‘Don’t guess you wanna buy this …’

I’m not a salesman.

I couldn’t peddle rocking chairs at a senior community. I’d fail as a hot dog vendor at Coney Island. I’d lose my shirt in the clothing business.

But at least I know my limitations. 

I learned at an early age that I feel uncomfortable trying to convince people to part with their money, even for something they really want. 

“Are you sure you want to buy this? Maybe you should sleep on it. Do your research before you decide. Don’t call me and I won’t call you.”

Or something like that.

When I was a student at Franklinville School, they sold community calendars for a few years to raise money. We were encouraged to solicit people to give us their birth dates so they would be on the calendar once they were printed.

So I went up to the home of a widow lady just up the road from our house. Mrs. Pugh knew me well, having rescued me walking up the road once when I was about 3 years old. When I got older, I mowed her yard.

She came to the door and I explained about the calendar with the birthdays and other community events and would she want to add her birthday.

Mrs. Pugh looked at me with a face that registered both sternness and a bit of levity and said, “Fools’ names and fools’ faces are always found in public places.”

That was a “no,” in case you were wondering. I didn’t press her on ordering a calendar.

A few years later when I was in high school, there was a push to sell magazines as a fund-raiser. They even brought us all into the gymnatorium to listen to a high-pressure guy extolling the virtues of selling periodicals.

I was hooked. Not that I wanted to be a salesman but because anybody who sold $25 worth of mags would get to take off a day of school to go on a field trip to Raleigh.

So I took my brochures and sales slips to all my neighbors (maybe not Mrs. Pugh), family friends and relatives. Some of them, I’m sure, bought magazine subscriptions to help me out. Others likely just felt sorry for me.

Whenever I felt there was a sale coming, I would wonder to myself, “Can she really afford all those magazines?” Then I’d push the thought out, write the order and take her money.

That’s one time when I was motivated to sell a product. Once I got the $25 in sales, I quit selling since I had qualified for Raleigh. 

I had no desire to be the highest seller and a further reward. That was for the real sales people.

There were other occasions when I went out to ask people for money. Those were the times after a neighbor or relative of a neighbor died.

Mama would instruct me that the neighborhood should send flowers to the funeral home. It was my duty to go house-to-house asking for donations.

This wasn’t a sales job but it still required me to ask for money. Not my cup of tea.

But I had Mama to answer to and felt it requisite to at least go through the motions. So I gathered my wits, along with a pencil and paper, and headed out into the neighborhood.

In a monotone voice I would say, “I’m gettin’ up for flowers for Mr. Smith, who died, you know.”

“Well, I really didn’t really know Mr. Smith very well. I’ll have to pass,” would be the answer at some homes.

But others would solemnly sympathize with the grieving family, pull out a wallet or pocketbook and retrieve a dollar or two.

After I had solicited most all the nearby neighbors, I would return home and present to Mama the donations. Then she would take the money to a florist for a wreath or other flower arrangement to be displayed at the funeral, with a card showing that the neighbors were showing their respects.

I don’t know if that tradition remains in today’s communities. But it was something Mama felt strongly about.

“Gettin’ up for flowers” wasn’t my favorite pastime. But it helped me learn something about myself.

And that is, I’m not a salesman.

Larry Penkava is a writer for Randolph Hub. Contact: 336-302-2189, larrypenkava@gmail.com.