Empty Pockets and Full Hearts

By Jolene Jones
For the Deseret News 2006

Every year at Christmas time, my husband, Russ, relates this story to our children about him and his father, Milton Jones, so that the children can know a little about the grandfather they have never met.

I grew up in McKinleyville, a little town on the Pacific Coast of northern California. During the late 1960s, my father owned a small furniture store. At that time, most of the local business was from the logging industry.

I worked for my dad, hauling furniture into our small truck for delivery to the local customers. My dad, "Milty" to his friends and customers, was a short, quiet, gentle man. Day after day in the store, I would watch him arrange to deliver some much-needed furniture to families with little money. Dad would arrange for payments to be made on the furniture and seal the deal with a handshake. One year, just days before Christmas, I overheard my mom inform Dad that the shop was behind in its collections.

My mom, Helen, was the polar opposite of my dad. Where he was short, she was tall; where he was quiet, she was vivacious. She had enough personality to earn the nickname "Hurricane Helen." She sternly warned him that he had been too soft-hearted in his collection efforts, and if the shop were going to survive, he had to collect the payments due. Knowing that she was right, Dad reluctantly called out to me, "Rusty, get your coat."

We climbed into the delivery truck. I was shivering in the frigid, wet December weather. We drove in silence to the first house. The house was really a small shack that looked utterly uninviting in the thick, coastal fog. Dad went to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He opened the door to silence. No one was home. With a sigh, Dad shoved the door open and moved into the small front room. We had come to collect a sofa, a kitchen table, chairs and some children's beds.

It was ice-cold in the room. Dad looked around at the furniture then walked quietly over to the kitchen table. On the table lay a note.

"Milton, I know you have come to collect the furniture. I'm sorry we couldn't pay the rest of what we owe you. I got sick and was laid off from the mill. I left the door open for you. I didn't want my family to be home when you came."

Without a word Dad put the note back on the table. He just stood there for a few minutes. He walked over to the fridge and opened it. Nearly empty. He opened a few cupboards. Nearly empty, as well. He looked at the fireplace, the only method of heating the home. No wood. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out some money, turned to me and said with quiet resolve, "Rusty, go get some groceries."

"Dad," I argued, "Mom's going to be mad! We need to take the furniture, not give them money!"

His reply was absolute. "Rusty, these people need this furniture far more than I need the money."

When I returned to the house, with bags of groceries, I walked into a warm front room. Dad had chopped wood for the fire. We put the groceries in the cupboards and fridge and started to walk out the door when Dad stopped and looked around again. I watched in silence as he slowly walked back over to the kitchen table, the very one we had come to collect. He put his hand back in his pocket and pulled out all the money he had and placed it on the table. Then, he took off his brand new, expensive wool coat, which had been an early Christmas present from my mom, and placed it on the table beside the money.

As we drove back to the shop, the only thing my 16-year-old brain could think was that my mom was probably going to kill my dad! Dad had not only left the furniture but had also emptied his pockets and given them his new wool coat. Knowing what the reaction of my mom would be, I honestly thought he was either insane or the bravest man I knew.

When we returned to the shop, we weathered "Hurricane Helen" just fine. Dad never spoke about the experience or the furniture again. But I have never forgotten that Christmas trip to collect what was owed to us. In lieu of collecting, my dad gave. Dad gave a man his dignity. And to me, he gave the gift of knowing I had a generous, kind father.