I reached out and took the bell from my friend and fellow St. Matthews in-the-Pines Episcopal Church parishioner, Nancy Reid, and settled in for my annual hour of standing at a red steel kettle for the Salvation Army. If you’ve never had the pleasure, it takes a little moment for you to get your groove on. To snap that little handbell just right, so the clapper raps the other side of the bell just right. Doesn’t slide around, indicating a less than perfect throw. A lifelong percussionist, the paradiddle I raised with that bell today, almost a San Francisco-cable-car-driver-kind-of-ring was medicine for me.
One o’clock sharp, I was standing in front of a place I haven’t walked into since December of last year. Our St. Matt’s parish decided to take care of this Saturday’s Salvation Army Christmas kettle site on the grocery side of the Wal-Mart Supercenter out on the 280 Bypass in Phenix City. I did the one-hour shift alone since Jill is under the weather on this, her birthday.
I, my bell and the kettle parted a human highway. Because I am a sick, twisted asshole, I started out doing what I love to do at Wal-Mart, making fun of the wacky “people of Wal-Mart” inside my head.
I’m ringing the bell. Ringa ding ding. I’m smiling. “Merry Christmas!” I’m thinking, “Nice man bun, dude.”
Ten minutes into the thing, I’m really on a roll.
Then I started making eye contact with every single person in the eastbound lane of the Wal-Mart human highway. A hispanic family came toward the door. Fluent Spanish. Three kids and two vertically-challenged parents. The stocky boy, he was about 6, I guess, and I did one of those quick “Hey, how ya doing” bobs of the head. He had a two-inch tall flattop haircut and a round, tanned face. They walked by me and through the door without stopping, my “Merry Christmas” greeting trailing off to their left like a graphic rendering of a Christmas doppler effect.
The bell I had handed to me this year was nice. It was substantial, with a nice, heavy clapper. The handle was short, but sturdy and it rang out just right.
A woman came out of the door, finished with her shopping, and pulled up next to me. We talked. Her husband had died this year and she moved down here from North Carolina to be near her children, who live in the area. “I always like to give to the Salvation Army. They do such good work,” she said, “but I don’t have any cash.”
“Why don’t you just write a big check?”
She reached into her purse, pulled out her checkbook and wrote a $200 check! I gave her a hug and we wished each other a Merry Christmas and she headed out into the sunshine.
I was beginning to feel my Christmas mojo stirring. A few years ago I had a chance meeting with John Henry Clark that ended up being my favorite Christmas gift that year. Today, it was a recently-mocked throng of everyday people at a Wal-Mart that opened my heart to Christmas.
A family of five, three of whom were physically challenged, reached into their pockets and hit the kettle. Another family came by: Two adults walked by, but their three children stopped. The little girl had a coin purse which she zipped open. She took out a few coins, looked me right in the eye and dropped then into the red kettle. The two boys reached into their jeans and did the same thing. “Merry Christmas!” This time, I’m saying it with a huge smile on my face. I could not possibly deny that feeling I had coming on. I felt just like I did at 3321 W. Britt David Road. Christmas morning, all four of us straddling a floor furnace in the central hallway of my family home. Christmas warm.
No more mocking the Wal-Marters. These were my people. We were working this thing together to raise money for folks who would really need it this Christmastime. I had so much fun. The world felt back on its tracks. No Donald Trump. No mass shooting. No one shouting. No one angry. I highly recommend this. If not this year, ring a bell another time.
More people coming out. I’m starting to recognize people I greeted on the way in. All are delivering on their promise to, “Hit you when I come out.”
Here comes the hispanic family. Little flattop boy walked over, reached into his pocket, and dropped a nickel into my palm. He looked up at me with dark chocolate eyes and I swear to God, said, “Feliz Navidad.” Sometimes a writer just gets a lucky story gift.
These are the days that make a life. Chance encounters with people who teach you something. Small gifts from big hearts. I am fully open now. My arms are out in a wide embrace of my family and friends.
It all started with a bell.