My Crazy Family: Grandmother's Change

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With the exception of my sister, my family is naturally disorganized. Oh, sure, we know where things are, but to the unaccustomed eye, our living area (be it in Corpus or anywhere else we have dominion) is a sea of clutter - paper, books, and junk, stacks of gonna-woulda-shoulda-didn't. It's a lifestyle choice as much as anything else.
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I am a messy person, but even I have my limits. I went crazy in my parents' den, eliminating needless piles of books and trying to make sure that most books were vertical and actually in the bookcase. Then I attacked a cupboard with duplicate cinnamon and sage, empty salt shakers, and a whole bunch of miniature metal pans, the purpose of which has yet to be satisfactorily explained to me. Finally, I turned my attention to the pantry.
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Several months ago before my Texas hike, I stared in fascination as my brother Charlie emptied my parents' fridge on the kitchen table and painstakingly organized it and cleaned it up. He was a maniacal, unreasonable tyrant, throwing out outdated salad dressing, mustard, anything that threatened his vision of perfect organization. Looking at the fridge today, you wouldn't suspect he'd done anything at all.
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Starting in on the pantry, I felt a wave of empathy for my fool of a brother. He spent a good amount of time pushing the boulder of my parents' mess up the mountain of cleanliness but to no avail. I knew I'd be doing the same, but for the moment, it felt good to push.
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This was no simple job as I learned two seconds into the dusty ordeal. There was an exploded can of fruit on one shelf and related cockroach droppings all over the place. There were bottles and bottles of medications mixed in with the jello packages and tea. There was a Santa cake mold way in the back, plastic still on, something I'm sure my mom smiled at upon reception. Then there was the change.
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My mom took out a little Clabber Girl Baking Powder container filled with quarters, dimes, and nickels. She told me that it had belonged to her mother, my Grandmother Bonilla. "It's a habit she picked up from the Great Depression," she told me. "She was determined never to be caught unawares again."
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My grandfather lost his job, as so many others did, during the 1930s. Living out in Central Texas, the opportunities to recover through one's own hard work were slim. There was a time when both my grandmother and grandfather scoured the house in search of misplaced money and didn't find a single penny.
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My mom dug up another container, this one filled with pennies. She gave them both to me.
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Grandmother Bonilla had squirreled away $24.22 in mixed change. In a few months, it will be twenty years since my mom helped clean out her home, inadvertently hanging on to a can and jar of coins which would one day give a young man pause. This home harbors chaos like a blanket harbors dog hairs, but in looking closely, I can find the occasional family story hidden in its folds.
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This is history, the stuff of real value, these echos of chinking coins made by a woman afraid of not being able to feed her family, the saving of a woman driven by love.