Yesterday, Sunday a purported day of rest, I looked up from my desk and out the window to see two elderly men in jackets and ties, exit a Buick in the driveway, here, high atop Hippy Hill. As I descended the stairs I asked my husband, “Are you expecting someone? There are two old guys here.” “No” he replied as he made his way to another room “and I’m not home” he added as he closed the door behind him, leaving me to fend off the dangerous geriatrics about to invade our home.
I didn’t give them a chance to knock, I opened the door and asked, “May I help you?” The first old geezer thrust something from his jacket toward me, flourescent yellow letters emblazoned a pea green pamphlet titled “Jesus!” I heaved a long, drawn out, suffering mental sigh. Really, why do I even have a husband, if not for politely dealing with religion peddlers? Excuse me, I forgot myself for a moment- I deal with it because oh! I’m better at it.
I was firm but polite and thanked them for their time (they didn’t look as if they had much left) and told them I wasn’t interested. Geezer #1, who wore a very hip tie, may not have heard me because he continued to thrust the pamphlet. Being short on time myself, I looked directly at him and said, “No, thank you, I don’t believe in god.” Geezer #2 tugged on Geezer #1 and they shuffled off.
It’s quite a conundrum. I don’t like confrontation. It feels mildly disrespectful when I tell two salesmen of THE LORD that I don’t believe in what they’re selling. I was taught not to contradict my elders. In my defense, if I wanted to buy something I’d go shopping.
I live at the summit (slide backward on the ice toward the lake and see if you don’t think it’s a summit too) of a steep driveway on a hill in the woods; in order to get here people must overcome logistics to arrive safely.
If I lived on a normal, flat, street I wouldn’t be as polite. I’d tell them I was just a godless, pro-choice, drug addicted, alcoholic, fornicator and slam the door.