Once upon a time, there was an old church that was said to have magic bells that would ring joyously if a “great gift” was placed upon the altar. No one in the town believed the tale as the bells had not been heard for generations.
One day, the king proclaimed that any person of wealth could join him and make the bells ring for all to hear by placing great gifts on the altar. All the wealthy people in the village began to gather items of significant value.
A little brother and sister – small, poor children who cleaned chimneys because they had to – heard of the king’s words. They were very poor but saved enough to buy a small silver bar. It was all they had.
On the great day, all the people were gathered in their finest garb. The children, dressed in tattered clothing, were there, too.
A wealthy land baron was the first to approach the altar. He placed a chest of gold on it. Everyone gasped. The gold was worth a fortune. Surely the bells would ring now.
But they didn’t.
Next came the mayor, who placed a fortune in jewels on the altar. Now, surely if there were magic bells, they would ring. The jewels were worth even more than the gold.
But the bells didn’t ring.
Soon, all the wealthy, including the king, had placed great gifts on the altar, but the bells never rang. The townspeople were about to leave the church, dismissing the myth once and for all. There were no magic bells, or so it seemed.
After all had tried, the poor little brother and sister walked down the aisle. The wealthy townspeople scoffed at them.
The children walked up to the altar and placed their tiny silver bar amidst the great chests of gold, silver and jewels that had been cast without result by the very wealthy that had preceded them. All began to snicker in scorn.
As soon as their little hands placed that silver bar on that altar, the magic bells began to ring with great joy. The townspeople looked at these poor children with disbelief.
How did they do it? Why would a little silver bar do what chests of jewels and gold had failed to do?
I think you know.
I grew up in a wealthier part of Waterville and heard the fairy tale of the magic bells as a child. We weren’t rich, mind you, but quite comfortable. Still, I went to school with the very poor – the kids from the South End. Grove Street. Water Street. Tough kids, who had to be tough because they had no home. No money. No hope.
I was friends with Reginald and Roland, twins who had stayed back and were older than I. Still, we were in the same class, and I liked them and they liked me.
One day the teacher apparently noticed that one was always absent. They hadn’t been at school together for too long. At 3 o’clock, as the bell rang, the teacher asked Reginald to stay. She wanted to speak to him. I was behind a movable blackboard, and neither the teacher nor Reginald knew I was there. I wasn’t hiding, and it was pure happenstance that I overheard.
The teacher asked: “Reginald, where’s Roland?”
Reginald: “Sick at home,” he replied.
Teacher: “Where were you yesterday, Reginald?”
Reginald: “I was sick yesterday, ma’am.”
The teacher kept questioning Reginald. Finally, he began to cry:
Reginald: “We only have one pair of shoes, Mrs. Thibeau. We share shoes,” he cried.
There are a lot of episodes that shape an older person’s life. As I look back on my life, this was one of them. I cried my eyes out on the school bus that day, cried to my mother when I got home, and quite frankly, cry as I write this.
A few months later, I began to open my Christmas presents. I had a sled. A basketball. A bicycle. Or anything else I had asked for. I politely thanked my parents.
The next day I was at the Boy’s Club. Reginald and Roland were there. “Look what we got for Christmas,” one of them exclaimed wildly. With that, each of them took out a balloon. They blew them up and let them go and chased them as happily as could be!
“What did you get, Bob?”
“A pair of socks,” I lied, as I chased their balloons with them.
I marveled at how truly excited they were at their balloons. Still, I remembered their shoes, or lack thereof. I was 10 years old.
When I had young children, I was worse than my parents. Money in the form of presents was everywhere. I remembered my friends without shoes and their balloons. Christmas became a time of great guilt. Not because I did too little, but because there was too much. My children got endless gifts, but even worse, they were the same gifts they could get any day at our house. Finally I rebelled.
“This year, everyone is getting less, and what we don’t spend will go to a less fortunate family. I meant it, too! My kids wrapped toys for other kids. We all delivered the gifts on Christmas Eve. I tried. Lord, did I try. My family never caught on. Although they all knew of the magic bells, they never understood them.
Having lost in the family, I turned one day to my office. Seven lawyers and 15 secretaries could throw a quite a party. Limos and restaurants and a lot of money were the order of the day. Each lawyer got a turn to dictate the party. When my turn came, I didn’t hesitate.
I had recently gone to the soup kitchen – seen the volunteers – and understood that they helped the poorest people in Waterville every day. Meanwhile, we were overpaid, under-brained fat cats who worked a block away.
At some partners’ meeting, a colleague asked: “So what’s going to happen this year, Bob?”
“We are going to pay for a Christmas dinner at the soup kitchen, and we are going to go there and serve it. No restaurant. We’ll spend the money on the poor.”
Frankly, although most condescendingly did it, they blew me off.
Am I a Scrooge? I think not!
Scrooge was a miserly old man who hated to give for anything. That’s not me nor whom I’ve been. I’ve been painfully aware of the shoes, the magic bells and the happiness of the balloons.
No matter what I did at Christmas, it always came down to money. There were no magic bells for me because I was like all the others who placed their chest of jewels on the altar without result.
I had heard the bells once though. Most never do. Most never try. When Reginald, Roland and I were chasing those little balloons. I heard and felt those magic bells.
Robert Daviau lives and practices law in Rangeley.
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