It says, "This home is Catholic. We don't accept protestant propaganda nor [that of] other sects."

Calls from door-to-door salesmen are annoying. No, I don't want your $500 vacuum cleaner. I don't want aluminum siding. My roof looks fine to me; I really think you're exaggerating the need for replacement. Gee, I was just thinking about the state of my soul when you rang my bell; come on in and talk to me about salvation.

Some Mexican families have found a solution. Put up a sign. Somos Católocos. We're Catholics. Don't bother calling here. Go away.

Such signs may offer some relief from unwanted visitors, but all kinds of people you haven't been introduced to ring your bell anyway: the Gas truck driver, the Santorini water guy, the lady selling figs or nopales, the woman carrying a sick child and a prescription for medicine she says she can't pay for.

I can't complain. Rosario answers our door, running interference. She buys flores de calabazas (squash blossoms) from the young mother toting a five-gallon paint bucket full of produce, trailed by two preschool kids. She sends missionaries away, instead increasing her chances of salvation by giving a few pesos to the man with the bandaged arm.