GOODBYE, DOUGHNUT MAN, IT WAS GOOD TO KNOW YOU

I suppose that by this last decade of the 20th century one could call the door-to-door salesperson a piece of passing, or already passed, piece of Americana.

The first and, perhaps, only one such salesperson to make it into the environs of my early home was the Rawleigh man. I can't remember whether it was spelled Rawleigh or Raleigh. I do remember that he came lumbering down the twisty, rocky hill road with his assorted bottles, jars and bars. And because we seldom had company in our out-of-the-way place, Grandma, Mama and the menfolk, too, greeted him as company while we girls gathered around to see what he had. He brought news from the outside or maybe just news from our neighbors we hadn't seen for a while -- McFarlands had twin calves or Probsts had a threatening brush fire.

Perhaps we'd buy a bottle of liniment, a bottle of vanilla or a bar of pine tar soap. Often we would just have to order it and depend on him to bring it later.

Then, after we had moved to a small village, came the Jewel Tea man and the Fuller Brush man, both representing big companies. The Fuller brush salesman usually left a small token whether we bought or not. With the Jewel Tea Co., when you bought so much over a period of time, you got a dish or some other articles. Collector's items now, I suppose. The definitive thing was, we always went to the door when such salesmen came and usually invited them in.

Then, catching on to a small money-making proposition, folks found they too could be salespersons of sorts, especially among their neighbors. They "Took a Larkin Order." Anyone could get a list of things offered by Larkin and go about the community trying to sell various products. You either got a percentage of the sales or a choice of certain articles Larkin offered.

I even "Took a Larkin Order," getting neighbors Zimmers, Henriches, Schmidts, Bertholds, etc. to buy some little thing so that I could procure a white tam. I didn't tell these neighbors what my desire was lest they think me frivolous. The tam looked so pretty in Larkin's catalog. When it came it was a little droopy affair. Mama could have made a prettier one out of Indianhead linen. One learns. Sometimes, the hard way.

Children, in the spring, were always going door to door to sell garden seed. I smile in remembrance how Lou and I would sell to the Stacys, and how the Stacy children would sell to us. So it went throughout the farming community.

Later on, when I had moved to the big city of Cape Girardeau, we had the Doughnut Man. There he would come, driving up the driveway, and I'd look over his goodies, maybe buy a half dozen doughnuts. That man had time to talk, to admire my flowers, and even pruned a growing maple sapling for me with his pocket knife

I rather enjoyed these no-mean-intentioned, door-to-door salespersons, especially the Doughnut Man and the Berry Lady. But something happened. They quit coming. Somewhere, sometime, a monkey wrench was thrown into the industry. Folks passing as salesmen weren't salesmen. Things got stolen. Folks got bilked. Folks got killed. Soon folks didn't go to the doors to answer a bell or a knock, or had peepholes in their doors to see who was there. America got scared, closed up like a turtle.

It behooved delivery persons to put big signs on their vehicles. You look out and see AMERICAN EXPRESS or KNAUPS FLORAL on the side of a van and you go the door. Still guardedly though, maybe with a dog by your side or a can of mace in your pocket.

What happened? Telephones began to ring, ring, ring. Mailboxes began to be stuffed, stuffed, stuffed. Salespersons are still there.

I don't know what all this "Talk back to television" is all about. Do you suppose that some morning I can turn on the TV and someone will ask me, "Would you like to have some doughnuts this morning?"

I might reply, "Suff nuff. How'll you get them here?"

"Just open the little drawer to the right."

Underground conveyor belts? I never was good at electronics or science fiction.

REJOICE!