The Days of Real Door-to-Door are Done   The days of real door-to-door are done. Once knocks brought encyclopedias, sidings, thick wall carpets heralding wise men with camels, proud stags. Strangers, in white shirts and ties, speaking rapidly through screen doors, of libraries and vacuums. They squeezed inside for demonstrations. NO! meant keep talking.   At ten, I was consigned to accordion, a black-buttoned rental for rehearsal. I poked Three Blind Mice, for three blind months, then quit. My father ordered Classics. Every month, a new green brick, gold trim, tiny writing. Mom never opened them. Auntie Charlotte read hers…