The Porch of His Presence

Rocking Chair Tales

Picklepot and the Jam Jar

One jar. One raccoon. One very sticky morning in the shade of the porch...

Picklepot didn’t set out looking for treasure that morning.
He was simply ambling along the edge of the porch path, using his favorite walking stick to tap the roots and leaves in front of him, humming to himself a tune only raccoons know.

But then… oh then—what a scent!

It floated on the breeze like a berry-flavored dream.
Sweet. Sticky. Sun-warmed. Irresistible.

Picklepot’s nose twitched. His whiskers bristled. His eyes lit up like lightning bugs at dusk.

He followed the trail—sniff, step, sniff, step—until he found it there beneath the honeysuckle vine: a big glass jar tipped just slightly in the dirt, its lid askew, and deep inside… purple gold. Jam. Real jam. The good kind. The kind that only shows up when humans forget to screw the top back on.

“Oh ho ho,” Picklepot whispered, setting his stick down reverently.
He reached one paw in—squelch!—and pulled it out coated in shining, sticky jewel-toned jelly.

He stared at it, amazed.

Then, slowly, he brought it to his mouth and tasted.

His eyes closed.

He let out a soft and glorious sigh, the kind that might make a bluebird pause its song just to listen.

“Mmmm…,” he murmured. “Blackberry. With a touch of cinnamon. Ohhhh, mercy me.”

Unbeknownst to Picklepot, he wasn’t alone.

From a low branch, a goldfinch fluttered down with a chirp.
A squirrel peeked from behind a tree trunk, eyes wide with both horror and envy.

“Is that… is that jam?” the goldfinch gasped.

Picklepot opened one eye, licked his paw, and said, “Found it fair and square. Porch rules.”

The goldfinch tilted her head, eyeing the mess.
“There’s jam all over the jar. And the ground. And… your face.”

Picklepot grinned, unabashed. “A price worth paying.”

The squirrel crept closer, his tail flicking with impatience.
“You know the porch elders won’t like this,” he said. “They don’t take kindly to messes. Especially… delicious ones they didn’t get to first.”

Picklepot plopped down beside the jar, his belly soft and round and already speckled with berry stains.
“Well,” he said, reaching back in for another pawful, “they should’ve gotten up earlier.”

The goldfinch fluttered to a lower branch. “You’ll share, won’t you?”

Picklepot pretended to ponder. “Hmmm… let me think… no.”

The squirrel crossed his arms. “Rude.”

Just then, a breeze passed through the trees and the porch lantern flickered. The three of them froze.

From the path came the slow, steady creak of a rocking chair shifting in the morning sun.

Picklepot’s ears perked up.
“Oh no… he’s out there already…”

The squirrel darted behind the tree. The goldfinch zipped back to the upper branches. And Picklepot?

He reached into the jar one last time, grabbed the biggest gob of jam he could manage, and with a quick lick to his paw and a proud smile, he said:

“Worth it.”

Then he grabbed his walking stick, tucked the jam jar under one arm, and waddled off into the thicket—leaving behind a trail of purple pawprints and one very confused hummingbird who had just arrived for breakfast.

Later, when Sol came out to the porch, he found the jar lid in the grass, a little path of jam footprints… and the unmistakable sound of woodland giggles echoing through the pines.