The Doorbell Rings, and I hate that.

Yes, that doorbell

I hate the doorbell. It wakes the babies and makes the dogs bark. When I hear the doorbell, my entire body stiffens, as if that little “ding-dong” portends doom. It’s just a doorbell, I tell myself. You don’t have napping babies, Karen. You don’t even have dogs, no fanged scrum of tiny fluffballs will charge the door. It’s not a catastrophe when the doorbell rings.

In fact, sometimes it’s a boon. The doorbell rang on Wednesday, and it was a man with a business card and a safety vest and before I knew it, my gutters were cleaned and my maple tree’s leaves were disposed of. Just like that. All because someone rang the doorbell.

What if I hadn’t answered? My gutters would still be full of birch and maple leaves.

No Visiting Allowed in Oregon

I like it when the doorbell rings and it means that friends are here. A friend “dropping by.” Maybe for some “visiting.” I’m from the Midwest, where if you find yourself in the neighborhood, you drop by. You visit. It would be rude not to. If the person who answers the door is busy, or about to sit down to eat, it’s not a big deal. There won’t be any visiting, but you all smile, say hello and goodbye, and you just leave.

But not in Oregon.

People here usually text before they drop by. “Can I stop by and borrow that book?” “I’m in your neighborhood, are you home?” I guess this is efficient. But wouldn’t it be fun if they just…did? But they won’t, because in Oregon, dropping by without texting or calling first is a criminal offense. You can pitch a tent and start a campfire on the sidewalk here, but you can’t go over to someone’s house without calling first. If you walk up to the door of a friend’s house and they haven’t been alerted to your upcoming visit, they might open the door to you. Maybe. But during your short (and tense) visit, they will treat you with suspicion and discomfort.

A dear friend of mine, James, is also from the Midwest. Years ago, he described what happened when he stopped by the house of a woman he was dating because he was in her neighborhood. She was shocked, and spoke so stiffly to him. She interrogated him as to exactly what he was doing there. He finally figured out that she thought he was checking up on her. Mortified, he never dropped in again.

But let me tell you, he dropped by my house in 2021. I hadn’t seen him since 2019 because cancer (his) and COVID (he couldn’t get it). He and his wife (who is also from the Midwest and totally pro-visiting) were out in my neighborhood, and James dropped by! When I opened that door and saw his masked-up face, I thought my heart would burst. You could see his smile around the mask. He knows I am very pro-dropping by.

I Blame Oregon

This has to be Oregon’s fault, because I’ve lived in five other states and in those five states, people dropped by all the damn time. But not here, not in Oregon.

I guess I thought that, being a pioneer state, people out here would be more prone to taking company where they could find it. I’ve read several books about the loneliness of settler women (The Jump Off Creek by Molly Gloss comes immediately to mind), who might see another woman three times a year. They cherished each other’s company. So wouldn’t it make sense that this would be a place more open to quick stops at friends’ homes? This is definitely not the case.

I have gotten used to this Oregon distaste for spontaneous dropping by, but I don’t like it. Hardly anyone drops by my house anymore. I am thankful for my friend Lauren, who is from the east coast and who lives a couple blocks away, so she’s a valuable exception to this no-visiting in thing. I’m always happy to see her. If I’m working, she sits down at the table, we do our requisite visiting, she continues on her walk or whatever. Also, if I’m in the driveway and she’s driving past, she stops her car and chats. I find this absolutely delightful.

My Husband

My husband and I were talking about this whole dropping by thing. Or rather, I was complaining and he was listening. And he said that when he was single, no one ever, EVER dropped by his house and rang the doorbell. I asked why. He said, “Because if I’m not expecting anyone, I won’t answer the door.”

“Even for a friend?’

“My friends all knew this about me, so they’d never do it.”

Which blows my mind, because he’s denied himself joy. I love to open my front door to see an unexpected but familiar face. I would even tolerate the ringing of a doorbell, if it alerted me to the presence of a friend making a happenstance visit, filling my heart with spontaneous joy.

So maybe…maybe if you’re in my neighborhood, you should drop by.