A woman from away was confused the first time she heard the term door yard (pronounced doah yahd by natives like me).  Of course, it means the area outside the main door to the house.  Might be a driveway or a lawn, but she pictured an outside storage area for doors, similar to a lumber yard.  My friend Neil English reminded me of the waning tradition of the door yard call.  Used to be you’d pull your car into a neighbor’s driveway, roll down the window, and exchange pleasantries with whoever happened to be around.  A door yard call is less of a commitment than going to the door and knocking.  Though door yard calls could last for hours if one or more of the participants was a talker.

True story, a census taker stood on the stoop and knocked on Mrs. Burke’s front door.  He knocked and knocked.  No response.  Then he heard a voice from across the road:  “Ain’t nobody there but me, and I’m over here.”

Jesse and Paul bought a house at the end of a dead-end road.  They noticed, shortly after settling in, that a new family had moved into the house at the beginning of their road.   Often, as they passed the house, Jesse would say to Paul, “We really ought to stop in and say hi to the new people, introduce ourselves.”

Time passed as it is apt to do.  One day Jesse and Paul invited some friends over for a pancake breakfast – only it wasn’t happening until almost noontime, so they called it brunch.  Just before the guests were set to arrive, they realized they had no maple syrup.  Jesse remembered that the folks at the start of the road had a sign out for syrup, so she hustled down, pulled into the door yard, knocked at the door, and purchased a quart.

She said, “I’ve been meaning to stop by ever since you bought the place.  How long have you lived here anyway?”

“Lived in town all my life, so far,” the man said.  “But in this house? ‘Bout seven years.”

“My goodness,” Jesse said, “I should have paid a call long before this. I’m mortified.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the man said. “We weren’t waiting for you.”