A sign posted on the front door stated the homeowners’ rules in no uncertain terms:

STOP!

Do not knock on the door!

Do not bother occupants! Do not leave reading material!

No campaigning! No religions!

Well alrighty then.

This was at a Honolulu house on a busy street with no front gate. The people who live there must be sick of the frequent hopeful knocking. They’re not the only ones, but they went so far as to put up a sign.

One of the candidates in the Monday televised debate mentioned speaking to “tens of thousands of people while walking door to door across the state.”

And I thought, really? Who opens their door anymore?

Campaign canvassing is in full swing, with little platoons of campaign volunteers moving through neighborhoods. Door- knocking is a simple, low-cost, old-style way of showing commitment to a community that is complicated by the facets of modern life: long commutes from work that mean getting home after dark; the number of voters who live in apartment buildings or condos that aren’t open for drop-by visits; and the changes in local customs that mean strangers are no longer swept up in the welcoming arms of leisurely amity. Generations ago, when screen doors were unlocked and there was always freshly baked bread and a pot of coffee to offer unexpected visitors, a campaign visit could be the highlight of an afternoon.

Now unannounced visitors are treated like phone calls from unknown numbers. Ignore. Block. Hide behind the furniture until they leave. Who has the time?

Of course, some people still have the time. Or make the time.

I used to feel sorry for the candidates who came to my parents’ door in Koloa thinking the could just rubber-band a campaign pamphlet to the doorknob and run. Oh no, they got sucked into the vortex of that old-style hyper-welcoming household. My mother would usher the unsuspecting politician and posse to chairs at the kitchen table across from my father. My father would then lock them in a one-sided conversation for hours while my mother ran to Big Save up the street to buy trays of sushi and pastries to serve as a meal-size snack. The candidate was lucky to get out by dinner time, and even then they’d be forced to take a 20-pound bag of mangoes whether they wanted it or not. The whole day of canvassing was spent at one house, and quite possibly, my parents had long before made up their minds about who they were voting for and had spent all that time just being sociable, though unswayed.

But back to the house with the plainly worded sign, a marvel of straightforward communication in a state that has the reputation of being passive-aggressive, nonconfrontational and, thus, hopeless when it comes to saying, “Don’t wanna talk. Go away.” This was such a refreshingly blunt way of dealing with unwanted disruptions. Somebody oughta start up a side business making similar signs, and, conversely, warning signs for canvassers knocking on the doors of people who love the visits a little too much: Knock at your own risk, brah. You could get overfed and talked to for hours.

Reach Lee Cataluna at 529-4315 or lcataluna@staradvertiser.com.