A Story for December -- I never walk past the kettle and the bells ...

You know the bells.

You hear them on street corners and in front of grocery stores and liquor stores at this time of year.

The bells are rung non-stop, always by a very cheery man or woman and, as you pass, they always offer a God Bless You to send you on your way.

To explain about the bells, I have to tell you about my father.  He was 49 years old when I was born.  I was baby #10.

In 1946, when I landed, I may have been a surprise for him. I most definitely was a surprise for my mother.  My mother was a little Irish fire-cracker who was full to the brim with superstition. On a Great Lakes cruise with her as a pre-teen, I wandered up to the ship's top deck.  There were lots of seagulls overhead. One took a big one... it landed in my ear.  My mother said, "That will bring you good luck for the rest of your life". Her observation/superstition proved right, I met my Lorraine a short time later and it's easy to spot all of the good fortunes in my life's story that's come my way over the past 60 years.   

My father was a tough guy.  Locomotive engineer.  Very strict. Very conservative. Very Catholic. Do you remember the Archie Bunker show on TV -- he thought the show was a drama and never missed an episode. He and Archie were simpatico.

As a kid, I was told, "Speak when you were spoken to", "obey your elders", "clean your plate", "do your chores around the house" ... "Don't be nosey".  My mother chipped in with "Make sure you always have clean underwear".  Mom was concerned I'd be run over by a streetcar and wouldn't have clean underwear which, of course, would reflect back on her for being a bad mother.

What? ... run over by a streetcar?  Have you ever seen what happens to someone run over by a streetcar? I've seen two - at the corner of Dovercourt & Bloor. The last thing those folks needed to worry about was underwear.

My dad was always very aware of his appearance. He'd wear a vest to a picnic. Not sure I could create a better description of him than that.

When I was a kid in the early 1950s, Sunday was important. A ritual. Mass in the morning followed by a big breakfast. Sometimes during breakfast or early afternoon, 

the doorbell would ring. I'd dash to the door curious which family friend or relative was behind it.

It was never who I expected.  You know them -- they called at your house as well.  Usually two of them - sometimes three - sometimes with a kid. Suits, always smiling, always with an over-the-top greeting.

Their initial patter was always about God and being saved and sin. By the time my father reached the door, I'd plug my ears. He'd slam the door so hard the house would shake. His face would be beet-red with anger. He scared me. Sometimes he'd direct them to the street with a pointed finger. Sometimes, if he was particularly annoyed, he'd physically direct them to the street.

I sorta understood.  We were Catholic. If you weren't on our team and as the Baltimore Catechism clearly stated, you were the enemy. If you weren't one of us ... you weren't going to heaven.

Occasionally, I'd answer the door to a Salvation Army guy.

My father would push me aside, greet the visitor with a big grin, invite him into the house, take him to the kitchen, put on some tea, and make him a sandwich.  Then my father and the visitor would sit in the kitchen and talk.

When their visit ended my father would walk the "Army" guy to the door and include some folded dollars into their departing handshake. Puzzling is a perfect description.  One religious guy was thrown into the street and another religious, non-Catholic guy was treated like a long-lost friend.

This exact transaction occurred several times during my childhood. I never asked for an explanation until I was in my twenties because, as a kid, you’ll remember, I was told, "Don't be nosey".

By twenty, I thought it was safe.

My father was still a teenager when he joined the  Canadian Army for World War I.  He was born in 1897. He went to the front in battles that were fought on horseback and in ditches.

He told me that in the middle of that hell,  members of the Knights of Columbus (the Catholic foundation) would visit the soldiers in the bunkers, on the line, with medical aids and clothing like fresh socks and candy treats and charge the soldiers for whatever items they chose.

Whenever a Salvation Army guy showed up, everything they offered my dad and his comrades was free of charge.  Puzzle solved.

It's why I never walk past the bells ... without adding some folded dollars to the kettle.

                             
 Merry Christmas 

... during the war, soldiers were paid for their service but didn't have a place to spend their money. The Salvation Army created a cash transfer service so a soldier could send money home to help his family.  In most cases, that money was personally delivered to the family by a Salvation Army officer.

Just imagine how well that Sally-Ann man or woman was received when they knocked on the door of those families.