropped dead of a massive heart attack.
Before he could follow that thought any further, Jenny rescued him by knocking on the door frame and ushering in his three o’clock appointment.
After three more appointments and a strategy meeting, TJ was ready to go home. It was 6:30 and there was nothing left on his to-do list. He paused and wondered if there might not be something he should do to get ahead on tomorrow’s work. Had it been any earlier in the day, there would have been no question. His over-developed work ethic would have kept him in the office.
He thought of his father again, locked up the office, and hurried to his car. Maybe he could catch the end of dinnertime.
*****
TJ didn’t mean to spy on Carol and the kids; he was simply quiet and listened at the door between the garage and the house. What he heard pleased him immensely. One of the kids was telling a story and everyone else was laughing on cue every few seconds. He couldn’t make out the words but he could easily sense the spirit of what was happening. He turned the knob and entered the house as loudly as he could.
“Daddy!” his teenage daughter cried out. Jacqueline would always call him daddy, he decided. Lexie, his oldest, quit calling him that when she was six. After that, he was ‘dad’ or ‘father’. Lexie was married and expecting TJ and Carol’s first grandchild. It was a pleasant surprise to find her visiting. He was glad to have come home when he did.
“What’s so funny?” he asked. Little Tom, who, at twelve, wasn’t so little any more, started his story from the beginning. Nobody seemed to mind. In fact, getting a second take helped him refine his delivery. Tom skillfully drew everyone into his story about a kid from school who filled the assistant principal’s car to the roof with popcorn. The others laughed harder than they did the first time. TJ laughed at the story, too, but most of his pleasure came from just being there.
As laughter ebbed into giggles, Carol left the table and returned with the newspaper. “Could I have a minute?” she asked. Everyone, including TJ, fell quiet. “There’s the most interesting story in today’s paper,” she said. She went on to read about a number of families who had received jars full of money as anonymous Christmas gifts. The article, “Christmas Jar Phenomena Spreads”, explained that the practice appeared to have started a few years before and was working its way across the country. “We should do this,” she finished.
TJ’s mood changed immediately. He and Carol did not agree when it came to the purpose and nature of money. To him, it was something precious that was carefully tracked and very deliberately spent. To Carol, money was simply the means to an end. Early in their marriage, when there wasn’t much money anyway, their two approaches were in harmony. As he became more successful and more money was coming in than going out, she wanted to use it to enjoy life. He was reluctant to spend money on anything that didn’t have some sort of return on the investment. The very few window-rattling arguments they had in their marriage were caused by money. They finally declared a truce and TJ agreed to give Carol an allowance. She could spend the money any way she liked and he wrote it off as one of the costs of being married to a wonderful but fiscally misguided woman.
Every once in a while, though, something would come up to remind the Staffords that pocket change meant very different things to each of them. TJ had the sense that this was one of those times.
“That is just about the most inefficient way of managing a charitable fund that I could imagine,” he said, hoping that his expert opinion would be enough to stop the discussion. It wasn’t.
“I think it’s a great way for everyone to participate in a project that will help people,” Carol responded. “We all have change in our pockets at the end of the day. Saving it to help someone at Christmas time is a great way to use it.”
TJ wanted to let it go; it wasn’t worth an argument. Carol was trying to do something kind and good and Christian. He knew he should let it go. But something inside him couldn’t give up until he was sure everyone knew just how ineffective this was going to be. “Rather than wasting time keeping track of our change for nine months, why don’t we just decide on a good number, all chip in, and write a check in December?” he suggested. “Someone will have a good Christmas and we will have more time to do other things,” he finished. There, he thought, how could anyone argue with logic like that?
“You just don’t get it, do you?” Carol said. It wasn’t a question. Although she knew it would do no good, she added, “Service is more than writing a check.”
“Fine. You all go right ahead and fill your jar. I am not going to do without change in my pocket when I need it at the vending machine or a parking meter, and on and on and on. I’m just going to always use cash and carry the coins around all day ‘til I git home? No.” When TJ got worked up, the West Philly deep within him surfaced and overpowered his hard-earned Penn State vocabulary. “Count me out.” He stood and, trying to hurry from the room, bumped the corner of the kitchen table. A glass fell over and Tom Junior spun to get out of the way as soda ran toward the edge of the table.
Carol used a couple of napkins to create a dam and stop the puddle. The kids watched in uncomfortable silence as she calmly wiped up the mess. “He’ll come around,” she said. They all knew what she meant. TJ would think it over and realize he’d over-reacted. Then he would apologize for ruining the otherwise fun evening. What he was unlikely to do, however, was admit that the jar idea was a good one. He was always right when it came to money.
Just as everyone knew he would, TJ reappeared after an hour to make his apologies. He probably would have waited until the next day but he wanted things right before Lexi went h
ome. “I’m sorry, guys,” he said. “You know I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Sorry to poop the party.”
“Every party needs a pooper,” Junior answered.
“Great. Thanks,” TJ said with a slight smile. He added, “I still think you will spend more in valuable time than you can possibly collect in change but, if you insist on having a Christmas Jar, I’ll make you a deal.” TJ’s deals were always fair and never negotiable. “You all leave me out without trying to put me on a guilt trip and I will write a check to match whatever you collect. Deal?”
“Deal,” answered Carol on behalf of the family. She knew that TJ wasn’t a cruel miser. The Staffords gave a lot of money to charity each year. TJ was one of Penn State’s favorite alumni and their home was a regular stop on the annual Girl Scout cookie sales route. Still, he just wanted every penny to be honestly earned and effectively spent. His mother, for instance, was in one of the nicest assisted living communities in Pennsylvania but TJ was always making sure that she received every benefit he was paying for. She looked forward to his visits. The staff did not.
*****
“Daddy,” Jacqueline asked a few nights later, “will you help us decorate the jar?” Carol gave her a stern look.
“No, baby,” he answered with more patience than he felt, “I have other things to do.”
Carol and the kids spent over an hour turning a plastic jumbo-sized mayonnaise jar into a piece of hot glued art. “Christmas Jar” was written in red and green glitter across the front and a beautiful silk bow adorned the lid. Snowman and angel stickers hid the places where the Hellman’s label didn’t come off cleanly. Carol put in the first 85 cents and the Stafford Christmas Jar was officially open.
Father and family kept to their bargain for the next six months. TJ didn’t say anything about the inefficiency of the effort and the kids didn’t ask him for change. A couple of quarters disappeared from the dresser during the first few days but a pointed “I could have sworn I had more change when I got home last night” put an end to Carol’s attempts to get TJ’s unknowing participation.
