illustration: Nancy Detra
eople just don't seem to get it.
"You're doing what? You're buying a house? With your sister? Why? How long do you plan on living together?"
"I have no idea," I say. "I just want to live someplace quiet, do some gardening, raise some sheep. Live simply." It's becoming my standard answer.
"You're only thirty-eight. You just haven't met the right guy yet. You'll get remarried, maybe have another child."
"Mmmmm, maybe." I usually respond. Doubtful, is what I'm thinking.
I don't understand why people don't think it's a wonderful arrangement. Sure, I could live with another single mother, with all the give-and-take that goes along with that. "Is this my box of rice crunchies or yours. Sorry, I was out of milk this morning, I only took a little out of your jug. Isn't it your week to clean the bathroom? Your kid started it."
Or, I could rent at one of the many complexes in the Valley. I don't mind giving away all my furniture except one living room chair and a small side table so the nine-by-nine-foot living room doesn't look like an antique shop. I guess I can live with planting one tomato plant by the front steps and hoping it doesn't get trampled by kids kicking a soccer ball five feet from my door.
Why does the thought of making a major purchase with my sister seem so odd to people? I keep saying I've always wanted to be an old maid. I think back to when I was a child, picturing my life when I became an old woman. Even then I don't remember picturing an old man. I saw myself sitting around sipping iced tea with my old lady friends. Traveling. Seeing movies. Meeting for dinner. Always with ladies.
Maybe my mom raised me to be a bit too independant. Maybe it's because I have three sisters that I'm not a good candidate for living with a man. My father and brothers were trained to accommodate women. They always put the toilet seat down. They never appeared at the table in their undershirts. They didn't belch or make other nasty, loud, men sounds. Why didn't the men I meet have mothers like mine? Maybe it would have worked out. Maybe my sister is the only one I can live because she was raised by the same mother.
To me, there doesn't seem to be a standard structure for families anymore. Mother, father, son, daughter. I can't think of any such units off the top of my head. I do know a single mother raising four children and trying to get her degree at Smith. And three sets of female partners, friends of my sisters, who are trying to start families of their own. And an old friend who raised his two daughters by himself. These are real families, and so are we.
Simplicity, independence, compatibility, a unique family combination. These are the reasons I've chosen to live with my sister. I didn't expect to be defending my decision, making it clear that this is my choice.
I think of it as being a time for me. A time to finally finish that college degree I've put off for so long. To get out my dusty sewing machine and start making quilts again. To have evenings free to read, take piano lessons, learn to do something with all the wool my sheep are going to be growing.
Maybe it seems selfish to some, but it feels right to me. Maybe the looks I'm getting aren't because people think I'm strange. Maybe they're feeling a little bit wistful. I know I would be.
