Essay: Reflections of bell ringer

Probably, Christmas lights will be turned off for the season, crumbs will be all that's left of the cookies and the tree will be stowed away for next year or put on the parkway by the time you read this. But the delight of the giving season will still glow warmly in my heart. I don't think I'll ever pass another Salvation Army kettle without remembering my first experience at ringing the bell.

A friend asked if I would volunteer and I agreed. My station was a large nearby mall.

"You're lucky," my friend said, "you get to be indoors in front of a large department store."

I was thankful to be inside and warm for my two-hour stint. Being the first volunteer of the day I found the kettle attached to a pole locked securely in place. I donned the blue apron that read "volunteer" and picked up a pint-size bell that barely tinkled. Glancing at my watch I thought, "this is going to be the longest two-hours of my life."

Was I mistaken!

The morning mall crowd included a slew of seniors in their jogging clothes making their exercise rounds. Their steps were deliberate — not like the casual shoppers stopping here and there to admire merchandise dressed to sell. The walkers never glanced my way. They were intent on completing their routines.

Behind me was an enormous red pick-up truck with a huge red ribbon slapped on the roof of the cab. A local car dealer was testing the mall waters. Would cars and trucks sell at the mall? Young and old men meandered around the vehicle admiring its shiny exterior and peeking inside like children to gaze at the lavish interior. Unfortunately, not one man came near my kettle.

Then from the corner of my eye I saw a shopper stop. She opened her purse and started to rummage inside of it.

Good! I thought, she's looking for change to put in my kettle. Sadly she closed her purse and dangled a set of keys from her fingers as she passed me by.

"Your truck is getting more attention than my kettle," I told Artie, the car dealer.

Just as those words tumbled from my mouth I heard the clang, clang, clang of coins dropping in my kettle and saw an elderly lady empting her handbag.

"Thank you and Merry Christmas," I stammered.

Now the ice was broke, so to speak, and the people started coming. First it was women of all ages with dollar bills and coins — all with twinkles in their eyes.

One shopper, arms laden with packages, dropped them at my feet, opened her handbag and pulled out several bills.

"When my husband and I were having hard times, the Salvation Army paid our electric bill — twice," she said, stuffing the bills in the kettle.

A lone man walked my way and shoved a dollar in the slot of the kettle. I rang my tinker bell long and hard. The man looked at me and I smiled and said, "You're my first male contributor."

"I am?" He looked surprised.

Now the ice broke again and this time floods of men stopped by emptying their pockets.

Fathers picked up their small sons to reach the kettle and filled their tiny fists with coins to put in it.

Two decades from now, I thought, these little boys will be lifting up their own sons and showing them how to give mercy.

It wasn't the flashy fashionable people who made my kettle sing. It was the everyday kind — teens, middle-aged people and even an elderly woman pushing her husband in a wheelchair. She stopped and asked if she could write a check.

I said, "Of course you can!"

I encountered only one naysayer. She was about 4 years old. She walked past quickly holding the arm of her grandmother. Then she turned around and stuck her tongue out at me.

Well, I thought. That rebuke won't ruin a perfectly lovely morning. By this time my kettle was well on it's way to being filled.

The words of the one whose birth we celebrate came to mind as I turned my bell over to the volunteer on the next shift.

It is definitely more blessed to give than to receive.

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Kate Cole is the East Village Magazine neighborhood editor.