Have Yourself a Hamster Little Christmas

On ringing the Salvation Army bell: To further understand the bell ringing mentality, I signed up to ring the bell through our church’s youth group one year. I joked the night before my turn that I would wear a suede mini skirt and black boots to “drum up” donations. Our son David, fourteen years old by then, moaned, “We’ll be scarred for life.”

My turn started at 3:00 the Saturday before Christmas. The teenaged boys I was replacing dumped the bell in my hands and vanished. I turned to survey my domain: a sea of vehicles in a Wal-Mart parking lot. I stretched a big smile across my face and shook that bell.

An acquaintance made eye contact with me, but before I could greet him, he averted his gaze. Okay, I thought. I see how it is. Others brushed past me, suddenly growing captivated by the contents of their purse, or talking loudly to a friend, or tending the child they were scolding before they moved into my hearing. I’d done the same thing, but still felt disconcerted. I wanted to say, “Hey, people, I’m just like you. I don’t judge you if you don’t drop in a quarter. But really, what’s a quarter?” I also began to resent the consumers exiting with two carts full of electronics, gourmet cat food and doughnuts, who didn’t have even a nickel for my red kettle.

I had to get hold of my thinking. Jeff called to check on me. I told him, “I’ve already been snubbed by people I know. I feel stupid.” I certainly wasn’t enjoying my holiday good deed. At least with my phone I could ignore these people ignoring me. Jeff reminded me I had volunteered to ring the bell, better to make the best of it. I turned off my phone and redoubled my efforts.

When shoppers approached, I called out, “Merry Christmas!” working to mean it every time. As customers left, I quipped, “Guess it’s a madhouse in there.” I tried to think of each person and the depth and dimension of his life—relationships, hopes and dreams, fears, the to-do list for this weekend before Christmas. I began to receive smiles, a quiet holiday greeting, or a nod of agreement to my impersonal comments. I came up with other one-liners: “Hope you don’t have to come back” (sorry, Walton family), “Is Santa going to visit you?” (to preschoolers), and “Shouldn’t have worn these boots” (to women also tormented by high heels).

I chose the boots for warmth, but skipped the short skirt. I was bundled in jeans, sweater, and fleece pullover, but still needed gloves. Ringing a bell doesn’t exactly get your blood flowing. Non-bell ringers do not realize how maddening that bell is, up close. My ears rang for two hours after I finished my shift.

As for friendly comments, I went too far once. Trying to be merry to an acquaintance in a red sweat suit, I called out, “You look like an elf!” then realized that might not come across with the meaning I’d intended. She groused that she was in the process of moving. At least I wasn’t spending my day THAT way. Fellow ringers who’d suffered through rainy, almost freezing weather earlier in the season remarked, “You’re lucky you weren’t ringing last week.” Veteran ringers always took time to share some change.

I felt for the shoppers. What if they gave yesterday, or at another store? Did they wonder if they should give on the way in, or the way out? Some I’d been friendly with on the way in, donated on the way out. I assured them they’d be helping some family have a better Christmas. Many of the donors looked like they could use help with their family for Christmas. On this particular day, the “have nots” proved more generous than the “haves,” although I knew that didn’t mean the “haves” hadn’t donated in another form or venue.

Some parents let their children drop in a couple of dimes or a handful of pennies. I thanked each child. One man started flirting with me. I described my husband and three teenaged boys to him. He wasn’t deterred. I had a hard time getting rid of him, and of course he didn’t donate a penny.

I shifted arms, wondering if there was such a syndrome as ringer’s wrist, comparable to tennis elbow. I discovered I was an ambidextrous ringer. Many times when I made eye contact with a face trying to avoid me, and I called out honestly, “Hope you have a peaceful holiday,” the lines on that face softened. Each individual carried his own concerns: financial burdens for parents, job worries for employees, production goals for bosses. Those facing a first Christmas without a loved one. Those with impossibly high expectations. Those in families who had gotten crossed up and couldn’t find their way back into a right relationship. I understood how people could relate to Dickens’ Scrooge. Hopefully a good word might cheer these people’s hearts, might make their next comment less bitter, their next action more charitable. Instead of expecting them to give to me, I wanted to give something to them.

Ultimately, all the carts piled high with teddy bears, remote control cars, makeup sets, stereos, basketballs, birthday cakes, baking goods, and large coffee cans, all images of a happy holiday, cheered me. My turn soon ended and another teenager arrived to relieve me. As I walked to my car, I couldn’t help but maintain my “greeter” mentality, surprising shoppers just locking their doors and dragging their children.

I passed a mother who had just pulled her squealing toddler out of the car seat in the back of a subcompact. “Merry Christmas,” I whispered, no bell, no kettle, no ringing.

She stopped for a moment then smiled, and repositioned the child more comfortably on her hip.

“Yes,” she said, “You’re right.”