Voices: For 4 decades, secret Santa spreads $1,000 cheer

MORGANTOWN, W.Va. — It's good to give and best to give anonymously. Problem is, a lot of forces work against putting that principle into practice, from egos to charities that urge discreet donors to goose others by going public.

But in this college town, a mysterious someone is carrying on a 41-year streak of secret giving.

Every Christmas season, $1,000 — typically a single 1928 bill with the picture of President Cleveland, wrapped in a $1 bill — is dropped into a red Salvation Army kettle.

The tradition dates to 1972, when a Salvation Army commander needed publicity for a flagging kettle campaign. (The local editor told him, "I run a newspaper. When you have news, bring it to me.") In the week following that first mysterious $1,000 donation, kettle contributions soared.

In 1998, I came to town to do a story about the tradition. I got a phone call. "I understand you're interested in the thousand-dollar donor,'' a man said. "You're talking to him."

He said it all started with a lawyer who liked a good cause and a good prank. After he died, a banker anonymously took up the task. When he passed on, the incumbent stepped in.

He'd figured out what was going on because he'd once seen the banker and the local Salvation Army commander pull something out of a Christmas kettle downtown. Next day, there was a story in the paper about the annual donation.

But after the banker died, our third donor didn't have a $1,000 bill. None had been printed since 1945; none had circulated since 1969. So for three years, he either dropped two $500 bills or a rare 1881 $10 gold coin supposedly worth $1,000. In 1998, he bought the old $1,000 bill from the bank and has used it ever since.

The kettle drive raised about $100,000 in 1998. That sum has not been equaled since, even as demand for the Salvation Army's services, especially hot meals and Christmas toys, has increased.

Each year it's the same: A few days before Christmas the commander gets a call saying when and where to expect the $1,000. When he pulls it from the kettle, the bell ringer invariably is shocked. (The donor uses intermediaries for the drop.)

The Salvation Army swaps the old bill at the bank for a $1,000 cashier's check; the secret donor pays the bank and gets his bill back.

The ritual's mystery — when will it drop? Where? Why? — generates publicity and occasionally generosity, like the 10 $100 bills found two years ago at the same location as the Cleveland bill.

The tradition has spread. Last year, for example, a 1-ounce piece of gold bullion was found in a kettle in Conway, Ark.

In Morgantown, the donor's identity is the subject of much speculation. Some assume he must be very rich, very guilty or both. Others credit a trust fund established by someone long dead.

The real donor says that almost no one suspects him: "They ask me, 'Who do you think it is?' '' His affection for the Salvation Army involves his parents and a story I can't go into because it might blow his cover.

Sixteen years after we met, what I recall most vividly is the sparkle in his eyes as he described his mission.

The light's still there today. "I get more pleasure out of this,'' says the donor nobody knows, "than you can imagine.''

That's his wisdom for this and every season. It's worth more than any old $1,000 bill.

Hampson is a national reporter for USA TODAY