Ann Landers used to advise people who complained about unwanted guests that they should be prepared to say, "If you are uninvited and unexpected, you are also unwelcome." I'd never dream of saying that to any of my family members or friends. However, I am more than willing to say it to the door-knockers who sell everything from candy (which I can't eat), calendars, candles, and cards (which I don't need), to Christianity (which I don't want). I just barely missed answering the door yesterday when a couple of men came by. The doorbell sounded, but it was an odd sound, like it was pressed off-center and only barely connected to the electrical contact. [Note to self: Have spouse check doorbell.] I was getting dressed, so I hurried to finish pulling on clothing and rushed down to the front door. No one was there, so I looked out the window to see two men in crisp white shirts, black pants, short haircuts, and carrying what looked like Bibles. They were on the sidewalk headed to the neighbor's house.
First of all, why would they assume that a woman alone in a house in the middle of the day would willingly open the door to two strange men? Does the Bible give them unquestioned access, make them trustworthy? No. Read "Good Country People" by Flannery O'Connor if you don't believe me. I have on the porch this cute white sign that says "Welcome." On the opposite, it says, "Go Away." I never turn it to the Go Away side. That just seems too harsh. But I would like to hang another sign below it that says "Welcome--unless you are selling something."
Face it, I am largely antisocial. I entertain myself quite well, with very little need or desire to be surrounded by people. I think of other people constantly, I miss other people, but I don't need to be with other people all the time. During the school year, sometimes I come home and don't even want to talk to the cat. I have no communication left in me. Not that many years ago, I thought I did want to be surrounded by others, but the older I get, the more I find that my own interests are entertaining enough. Sometimes I even resent having to share myself (i.e., my time, my conversation, my thoughts) with my husband.
He'd find that amazing. When we were first together, I was constantly begging him to tell me what he was thinking. I wanted to be with him all the time, do whatever he did. Now that we're old(er), he can go off to work or to play golf, and instead of feeling deprived, I feel delighted that now I have time to read, paint, sew, draw, crochet, whatever, and I don't have to account for my time to anyone.
Unless, that is, some salesperson comes by. Sometimes it's a charity, and I have to say we don't give to door-knockers when they are people we don't know. (If we do know them, if it's one of the neighbors, my husband is always generous. I always tell people to come back when he's here. I don't want to deal with them.) Given the crime in our area, I'm not about to open the door to strangers. Paranoid? Or just sensible? I don't want to be one of those people whose face is featured on America's Most Wanted because I disappeared from my home and can't be found. (There was another one of those on today's noon news. A 53-year-old woman is missing from her home.)
Mostly I vacillate between loving people and fearing them. I can pass hours in a mall just sitting there watching people. I'm known to strike up conversations with perfect strangers out in public, where it oddly seems safer to talk than in one's own home. Getting to know each semester's new batch of students is one of the highlights of my working life. But if I'm inside my house, and someone I don't know walks across my yard or comes up to my door, I instantly become that cranky weird old woman who keeps the storm door shut between her and the visitor(s).
Right now, the only acquaintance I'm eager to make is the little squirrel eating seeds on my back deck. He's a chipper little fellow, curious about us, too. He sometimes sticks his nose up to the glass of the sliding door. We had some old pecans that my husband hadn't cracked and shelled, so he threw some out for the squirrel. He broke one open so the squirrel would have a clue that it was edible. Now, of course, those helicopter seeds from the ash trees don't seem quite as tasty in comparison. We've created a monster, but he's always welcome to eat our seeds and leftover pecans.
As long as he doesn't go around to the front porch and ring the doorbell.
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