Bells? For exactly whom do they toll?
It was the sound of the bells mixed with falling snow that reminded me the holiday season is upon us.
The season has been in preview for weeks as brightly colored Christmas trees light up town and city greens; storefront windows and homes are transformed; supermarket carts are loaded for the family feast; and long lines at checkout counters are driving everybody crazy.
But for me, it isn’t until Salvation Army volunteers ring those bells that the season shifts into full swing.
Those bells rung for the less fortunate have been a part of my life since I was a kid and first saw a bellringer standing outside a department store, wearing a long, darkblue, wool coat with silver buttons.
And as it was explained to me, those coins and dollars that people dropped in the Red Kettles added up to help many people have a brighter Christmas.
That was something I understood.
Back then, we were so poor we had to wait until the last minute when tree sellers were closing shop on Christmas Eve to get a tree — and it was always the ones nobody would buy. They were dry, had lopsided branches, sparse needles and no crown.
But just like it was with a lot of poor families, it didn’t matter. We carried that tree through the snow and set it up in the corner of the living room. With a bunch of lights, some tinsel and an angel on top, the tree cast a radiant glow and made a bunch of cheap toys scattered under it look like a milliondollar find.
That was the miracle of Christmas. It was simple but joyous in spirit and togetherness.
But then again, those were the days when cocoa wasn’t instant, cakes were made from scratch and the hustle of lastminute gift shopping was done by scurrying through the streets to department stores built on town and city streets, not inside malls.
The streets teemed with smiling faces and choruses of “merry Christmas and happy New Year.” And it was not unusual to see choirs gathered on corners with their hymn books open, singing songs of faith.
Christmas now is so different from the Christmas of my youth. Something magical has been swiped from the air.
Maybe it is the absence of church bells that, to me, symbolized the season. I used to hear them everywhere. I know they still ring on Sundays, but back then they seemed to ring day and night and were as much a part of the holidays as Christmas tunes.
But the warmth of Christmas grows colder each year — and the bells that exemplified goodwill toward fellow man no longer ring as powerful.
And I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because there is too much need — or maybe it’s because there has been too much need for far too long and arms get tired.
’Tis the season of peace and goodwill and from one end of Connecticut to the other, Nutmeggers are paying homage to that spirit by making sure toys are under the tree for kids and food is on the table for families.
Volunteers will be out in force at hospitals cheering up the sick; at shelters cheering up kids; and behind the serving line cheering up those who attend the community meal.
And they will make sure the fable of Santa Claus remains alive for children as they pass out toys at community centers throughout Connecticut.
But despite these efforts at togetherness and spreading holiday cheer, what’s missing for me is the overall warm spirit of the holidays.
I only find it when I am with family, who I will spend the holiday with, or close friends and coworkers, but not as I walk down the street.
It is still around but it just seems to be sparse — like the Christmas trees of my youth.
But just like those trees, that spirit can come alive and radiate warmth. All we have to do is regift it and make sure it is under every tree.
And until we can do that, I can’t help but wonder about the bells, which carry meaning for so many people. At one time, to me, they rang with the spirit of hope and togetherness, but now they just seem to ring because it is a tradition.
And that just leaves me wondering.
Bells? For exactly whom do they toll?