No Solicitors
Youla has no patience for solicitors. My sister, brother and I would watch for them on weekend mornings, and as soon as they hit the next door neighbors’ house we’d run to bolt the doors, shut the blinds, close the garage. Better they see that no one’s home than risk an embarrassing reproach from my mother.
It would be nice if Mom would just speak Greek or say, No English. But my mom doesn’t know when to stop. She goes the extra mile for her God.
At times she’s sprung on them from behind and yelled, “Get off my property!” She disconnected the doorbell. She installed an eyepiece on the door, so she could watch her prey squirm before the kill. She’s also sprayed the garden hose. One time, as a precaution, she used a candle she saved from Easter Sunday to scorch the doorway of our house with the sign of the cross, just as the Hebrews did to protect their first-born sons from the Angel of Death.
“They are Christians, too, Mom. And shouldn’t that be inscribed in lamb’s blood?” I asked.
“Na fenete to spiti Hristianiko. We are Orthothoxy. This is the one, true faith. Go read your bible. It’s in there.”
“God says we should love everybody. That’s what is says.”
“I sent you to school to read. You go find it. Ortho-thoxy. Right way. One religion. Not seventy-five. They brainwash you in America.”
Did I say it was a candle she was using? I’m thinking now it was a blow-torch.
It all began when a group of solicitors ruined her new tile. She had just re-tiled the porch in riveting shades of light beige, beige-brown and brown-beige, and the grout wasn’t even dry yet when the whole lot of them, including their kids on skates, rolled up for a nice chat with Mrs. Krikelas.
Do you know how in My Big Fat Greek Wedding the Greek family has protective clear matting covering their living furniture? No one in our family was allowed to sit, stand, eat, or breathe in the living room either. It had PVC sheeting draped from floor to ceiling, except for the framed photo of the Parthenon done in cross-stitch which we had to dust from time to time. And certainly no one was allowed to skate on the newly tiled porch. You’d have to be crazy. Or just not Greek.
“Have you heard the Good News?” they asked.
“Excuuuuse me. I have news for you,” my mom responded sharply. I quickly moved away from the door, not wanting any blood to splatter my new skirt.
I felt sorry for the Jehovah’s Witnesses, the Mormons, and the rest. They looked like kind enough holy people, praying together as they pounded the pavement in their nicest black suits, brimmed hats, and literature tucked carefully under one arm. Sometimes they bothered us every week. And then we’d go for long stretches without any entertainment. Maybe they were like the black ants, sending out a warning signal to other religious groups that should chance upon the beige house on Menlo Avenue with the hose lady. Tread carefully, it might say. Wear a slicker. Run.
My dad, on the other hand, is an engaging fellow. He loves to tell jokes and philosophize. Perhaps its his 50 years of customer service experience as a waiter and a restaurant manager. He will actually stand there and pretend to listen to the Mormon pitch, holding the screen door wide open with one hand and the other resting on his hip. “Well, let me tell you, sir,” he’ll interrupt after a respectful amount of time. “The Greeks founded religion. Thee best religion in the world. Do you know that the Greek Orthodox Church can trace its roots all the way to Paul the Apostle?”
And he’ll go on and on about the glorious history of ancient Greece, Constantine the Great (his namesake) who brought Christianity to the heathens, the church’s martyrs, maybe toss in a bit about the battle of Thermopylae, until the Jehovahs will shut his own door in his face. Or until my mom yells, “Dino!! Re anthrope, shut the door.”
I think my mom likes the phone solicitors best. Those guys really get her juices flowing.
Caller: Is the man of the house at home?
Youla: There are no men here (glaring at my dad). I’m the woman of the house.
Caller: Excuse me?
Youla: You never heard of that? I wear the pants around here.
Click.
Caller: Good day. I’m calling to remind you that your subscription to the Daily Breeze…
Youla: I don’t read.
Click.
Caller: Wally’s Blinds here. How would you like a free estimate to replace…
Youla: I have no blinds.
Caller: That’s why we’re calling. We have a special deal today.
Youla: I have no windows.
Click.
Caller: Hello ma’am, this is Torrance Roofing. How would you like a free estimate…
Youla: Sir, I have no roof.
Caller: No roof?
Youla: Re malaka. Ti sou eepa? Don’t call here again.
Click.
Caller: Hello?
Youla: You have the wrong number.
Caller: You have a lovely voice.
Youla: And…?
Caller: What’s your name?
Youla: Panagiota.
Caller: Pana-whatta?
Click.
He called again ten minutes later.
Caller: It’s me again.
Youla: And…?
Caller: I called back.
Youla: And…?
Caller: Well, you sound like a nice lady.
Youla: And…?
Caller: Do you need new tires? We have a special this weekend.
Youla: I don’t drive.
Caller: Is the man of the house at home?
Click.
