Ding Dong Merrily on High

DING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH

 

As young Salvation Army officers-in-training, our first quarter of classes ended around Thanksgiving, just in time for a long-awaited break from the classroom. Within hours, the relief over the “no more pencils, no more books” cheer would be replaced by the ringing of bells, as the more than 60 cadets in our session hit the streets of Manhattan to get indoctrinated into the fine art of Christmas kettling. Yes, I know that spell check doesn’t recognize that as a verb, but in our lexicon it surely is. 

Most of us had ‘stood on kettles’ at some time in the past, as I had done as a teen-ager at the old Twin Fair in Tonawanda, New York. But this was New York City, where we’d spend the next five weeks begging the throngs of people to stop and, as the old ditty reminds us, “put a nickel in the drum, save another drunken bum.” Larry and I drew the early shift, which meant we would awaken long before the sun appeared, to begin our shift at Grand Central Station at 6 a.m. – yes, for those who know me, that was 6 in the morning.

Those were the days when female cadets were expected to stand kettles in full uniform, including a skirt and the requisite bonnet. It took me about two days to figure out that with boots and a cape, I could manage long underwear under my skirt and no one would know the difference. 

We were fortunate that we both played a brass instrument, so were assigned to a quartet, expected to fill the air with carols for eight hours a day, rain or snow, sleet or hail.  Some of our friends didn’t fare as well, working solo on a drafty corner in the Wall Street district, so we were grateful for the music assignment, as it made the day pass more quickly.

After a few days we fell into a routine. We’d arrive early enough to get the ninety-nine cent breakfast at the greasy spoon across the street, pancakes or eggs to fill us up for the day’s adventures. We’d play through the carol book once to catch the rush hour crowd, and then take turns heading into Grand Central to thaw out for a few minutes. Lunch would consist of the sandwiches we’d brought, as we hoarded the meal allowance to purchase Christmas gifts for family. Then back to the street corner, hoping our lips would hold out until our replacements arrived. 

Oh, the stories. As we chatted in the van on the way back to Suffern, the stories would tumble out. Did you see that? Do you know what so-and-so did? We saw it all during those days, as thousands of people passed by us every hour. Our favorite story was the documentary film-maker who thrust the boom mike in our faces and asked, ‘do you eat grits?’ To this day I’ve not eaten them, but chuckle when I see them on the menu.    

I’m not sure if the Salvation Army has a written statement that indicates the reasoning for this particular practice. Certainly it provides some income to the Salvation Army while also increasing the presence of uniformed Salvationists on the streets of New York. There is also the sense of discipline it gives to the young people, but even more so, it provides each cadet with a deep appreciation for the efforts of the thousands of kettle workers that they’ll meet over their years of Salvation Army service.

Those days on the streets of New York didn’t fully prepare us for the year in Hough when we had two kettle workers arrested (one got in a fight on the kettle, another moved someone’s car from in front of the store – without a license), and another murdered by her boyfriend. That was the hardest kettle season, but each year brings its own stories that may one day grace the pages of my believe-it-or-not memoir. While some areas use a temp service to staff the kettles, we’ve not gone that route, preferring to hire (and fire) from our community. Some eliminated themselves easily, by dropping the tweezers into the kettle while trying to extricate a dollar or two from the locked pot, or by cussing out the store manager. In the most infamous act of cussing, the accused worker said, “It wasn’t me. I don’t cuss.” “So how did the manager know your name?” “Oh, that’s easy – my name’s on my %$#* nametag.” Oops!

So has it been worth it? While I haven’t kept an accurate accounting, I’d guess that over our thirty-two Christmas kettle seasons, we’ve been responsible for the kettle workers who’ve collected more than 2 million dollars. We’ve met some amazing people who’ve ministered to thousands through their faithful presence and allowed us to share for a moment in time in their story. Certainly there are less time-consuming ways to raise funds, but Christmas without a Salvation Army kettle just wouldn’t be Christmas. So the Salvation Army rings on, grateful for the bell that calls us to remember the needs of others and provides those with little means the opportunity to contribute to the well-being of all within the community.            

from Christmas Memories: Reflections of a Smitten Believer