The Saturday Morning Pioneers

It happened almost every month, pretty darn close to clockwork. Usually I’m well prepared, but on a few occasions I had managed to put the dreaded event out of my mind only to find myself surprised. I knew it was coming, but I was caught off guard. The few times it didn’t happen, I wasn’t sure what to think: I wondered if I should worry or wait. It’s not what you’re thinking, although I could talk for days about that, and one of these days I will. I’m talking about the visit from the members of the 'one true religion' who descended on my neighborhood once a month.

I would barely have time on a Saturday morning to open the blinds and windows or make coffee, when I would hear the crunching of the gravel on the street, followed by the quick succession of car doors slamming. I would head towards the dining room window and doing my best Gladys Kravitz impersonation, I’d peek out at the commotion on the street. There were carloads of them infiltrating the neighborhood: Religious Peddlers. Bible Thumpers. Or, as they call themselves, Pioneers. They drove full-size cars, as encouraged by the church...because God thinks those are more respectable than two-door cars. 

Dressed in Business meets Jesus attire straight from a 1978 Sears Catalog, the modest men and women of faith gathered near their cars to map out their evangelization game plan. Polyester suits, practical shoes, pseudo-professional overstuffed briefcases, and tastefully done make up and hair. No beards for the men, no smokers among them, and not a single sign of Christian jewelry on any of them.

Ours must have been known as a street of heathens in need of salvation, because we never seemed to be forgotten by these true Christians, the teachers of the proper way to worship God. Sometimes the women would set off with a group of young children in tow, while the men walked in the opposite direction. Other days, sweet little families would head in every direction, probably to showcase the family values that come hand-in-hand with their chosen path to righteousness. Maybe the little woman needed some extra guidance and the watchful eye of her omniscient husband, and it was best that he remain at her side.  As a matter of interest, the structure of these families is patriarchal. Big Daddy is in charge and rules the roost; of course the feelings of the wife are “taken into consideration” (BS), but father knows best. (Oh yeah, there are only certain ‘officially approved’ sexual practices in marriage…what are those approved practices, and even more intriguing to me, who has the job of checking on that?)

My hastily chosen path in life was not nearly as idyllic and picture perfect, resulting in very few leisurely Saturdays for me. I always had something to do; my lazy days of sleeping in ended with the birth of my first child in 1991. Nearly every weekend, I had the same Saturday morning routine: wake up early and get my ass to work. Start the laundry, clean the house, make a grocery list, or work from home. If I could accomplish all this crap on Saturday, then maybe Sunday would be a little more relaxing. Some Saturdays I actually did have to go to work, which threw off the entire weekend. Truthfully, if I was scheduled to be at work, little would be accomplished at home. It was quite an exciting life I was living. If the kids had a game or a party or a school event, I’d figure those into the mix and work around it. Needless to say, I was never too happy to have my busy-ness interrupted while in the midst of trekking back and forth to the garage with overflowing laundry baskets, trying to clean 50 year old shower tiles, or, ahem, taking out the trash. But the Pioneers were in the neighborhood, making their way from door to door, and I knew it was just a matter of time before they came my way.

Ding-Dong. The front doorbell would ring…usually when I was juggling a load of laundry in one arm and my youngest child on my opposite hip. On one particularly glamorous morning, I remember wearing my oversized and stained ‘hair-dying’ t-shirt, while the dye dripped onto my forehead, leaving a semi-permanent stain of Medium Golden Brown. What a freakin’ mess I was. But you know what? I opened the front door anyway. After all, these were people of God, and I’m sure they were non-judgmental and kind. Besides, they were offering to guide me on the right path to Heaven, giving me the chance to be one of the 144,000 selected…or at the very least, allowing me the chance to live eternal life in an earthly paradise. So what the hell? I answered the door not caring how I looked. As far as I’m concerned, if they weren’t invited over, they were best to prepare for just about anything. When these virtuous followers showed up unannounced, they probably thought my house was the first stop on the road to hell.  I actually hoped that maybe if they saw me in this state, my humble and less than perfect home would be permanently removed from the list, written off as a lost cause, and my family labeled just more unfortunate members of Babylon the Great.

One Saturday the doorbell rang, interrupting a rather loud discussion between my husband and myself about which one of us would be taking an old cabinet to the thrift store. I opened the door and stared into the rather unsympathetic and judgmental eyes of a married couple. They were obviously uncomfortable and I could see the judgment in their faces; they clearly would never sink to such a level as disagreeing with a spouse. The devil’s handiwork was at play in my house and they were witnesses. That visit was quite short and they appeared to be unnerved as they bolted from the porch. For the record, I hauled the cabinet to the thrift store. Six feet. One hundred pounds. Solid wood.  Definitely woman’s work.

It was after the fourth or fifth monthly visit from the chosen ones that I'd  had enough. I was becoming more impatient every time they appeared. Frankly, they were pissing me off, trying to shove ominously colored pamphlets under my nose with pictures of decimated cities, fires burning, and broken bodies. Instead of saying thank you, but I’m not interested, I started questioning them and making statements to which they had no reply—some pleasant examples:

“Oh, that’s a lovely scarf; did you get it for your birthday?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you today—we’re on our way to visit Santa Claus and do some Christmas shopping.”

“Any chance you’re heading up San Marcos Pass later? I need a ride to the casino.”

“If only 144,000 are going to make it to Heaven, why are you still recruiting and lessening your chances of getting there yourself?”

"How about that Jackson family, huh?"

Other fun things I didn’t say but wish I had:

“Want to see my new tattoo?”

“Have you tried the newest Girl Scout cookies?”

“Were you an Army or Navy guy?”

“Hold on! I’m on the phone with the Blood Bank!”

I was always met with the same blank, open-mouth stares. Not one of these people ever had an answer or even a witty comeback. They would respond with those damn pamphlets and little else. Which gave me a thought: NEXT month, I’m going to be ready. The next day I went to Mass, and on my way out of church, I picked up an extra church bulletin, as well as copies of The Tidings and the National Catholic Register. The Father, Son and Holy Spirit would be so proud of me...yeah, the Trinity...another thing they disavow. When I got home, I carefully placed them on the bookcase near my front door. I was ready whenever they were.

It was three Saturdays later when I heard the familiar sound of car doors slamming, and I peeked out to see the assembly of believers. I can’t describe the sick anticipation and thrill I had, knowing that this time, I was adequately prepared. I put all my regular chores on hold, and sat waiting, sorting a basket of socks and sipping on my coffee.  Ding Dong. Going to the door that morning was like Christmas—for me, not for them. I was sure that this would cure their desire to ever stop at my house again. I answered the door and we did our little insincere exchange of pleasantries. It was a married couple this time. As he reached into his briefcase to pull out a copy of the pamphlet of doom and destruction, I reached behind the door to the bookcase and grabbed my treasures. Before he had time to shove the pamphlet under my nose, I said, “Oh, I am so glad you stopped by…I have something for you.” I handed her the church bulletin and two Catholic newspapers, and looked with immense satisfaction at their stunned faces. Wishing them a lovely day, I shut the door. 

We had only a couple more visits from them—apparently they forgot to get the memo out to the other faithful and so they too were met with the same greeting and gift. I’ve moved since then and the visits are less frequent, but I still recognize the car doors slamming on a quiet Saturday morning. I don’t even bother with them anymore; I simply pull out a piece of paper, write a short message, and stick it on the front door: No Religious Peddlers. It works like a charm.