“We lived in St. Louis when we were first married. Summers got so hot there, and we didn’t have air-conditioning. Some nights it was so hot, we’d throw our mattresses out onto a roof that jutted out below our window and sleep outside.”
This was a story I heard from a middle-aged co-worker while I was still in college. It fueled my already growing romantic notions of what I’d imagine my twenties to be like, how my roommate or my husband or my friends and I would live on nothing but love. And we’d have stories to tell our grandchildren and other young whippersnappers, forever reliving the good old days.
Here’s the thing. I got what I wanted.
No, I don’t live on nothing, but I live on not-a-lot. Well, except a lot of love. Which was the point.
My roommate and I function in many ways like a married couple. She does more than her share of the dishes, and I change the light bulbs. We share milk and apples and bread. What’s mine is hers, hers mine, and when one of us is short, the other gives more.
And we did live without A/C. By choice. A choice that slowly ebbed. Right now, we have clothes lines in the basement because our dryer’s gone out. We’ve enjoyed free produce given away because of its expiration.
One thing we do spend money on every year is a real Christmas tree. This is a tradition I never had as a kid. The smell of pine. The tinkling of needles. The stick of sap. We even carry it like they do in the big city, at least in When Harry Met Sally. Just one of our traditions.
So, I’m proud of this life we’ve created, the ways my romantic notions have been realized.
And the truly beautiful thing is, it’s not just for the two us. We have a community of loved ones who are regularly a part of our home. They can come in without knocking. They help themselves to a cup of tea. They do the dishes after a dinner party. It’s what we want: people to feel at home in our home. And it’s reciprocated, the welcome into theirs.
We would both admit that we aren’t perfect at sharing each other or our space or our time. But we have grace for one another, and hopefully for ourselves. There is space for new friends, for developing relationships, for changing work schedules — for life. We miss each other sometimes. Sometimes desperately. Sometimes without knowing that that’s why things are off. But we always find each other again.
I love you, Hil.
One response to “Romantic notions of living in the city”
That was really lovely, and what a great picture!