Visitor’s code
Stop by … but call first
That’s it. Summer’s over. The company’s left.
I don’t doubt that all Cape Breton families had their share of company this summer. This is home. This is the spawning grounds. This is mythical Ithaca of the modern world. For us I know, the visitors came singly or in pairs or sextets. Some stayed for supper, some for a night, some for a week or more. There were times when it looked like we were renting our place out for weddings.
But everybody came with notice sent ahead. A phone call, an email, a carrier pigeon. Some, okay, with short notice, but still, notice.
Notice. The visitor code. I saw no need for a code in my pre-nuptial years. But where beer-toting buddies were always welcome, now their unannounced arrival ignites a general panic. Now I live in another context.
Not that EVERYBODY needs to give notice. There are the regulars who just pop in almost every day like family, and family-like. These folks just walk in and ask if anybody’s home. Pour some tea and see what’s in the fridge. All good.
Why we put a doorbell on the door is beyond me. We don’t expect anybody to use it. It spikes the blood. If I’m home alone and the doorbell rings, I flatten myself against the wall. Wondering if I was seen. Wondering, do I really want my current cable bundle?
We approach the door when the doorbell rings like we’re approaching a cave where a family of wild boars might live, crouched over, tip-toeing, the person in the lead giving army signals. Every time I hear it my thoughts return to our house in the Bay when I was a kid.
Anyone could knock on the backdoor, but if somebody knocked on the front door, we all looked at each other wide eyed as if we were all on a plane 35,000 feet in the air and engine number one just flamed out. We all held our breath and made panicked but well-rehearsed hand signals at one another. We were adept at reading lips in these situations. Kids who didn’t yet know about front door callers were bound and gagged so quickly that somewhere in the Calgary Stampede a cowboy in the calf wrestling’ competition would blush without knowing why.
The fact is though nobody really just shows up anymore. Because they know that what goes around comes around. Vendettas are plotted against people who just show up. People need time to make their home look
like the place they want everyone to think the place looks like all the time.
Plus, we got a boy to sit out on the front porch with a shotgun, a fig of chew and a list to vet surprise guests and old drinking buddies – who might even be sober these past 27 years; it doesn’t matter. When a car that ain’t on the list pulls into the yard, the boy spits and draws a
bead on the driver.
“You folks from the bank?” He’s a Cohen Brothers movie fan.
“The bank? G’way, Bye! We’re home from Calgary. We were just driving by and…”
Click.
“Sorry. Nobody home. Try callin’ ahead.”
We tried firing the boy, but he drew a bead on us, too.
Back in the day when I just popped in unannounced, I guess I failed to note the eyebrows raising. The hackles going up. The throats clearing. But that’s alright, I understand now. Beds have to be made. Sheets have to be washed. Food cooked. The middle has to be put in the table. Extra chairs brought up from the dungeon. No, I’ve changed.
Civility has shone into the pitch-dark undomesticated corners of my naivety.
So, yes, we’d love to have you. But, unless your last name ends with in-law or you’re “Just the Other Fella”…
Call ahead.