Know whose door you’re at before knocking

For living rather off the beaten path as a kid, there were a surprising number of people who showed up unannounced.

I’m not talking about neighbors needing a hand pulling a calf or fixing the hydraulics on a tractor. No, I’m talking about people trying to sell things and even, on one fine occasion, local law enforcement.

The first farm my folks owned sat on top of a hill. The house was up a lengthy dirt driveway off an even longer dirt road. It was a well-kept dirt road and drive way, I’ll say that, but having people meander up the drive to knock on the door struck me as odd.

In all honesty, I don’t have first-hand memories of these incidents — during one I was literally being birthed. More on that later. They do, however, live on vividly in family lore.

None of you have ever met my dad but close your eyes and picture a 6-foot, 1-inch hippie farmer. Long, dark hair, matching beard down to the middle of his chest and absolutely the most ridiculously fit individual due to years of manual labor. Going with that is a face that can have the most best, goofiest smile ever, or the drama of a pre-tornado thunder cloud, depending on when you catch him.

As the story goes, one morning there’s a knock on our front door. I have to assume it was a weekend because my dad answered. This was a time in our life when he couldn’t find work locally so he had to trek down to Little Rock, Ark., for the week, working construction and laying block, then come home for the weekend to work the farm. Weekend time was precious to Dad, so some random guy on our front stoop probably didn’t thrill him.

This particular gentleman was selling caskets. Yep, a door-to-door coffin salesman. I cannot make this up. The idea of someone roaming the back roads of the Ozarks, pitching caskets strikes me as one of the stranger things to do for a living, but who am I to judge? I mean, I’m not judging. I’m really not. It is weird though, right?

This guy starts his pitch. I have no idea what it entailed. The benefits of oak versus pine? Satin linings? Who knows. My dad has a great sense of humor and being raised to be a polite southern boy, he listened but ultimately declined. He was young and healthy but, honestly, who buys a coffin from a door-to-door salesman?

When he realized Dad wasn’t biting, the salesman pivoted and asked if arrangements had been made for my mother. Again, Dad said, “No, thank you,” but then the guy went in for the kill.

“What if your wife dies suddenly? What will you do?”

According to legend, my dad put on a serious, thoughtful face and answered thusly.

“Well, if the old lady goes first, I just figured I’d wrap her up in a blanket and bury her out back.”

Honestly, there’s just no coming back from a response like that.

The other memorable visit, involves what I alluded to above. Having described my father as a hippie farmer, you would be correct in assuming both he and my mother were of the free-love generation. They really wanted a simple life, one that let them be self-reliant and independent.

Another part of my sordid past includes the fact that my parents were married seven months when I was born at a full nine months. I’ll pause while you do the math. Again, according to family lore, the calendar method of family planning is less than successful when you don’t have a calendar.

With this being the early 1970s, my parents made the decision I would be a home birth. Also, health insurance wasn’t a thing for my folks back then, so choices were made.

My mom’s doctor was a true country doctor and, since it had been an uneventful pregnancy, she gave my mom a surgical kit to sterilize in the oven and her home phone number in case a run to the hospital was needed.

It had rained that morning, so you know it was muggy as hell that July afternoon. Mom was well into labor; everything was going as planned and I was on my way, when there was a knock at the door. It was a sheriff’s deputy. Apparently word had gotten out that some lady was out here giving birth and well, she needed to go to the hospital. This was child abuse and there would be consequences and arrests and charges.

There were words exchanged between my dad and the deputy — colorful, unprintable words that scorched the air and ears. Ultimately, Dad told the deputy he was welcome to come in and try to arrest him, but ... Let’s just say my father doesn’t have an arrest on record.

There is another incident of someone coming to the door unannounced and it involves my mother. However, in the interest of decorum and staying in the will, I’m not going to tell that particular story.

As I’ve always said, I could easily write a book about my childhood but certain folks need to be dead before that happens. Anyone know a good casket salesman I could talk to? Just to be prepared.