They come in twos and threes, dressed as if going to church in the south in the 1950s. They are always African American. They frequently have a child in tow, a child who never shouts or cries or goofs off, even though he or she doesn't have a toy to play with. They do not hurry, they do not rest. It is often a Saturday, a Sunday, or a holiday. It is always between 10:30 am and noon, and the sun is always shining. "Good morning, ma'am," they say. "We are here today to talk about the Lord."

The first time, we had not yet moved into the house. As we pulled up, we saw clusters of well-dressed people walking on the sidewalk across the street. We were upstairs, looking at paint chips and measuring, when the doorbell rang.

Valerie Block is the author of the novels Don't Make A Scene (Ballantine, 2007),...read more

Who could it be? We had come from a high-rise in the city where if you weren't expecting someone, the doorbell never rang, unless it was a wayward delivery of Chinese food. We hadn't yet met anyone; could it be our neighbors, welcoming us to the block with a pie, as they did on TV in the 1950s? We knew it couldn't be someone selling something: we had inherited a curious little printed sign that sits directly above our doorbell. It says, "NO SALESMEN."

My husband went downstairs. I hovered on the landing, curious. I heard the greeting, and the words "the Lord," and thought, Oh, no! Jehovah's Witnesses, of course! My husband, who loves meeting new people, and loves to talk, especially about religion -- which was banned during most of his life in Cuba -- would now be talking about the Lord for at least two hours. While I was still in the midst of this thought, annoyed at him for being so indiscriminately garrulous, he bounded up the stairs, beaming in triumph.

"What? Wow! Even I couldn't have gotten rid of them that fast! How did you do it?"

"I told them that we were Jews!" he said, laughing. "You cannot imagine the expression on his face." My husband, as previously mentioned, is Cuban -- of African, Chinese, Italian and Spanish descent. He could be a lot of things, but Jewish is probably not one of them.

"He looked at me in complete shock and confusion! And then he said, "We also enjoy talking to people of the Jewish faith.' And I said, ‘That's nice. But we're in the middle of a project, and I have to go upstairs to my Jewish wife.' And that was it!"

So news of the intractable nature of Jewish wives has reached even the Jehovah's Witnesses! Since then, we've received periodic visits. My first encounter was with three women in their late 30s wearing hats and old-fashioned skirts.

"That's nice," I cut off the pitch. "I'm Jewish."

"We enjoy talking to people of all religions about the Lord."

"Judaism is not just a religion," I said, feeling awkward about it. I'm not a good Jew. But whose business would that be? "It's a history and a culture. You don't just change your history and culture."

"There is so much we can talk about with the people of the Book."

"Look, I don't want to waste your time."

"You're not wasting our time!" they exclaimed delightedly.

This could go on forever. "Look, I have no interest in talking about God."

They stepped back, as if thinking, What a wicked woman! On such a gorgeous day, not wanting to talk about God? For my part, I thought: why can't I spend a splendid Saturday morning minding my own business? Why do I have to defend my religion, or lack of it, and why do I have to be rude? Because I find face-to-face unpleasantness awkward, I added an incongruous, "Have a nice day," and felt like I had betrayed a core belief. "Have a nice day?"

Another Saturday morning, another potential soul salvation, with two men and an 8-year-old boy at the door: "It says here, ‘No salesmen,'" said one of the men, "but you know what we're here for. We're not selling anything."

The hell you're not, I thought. But mindful that my husband's successful dodge was accomplished in less than one exchange, and that my attempt to evade through reasoning had failed, I decided not to quarrel, although I found his argument incorrect, and his manner smug. "You have literature to hand out?" He gave me a few pamphlets. "OK, then," I said, stepping back to close the door.

"I'll be back to talk about them next week," he said.

And of course, he returned, a week and a half later, on a Tuesday night. The sun was shining (the sun is always shining when they visit). He said, "Did you have time to look at the pamphlets?"

"To be perfectly honest, I took the pamphlets to be polite. I'm Jewish."

"Most Jews have a sign on their door," he said, looking at the blank spot where the mezuzah would go in an authentically Jewish home.

"I may not be a good Jew, but I'm not looking for a new religion."

"Do you have the materials?"

It occurred to me to say that I passed them on to an interested friend. "I'm sorry, I don't."

No doubt he thought I'd go to hell for throwing out the pamphlets, even though I did recycle them. But wasn't I going to hell in his eyes in any event, whether I'd read the pamphlets and filed them under "Y" for Yahweh, or burned them in a pyre while dancing drunk and naked with my thieving, gambling, homosexual friends?

We have talked about amending our sign. I say we should be ecumenical about it: "PRIVATE PROPERTY: ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED." My husband thinks specific is always more effective: "NO SALESPEOPLE, NO SOLICITATIONS, NO DISCUSSIONS ABOUT G_D."...read more blogs