My rural family’s all–day Christmas shopping trip to Wichita, Kan., was one of the season’s highlights for me as a child. It was the 1930s, and electricity had not reached our rural community yet, so I was especially awed by the Christmas displays in the big city.
Usually I shopped with my mother, and we selected gifts for the family, but she made all the final decisions.
I’ll never forget the first Christmas I was allowed to shop on my own. Before I knew I would have that privilege, I had mimicked my mother by making a long list. Not only had I listed Grandma, my parents, and siblings, but I had also included aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors as well.
Was I ever surprised when we got to Wichita and my father handed me two dollars! He explained that I was to buy my lunch and a gift for my school’s gift exchange, but it was my choice how I spent the rest of the money.
Now in those days, you could actually buy things for five and ten cents at a five–and–ten–cent store. A nickel could buy a hanky for Grandma, a hamburger for lunch, or a child’s book.
In and out of the stores I went. (There were no malls and shopping centers in those days, so you actually had to go outside each time you left a store.)
It was a bitterly cold day, and I couldn’t go anyplace without passing the Salvation Army’s sidewalk shelters, where uniformed workers braved the freezing temperatures. Their bells rang continuously, calling attention to the kettle lettered with a slogan, “KEEP THE POT BOILING.”
That pot held the money, mostly coins, that people tossed in. My conscience was pricked. I knew donations relieved the suffering of the cold, hungry, homeless people—the kind shown in newsreels at the movies—but I tried to ignore that picture. Let other people give, I thought. I wanted to buy something for myself.
But the bells kept ringing.
The gift–buying decisions became monumental to me. I was generous when someone else paid, but with this new responsibility came a touch of stinginess (and selfishness).
And the bells kept ringing.
Periodically, I went to Montgomery Ward’s lounge to rework my list. Two dollars had seemed like a fortune, but it would dwindle to nothing if I bought everyone on my list even a five–cent gift. I wondered, Do I really need to get this person or that person a gift?
What about lunch? Could I resist the delicacies—especially a 15–cent banana split—advertised at Kress’s lunch counter? I shaved a nickel off here and there from my gift list. Shopping on my own wasn’t turning out to be nearly as much fun as I had thought it would be. But if I trimmed my list enough, I thought, I’d be able to buy something special for me.
But the bells kept ringing.
Finally, I had gifts for those I just couldn’t bring myself to eliminate from my list. I had 25 cents left, and it was almost time to go home. What should I buy for me? I had seen all kinds of marvelous things that day that 25 cents would buy.
But the bells kept ringing.
At the last minute, I bought myself a 10–cent set of jacks and tossed the other 15 cents in to KEEP THE POT BOILING. The Salvation Army lady smiled at me and said softly, “Thank you.”
Suddenly, I felt good all over. A great weight had been lifted.
LET THE BELLS RING! I thought.
From this experience, I developed a lifelong habit of giving to someone in need at Christmas. To borrow from a once–popular TV ad, “It’s one of the nice things I do for myself.”
Roxie Olmstead is a freelance writer living in Sheridan, Wyo. This article previously appeared in the Wichita Eagle and the Kansas Senior Times.
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