The Jingle Bell

When it was new it was a gleaming bright bell made of tin but polished in a gold tint with a red ribbon looped at the crown. Instead of a clapper, dangling from the bottom was a small glittering plastic ring that when pulled made a clicking noise drawing out a string until it reached the end of its slack. As soon as it was released the music began.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” my brothers and I sang along.

Concealed behind a slice of gold painted cardboard that fit snuggly into the rim was a tiny mechanical music box that would play several rounds of the holiday carol before the string was drawn completely inside leaving only the ring to be tugged again and again by gleeful children. For years the bell was the most anticipated ornament of the holiday season in our household. We adored it at first for the song inside, the excitement it generated and ultimately the memories it would hold.

My earliest memory of the bell was as it hung from a hook in the center of the archway molding between the living room and dining room of our Philadelphia home. I was too tiny to reach the ring even after moving a dining room chair underneath so I would beg my daddy to lift me up so I could hear it chime.

Half a century later the bell has seen better days. It is covered with scratches and dents. The red ribbon is tattered and stained. The glittering loop is long gone replaced with a metal “S” hook that serves to keep the string from being completely drawn inside where the tired old music box still hides.

These days when the string is pulled the notes tick out so slowly it sounds like a requiem for the dying bell struggling to be relevant till its last note.

Anyone else would easily toss this hideous bell in the trash without a second thought. For years I have tried to dispose of it in some responsible way that didn't offend our family legacy. Once I put it in a box of retired ornaments to go to Goodwill after the holiday. Not sure how it happened but the following December it mysteriously appeared among the holiday decorations as if it migrated out of the trash on its own. Another year I gifted it to a brother who chuckled over the fond memories but never took it home.

This year I packed the bell in a box, wrapped it with my best holiday flare and brought it to a neighborhood Yankee swap where we were encouraged to gift a “useful” household item we no longer needed or wanted.

Finally a perfect, guiltless way to be rid of the relic!

But no sooner was it chosen did my heart sink in my chest. My neighbor fished it out of the box and examined the banged up bell with the dangling S hook wondering what on earth it could be useful for while it’s meaning to me was suddenly clear.

As it struggled to chime out the melody for the amused but confused gathering of onlookers my father lifted me up to reach the bell in all its glory. Cradled in daddy's arms I could feel him hugging me, lifting me cheek to cheek I could smell Old Spice on his neck, and hear him whisper, “does daddy’s little girl need to reach that bell? There you go, you pull that string.”

It took only a few seconds for my daughter-in-law to emerge a true hero of the evening. 

“I’ll take it,” she said without hesitation swapping a perfectly good gift.

And so the bell is back where it belongs, in the heart of a family that knows the true meaning of the holiday is not about things shiny and new, but making memories to hold dear for a lifetime.

Merry holidays to all.