Dear Solicitor

Dear Solicitor,

This is just a friendly letter (remember how we were made to practice them repeatedly?  It's paid off big time for me-I write friendly letters every day) to warn you that you really might want to think twice about coming to my house.  (On second thought, it's probably more of a persuasive letter, but we'll see.)

Consider the most recent case.  Now my people have tried to be as courteous as y'all will permit (and yes I know it's your job to try and get us to purchase whatever super duper doo hickey you're trying to sell).  The problem is, you don't ever interrupt me at work, when you would definitely have my full attention and energy.  You interrupt me at home, when I am wore out and just want to try to get a moment's peace and quiet.  (Please note that reads "moment".  Cause I get very few of them.)  And my family is the same way.

Which is why historically when people call or show up, they are politely told, "No, thank you."  We may have to be a little more firm if you persist, and I know your job requires just that.  And some people, i.e. my daddy, have been known to get right hostile.  Because at our house, you're interrupting one of several things: a nap, supper, or Judge Judy.  And depending on the potential consumer, your life may be much easier if you interrupt supper than Judge Judy.  There are some things in life you just don't mess with.

So Wednesday, the doorbell rings at 6 p.m.  When no one rushes to answer it, the ever so thoughtful last solicitor kept ringing it urgently and frequently.  We've been expecting a visit from the preacher, but since his mama raised him right, we knew by the door bell incident, this wasn't him.  And I'm wondering, Mr. Solicitor, why you ain't in church on Wednesday night.  'Cause you gonna need it soon.

Daddy abandoned his nap to answer the door (I was awake but unable to answer it), I hear the salesman.  And then I hear Dad invite him inside.  They exchange pleasantries, and I can't make sense of it all.  Cause this is not normal.  As I'm trying to decide if we need to take my father back to the hospital, Daddy calls Mama, who sets him straight.  The extremely doorbell happy man was a salesman for the City's Memorial Garden.  He was trying to sell them burial plots. 

Daddy, fresh from his nap and still groggy, heard, "I want to mow your garden."  And he, being no fool, was all about someone coming to cut the grass.  Mama, on the other hand, is now irate because not only did she have to explain this little miscommunication BUT someone did not get their nap out, nor their Judge Judy.  And we like routines here.

Is there really a further explanation needed for why you must avoid us? 

Sincerely,
Robin