By Steve Hendrix
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, December 20, 2007
"No, ringing it harder does not make a bit of difference," Obie Mitchell said as he stood beside his red kettle on a chilly morning last week. He was explaining the techniques he has perfected in four years of Salvation Army bell ringing at this same spot, the Giant at Kingsview Village shopping center in Germantown.
The key to luring more coins into the pot, Mitchell said, is not in the wrist but in the personality. "I say hello to every person I see. I say, 'Merry Christmas,' and smile at folks whether they give any money or not."
To prove his point, Mitchell let a reporter take over the bell for 20 minutes. Dozens of shoppers hurried by in that time but none stopped to drop a coin. Mitchell took over, beamed cheer across the parking lot and within two minutes had three donations, including a big one.
"That was a 20," Mitchell said after a man in a black topcoat pushed a folded bill into the slot. "I can tell what they are no matter how tightly they fold them."
Mitchell, 64, of Germantown usually collects $160 to $175 in change during his eight-hour shift in front of the Giant, which puts him just above average for the 30 or so paid bell ringers the Salvation Army stations each day in Montgomery County. Like many of his co-workers, he's on disability (and still favors his right leg following a serious stroke five years ago). Others who sign up for the $8-an-hour starting wage are retirees, unemployed workers, the recently homeless and others who could use a little bump of seasonal income.
But whatever their background, the bell ringers form the front lines of the Salvation Army's most important fund-raising drive. The kettles brought in $170,000 to the Montgomery chapter last year, money the organization uses to provide rent and heating assistance, food, prescription drug aid and child care to the county's neediest residents.
"The ringers make all the difference," said Capt. Michael Rojas, head of the Montgomery corps. "It's really about the enthusiasm of the person who's ringing the bell. It causes people to want to give more."
That has proven more difficult this year, Rojas said. Kettle collections are down about 23 percent from 2006, leading him to hire about 10 more ringers each day to make up the difference. He expects to fall short of his $185,000 goal for the season, which runs from the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve. That people are finding it hard to part with their spare change makes Rojas think he should be bracing for a jump in demand for Salvation Army services.
"If they are feeling the pinch, we know from experience that we are going to see a spike in need along with the decline in giving," Rojas said.
And that makes the bell ringing even more important.
The ringers' day starts at 11 each morning, six days a week, at the Salvation Army's county headquarters in Germantown. Last Thursday, Mitchell and about 21 others gathered for a free breakfast, a briefing on the previous day's collection totals and a daily pep talk. After handing around the red plastic kettles, each dangling two padlocks, Salvation Army staffers passed out gift certificates from Chick-fil-A. One of the ringers wrapped a leftover biscuit in a napkin and put it in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.
"Mr. Clark, you're at the Lake Forest Macy's," called Rojas, trim and cheerful in his black military-style uniform. "Mr. Branch, you're at the Safeway Potomac."
"That's a good spot," someone murmured. "I made 250 there last week."
"You guys want to go out and make bonuses today?" Rojas wheedled his crew as they began donning scarves, hoods and Santa hats following a closing prayer. Anyone who breaks the $200 mark gets an extra $5; $300 earns $10. "Tell you what, if you make a bonus today, I'll double it."
The ringers filed out, kettles in hand, to the small bus that would shuttle them to their stations.
Mitchell's Giant was the second stop. He shouted a hello to the shopping cart attendants as the bus driver retrieved the tripod kettle stand from just inside the store (most businesses let the organization store the stands on the premises). While the driver padlocked the kettle to the tripod, Mitchell fetched the small bin of candy and gum that he maintains, at his own expense, as a friendly incentive.
"I never give it to the kids without asking mom first," he said, a grin on his friendly round face, which is beneath a snappy tweed hat. "But they love it. And lots of times mom will drop some money in when she comes back by."
Mitchell zipped up the fleece jacket under his red Salvation Army apron and began rhythmically jingling his bell. Within minutes, the first handful of coins rattled into the empty kettle. It would be slow and steady, he said, until the evening rush began between 4 and 6 p.m. Most shoppers are friendly, telling him that his ringing is a welcome sign of the season (but he does remember the woman who recently offered him a $10 donation if he would stop ringing the bell).
There is no predicting who will stop and donate, Mitchell said, although he found that "working class" shoppers seemed to be the most reliable givers. Older people were some of his best regulars, including many who linger for a chat. Mitchell, an Air Force veteran, has swapped many a war story while ringing his bell.
"I had a gentleman tell me the other day that he always gives to the Salvation Army because they didn't charge for their coffee during World War II," Mitchell said. "The Red Cross charged a dime for theirs."
He greets most of the store employees by name. The managers will let him move his kettle just inside the front door on the coldest days. And the parking lot guys keep an eye on his kettle during his half-hour lunch break or trips to the restroom.
The organization has never had a kettle of money stolen in Montgomery County, Rojas said.
Once, through a staffing mix-up, a kettle was left unattended all day outside a department store. At day's end, the bell-less pot had $16 worth of change in it. Rojas uses that incident to motivate his team.
"That's the difference an enthusiastic ringer can make," he said. "Sixteen dollars a day versus $150."
Or more. The most productive ringer Rojas can remember was a young woman who routinely gathered $500 to $700 a day.
"She was from Africa and spoke very little English, but she had this bright smile you could see from across the parking lot," he said. "She found full-time employment and didn't come back this year. But we could sure use her."
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