The Salvation Army bell ringers
are being told they can’t collect in front of certain stores any more. Apparently, some people find them
irritating. More likely, they find they
feel uncomfortable having to walk by them without contributing. I would like to see more of them. I’ll tell you why.
Every year I drop a little
something in one of those red buckets attended by a person ringing a small bell
and displaying the identity of the Salvation Army. I don’t give anything the rest of the
year. There are other recipients of my
funds who benefit on a regular basis.
But every December I see those bell ringers and am reminded of a good
deed they once did for me and my family, and I pray as I drop my money into
that bucket that some other family will benefit this year.
It was 1961, and a cold front
was moving into the Syracuse, New York region as my mother drove a Ford Fairlane
crammed full of all her earthly possessions and her four rambunctious children
out of that dark winter toward a new, sunny life in Southern California. It was a brave move for her. She had just enough money, carefully
calculated for gas, food and lodging along the way. She’d have to find another job as soon as she
arrived in the Golden State. Route 66,
now a historic and romantic memory to so many, was a challenge and an obstacle
to overcome for her. Five days later, we were all in Southern California, filled with memories that would be
recalled for decades whenever we got together.
By the time we found an
apartment in Signal Hill, Christmas was just around the corner, but Santa, it
seemed, would not be able to find us kids that year. This family that had been living on
subsistence wages the only adult in the family had brought home to our little
apartment in the government housing in Eastwood, Onondaga County, New York, had
used up every dollar on our cross-country trek. Determined her children would have something to
open on Christmas morning, my mom sought out the local Salvation Army. They supplied her with five gifts, already
wrapped. On the morning of December 25,
1961, each opened our little present and were truly happy to have those little
toys. We took our time, opening one
present at a time, beginning with the youngest.
My brother, Jim, was the last to open his. In those days, charities accepted donations
of gifts already wrapped, so nobody knew what was in any gift box, only that it
was for “teen boy,” or some other designation.
So, in great anticipation, Jim, the eldest of the Reed siblings, the one
who felt more fully than the younger ones the reality of our poverty, tore the
pretty wrapping off a flat gift about the size of a shirt box one would get
from a department store. His smile went
flat as he held up the contents. Someone
had donated a medium size burlap sack with these words printed on it, “For the
man who has everything…Here’s a bag to put it in.” It took awhile, but that one event following our 3,000-mile journey, became the focal point of the family’s migration as
everyone learned to laugh at the irony of it. We still had nothing, but now we had nothing in California where it
was 56 degrees. Syracuse folks were
bundled up for their 22-degree snowy day.
I have never forgotten the
provision of the Salvation Army that Christmas.
Sure, they messed up with that one gift, but like many other
organizations they learned to accept only unwrapped presents, ensuring that
sort of thing never happens again. But
that mix-up provided our family with a memory that lives in us to this
day. Whenever I recall that Christmas
morning, I remember our poverty and become more sensitive to those all around
me who are travelling through that same station in life, hopefully onto a more
prosperous destination, who just need a little assistance, a little
encouragement, a little hope.
That’s what I think about when I
hear and see those bell ringers. That is
why I take out my wallet and contribute something with a prayer for whoever
will benefit from that gift. May God
bless them and those they serve.
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