As I swiped my debit card at the grocery store the cashier asked, “Do you want to help feed a hungry family?”
I didn’t know if he was just trying to make conversation or if he was expecting a dinner invitation.
“What was that?” I responded.
He clarified and asked again more loudly so others in the check out line could hear, “Would you like to donate a few dollars to help a needy family?”
I bowed my head and quietly replied, “Not at this time.”
“What was that?” the checker was getting more forceful.
“I can’t at this time,” I said sheepishly.
“I can’t believe you don’t want to give a few dollars to those who’ll have no dinner tonight because of you!”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head in disdain as he picked up the microphone and boomed throughout the store, “Cheap cad on aisle 8.”
I felt doomed and humiliated, my pride ripped to shreds as I slunk out the store.
“Tis the season” the saying goes… “tis the season” to be harassed by those who want my money. We get phone calls, post cards in the mail, plastic bags put on our doorstep by Boy Scouts, bags in our mail box from post men asking us to fill them with canned food. We even get a paper bag inserted into our newspaper that we’re asked to fill and return to a food bank. I am ashamed to admit I've thought (actually, this a a great idea) to go around the neighborhood with my wheel barrow and take a few items from each bag waiting for pick up, and fill my own bag that I’d proudly sit out, my chest swelling with emotion because of my generous, charitable heart.
These requests seem to come earlier each year. I won’t be surprised if next Labor Day I see a guy with a Santa hat ringing a bell and collecting change that’s dropped into his red painted barbeque.
Sometimes circumstances force giving. The most extreme act of asking for donations occurs during the summer, usually in small towns. As I pull up to a stop light, sometimes the only one in town, I see firemen “passing the boot” to each car. The idea is to put your money in the boot for a good cause. As you sit captive by the stop light the firemen ask for contributions.
A few summers ago I was stuck in one of these donation traps. I rolled up the windows even though the air conditioning was out, turned up the radio and tried to look invisible.
I heard some sharp raps to my window and turned to see a bearded fireman. I tried to look surprised to see him there.
“Hey, do you want to donate to Jerry’s kids?”
He shoved the boot through the window. I caught a whiff of something dead.
I thought it was a little strange that this boot looked more like a worn tennis shoe. The fireman’s clothes also looked ragged.
Feeling guilty, I deposit a few coins into the shoe. Thanking me, the fireman heads to another car.
Finally, the light turns green and as I pull through the intersection I see the “fireman” I’d donated to running down the sidewalk, jump over a cement barrier and disappear into dense trees.
If I don’t tighten the charity strings, I’ll soon be standing on a corner holding a cardboard sign with these words scrawled in charcoal: “Please help, I’ve helped the helpless and now I am one…”
