Ringing In Holidays: Tough, Happy Work

For nearly a century now, when the Christmas spirit comes alive in cities around the country, it is often wearing a Salvation Army jacket and freezing its toes off.

Beginning the day after Thanksgiving, about 45,000 people take bells in hand at 15,000 U.S. donation kettles. After 97 years, the bell-ringers are as much a part of an urban Christmas as fantasy-filled department store windows or children waiting to see Santa.

To find out what it’s like to be an instantly recognized symbol of Christmas, I took a 4-hour shift at a kettle in downtown Seattle.

It was not a heartwarming beginning for good will toward men. I began the stint with a somewhat gloomy Salvation Army soldier, heralding the news that two kettles had been stolen a day earlier. And that morning another volunteer, signed up off the street, walked off with a full kettle of donations.

I was doorkeeper for the store at my station. During slow times, a bell ringer has the choice of staring into space or connecting with passers-by. The latter seemed less brain deadening.

Coming from the big small town of Oklahoma City, the job gave me license to pull out all those Southwest courtesies that seem so out of place in the big city--and legally to make a racket. Eye contact, a smile, a nod elicited tentative nods and smiles in return, along with cheery greetings and, occasionally, a donation.

Boisterous young people and those who seemed least able to afford donating were comfortable with giving, while others looked away, trying to slip the money in unnoticed.

A few young men dropped large-denomination bills into the kettle, but it was the clink of coins that was heard most often.

After 2 hours, my wrist was aching and my elbow creaking, but my cowboy boots saved my feet.

I sat down to grab a quick lunch, every cold, tensed muscle resisting the warmth and comfort of the nearby mall. Finally comfortable in the warmth, I headed back out to the blast of cold air.

It was darkening, and a scruffy street person approached, smelling of Christmas spirits. Nose to nose, he questioned me about my hat, then made a grab for it. Oklahoma does not breed shrinking violets; with a well-placed elbow, the hat was back on my head.

“I just wanted to see where you’re head was at,” he said, introducing himself as Gull. Laughing, we exchanged a few minutes of banter, and I suggested that he find himself a hat. If he returned within the hour with it, I’d give him $1.

He returned wearing a box on his head and accompanied by his friend, Kirk. After a debate on the validity of the box as a hat, I handed over $1, and we talked about Texas and Oklahoma, where the pair had risen and fallen with the times. Kirk, noticing I was falling down on the job, served as doorman for the wary customers stepping around us.

The exchange put a real face to the thousands of people the Salvation Army keeps alive. The realization was a sobering one. People like myself, not “the needy,” hit bottom for a time and turn to the Army.

Col. Leon Ferraez, national communications director for the Salvation Army, said donations, about $30 million annually (10% of the Army budget), remain in the area where they are collected. “Ninety cents out of the dollar goes directly to the public services,” he said.

The thousands of bell ringers who hit the streets every year are braving the cold for varied reasons, but most say they just enjoy the work and the smiles. “I like to see people put Jesus back into the holidays, put the spirit back into it,” said Larry Lee, who stands daily for 9 hours outside Seattle’s Nordstrom store.

Bell ringers are mostly volunteers who are part of organizations such as the Shriners or Rotary Club. Others are volunteers who received help in the past and would like to return the favor. Paid ringers, working for minimum wage, usually come from the ranks of the needy or from college students who would like to help but can’t afford to work for free.