I stood awkwardly outside Wal-Mart. A white nondescript van pulled up. A big man with a baby face stepped out with a bell, a red apron and a red plastic pail. He introduced himself as Tom in a high-pitched Texas drawl.

"Do you have any advice for me?" I asked.

"Don't ask for money; you aren't allowed to solicit. They see 'Salvation Army,' and they know what to do." He left as quickly as he came.

A recent sermon had planted the seed to volunteer: "Do you remember last Christmas morning? You looked around your family room, and it looked like the mall had vomited all over your rug. You vowed to make next Christmas more meaningful. Well, work at the food pantry; ring the bell for the Salvation Army ..."

I studied the bell. It was much smaller than I thought it would be. I flicked my arm energetically to produce a crisp ding. Even with my forceful ringing, people rushed by without giving me a sideways glance.

I continued ringing, talking to anyone who so much looked my way. I began to relax, reveling in the donations and enjoying the non-monetary responses, too.

As I rang, I noticed an echo of myself. Another bell ringer had arrived at the far entrance to the Wal-Mart. The old man chatted everyone up like they were long-lost cousins at a family reunion.

He would collect more donations than I would. I'd been at my post an hour, long enough to get territorial. I spent the next 15 minutes feeling disgruntled, glancing at him every few minutes.

Half an hour later, an old man exited the sliding doors. With flyaway longish gray hair and glasses with oversized frames, he halted in front of me. He stood so close that I wanted to take a step back.

"I'll be here 'til 9, with three 15-minute breaks. Do you know your lunch hour is always from 4 to 5?"

I stared at him blankly.

"Do you need a break?" he asked in a soft, gravelly voice.

He wore a forest green apron that nearly blended in with his work shirt and jeans. I glanced down at the other entrance and, with relief, knew he was the other ringer.

"No. I'm just here 'til 2. Guess you could tell I'm an amateur."

He nodded slightly and continued, "They don't mind me taking breaks. I've been their top ringer for the last four years. I do it to supplement my Social Security."

He took a couple of hits on his cigarette and studied me.

"You're working too hard, moving your whole arm. Let your arm hang, and jiggle the bell with your fingers. Or just roll it between your fingers." He demonstrated; his palm up, his middle and index fingers toggling the bell's handle.

He handed back the bell. "I hate these bells. Too small."

"I bet the hired ringers get bigger bells."

He inclined his head in agreement.

He continued his lecture. "Always face the doors. You'll get them as they're leaving. They can't sneak past when your back is turned. And you can quickly turn to greet the ones coming in because you'll see their reflection in the door."

He added, "Tell them, 'Enjoy your shopping.' 'Enjoy your weekend.' If there's a little girl in their cart, 'Bye, bye, princess.' Leave them with no way to say they didn't see you."

"Tracy."

"John."

With a glance and a nod, he walked smoking toward the far entrance.

Two hours later, the white van pulled up once more, this time to retrieve the apron, bucket and bell.

I started toward my truck when I remembered the two dollars in my pocket: "seed money" for my red pail.

I jammed it into John's bucket.

With a nod and a ring of his bell, he started in on the customers exiting the store.

Tracy Begland of Coppell is a petroleum engineering consultant and a Community Voices volunteer columnist. Her e-mail address is Beglandtx@aol.com.