Who Remembers the Door to Door Salesman?

Rats and flies are a big summer problem

 in some urban areas, but I remember a

 time when they seemed like small potatoes 

compared to that nonpareil nuisance – 

the door-to-door salesman.

Long before telemarketers invaded our

 privacy, husky young men rang the doorbell

 constantly during the summer months, asking

 the lady of the house, with a grin as insincere

 as a political endorsement, “is your mother home, missy?” 

Who now remembers the Fuller Brush man?

  These pesky invaders liked to show up

 during my mother’s favorite soap opera in the afternoons.  Usually banished outside to play for

 the afternoon, I often watched their progress as

 they went from one door to the next until they

 reached our door.  They never got anywhere

 with old Benny on the corner – he was a crusty bachelor.  Then there was Mrs. Henderson,

 who let everybody in but never bought

 anything; she was just lonely widow. 

 Then the Antons; he had a railroad pension

 and never left the house for fear his wife 

would spend a quarter on something he

 hadn’t pre-approved – he always

 brought a BB gun to the door.  Then

 the Matsuuras.  They had a little brass 

plate displayed over their doorbell: 

 NO SOLICITING.  That didn’t stop

 the Fuller Brush Man.  Mrs. Matsuura played

 possum, not answering the doorbell, but the

 Fuller Brush Man was persistent, if nothing else.

  Finally she would come to the door, glare at 

him through the screen, and wind up buying some toothbrushes.

Then it was our turn.  I liked listening to his

 spiel, especially the part about the brushes

 being made out of 100% boar bristles. 

 I used to dream about boar bristles, about

 how brave men had to hunt down the 

ravening boars in some bamboo grove

 in Borneo, and then pluck the bristles out

 by hand, one by one.  My mother always gave

 the Fuller Brush Man the bum’s rush,

 but I promised myself I’d get me a boar’s

 bristle brush someday.  I finally did, as a

 teenager, to comb my luxurious hippie

 locks – until my mother made me get a crew cut.

Ladies came to our door, too.  They sold Stanley

 Home Products – mostly cleaners and

 detergents.  Mom had her own opinions

 about how to keep the house clean, and they

 didn’t include Stanley Home Products.

  The Avon Lady, however, was a different

 kettle of fish.   First of all, she was always a 

local; in our neighborhood it was Mrs. Satterlee,

 who not only lived just two blocks from us

 but was also my third grade teacher.  Her

 credentials were unimpeachable.  Mom

 got all her lipstick and eyeliner from the

 Avon Lady.  And for my tenth birthday

 the crummy Avon Lady convinced her to get

 me soap on a rope, curse her entrepreneurial spirit!

The Watkins man parked his truck in the

 middle of the block; he didn’t have to go 

door-to-door – all the housewives flocked 

to him for their almond flavoring and pepper.

  Mr. Anton, the railroad pensioner, also

 patronized the Watkins man – buying

 several bottles of pure vanilla extract at a time.

  Mrs. Anton was no hand at baking or cooking;

 it was whispered that he drank the stuff 

straight from the bottle, since it was 90 proof alcohol. 

There was an old Ukrainian lady, dressed in

 gypsy kerchief and a dozen petticoats, who

 hobbled from door to door, selling wooden

 nested dolls, hand-carved by her invalid 

husband and painted by herself.  She appeared

 around Easter.  Everyone bought a doll

 from her.  My dad said she rode around 

in a Cadillac, and the dolls were all made in Japan. 

Life insurance was sold door-to-door. 

 The Encyclopedia Britannica.  Competing

 dairy companies sent their milkmen

 door-to-door to drum up business,

 promising free butter and eggs for

 a week if we switched from Ewald’s to 

Land O Lakes.  Magazines.  Cookies.  Candy. 

 Driveway repair services.  Sewing machines. 

 Vacuum cleaners.

Some summer days my poor mother

 opened the door to half a dozen 

door-to-door peddlers between 9 a.m.

 and 5 p.m.  Then, to top it all off, 

the paperboy would show up right 

at dinner time for his subscription 

money.  She told my dad we were 

moving to Lower Slobovia if one more

 salesman showed up.

This particular pest is now extinct, I believe.

Living in a Senior Housing Complex, with a

locked lobby, I haven't been bothered by one

in years. But, like the Bubonic Plague, they

could return -- if we don't behave ourselves!