I think maybe I was born in the wrong era. I think I might have gotten mixed up with someone who works in a high rise and I was accidentally born in her time.
I hate to think of her in my time donning an apron. I imagine she’d be miserable, as I would be in her high rise counting up money and wearing uncomfortable high heels while doing it.
I think I was meant to live in the era where women staying home doing “housework” was fine. It was acceptable. It was not looked down on. In fact it was customary and normal.
I love everything about homemaking. I don’t even mind cleaning the toilet. I’m not as good a cook as I use to be, but that’s just because I’m out of practice. So far I have not conquered a pie crust, but I can make a frothy meringue brown just at the tips that will make your mouth water.
I guess in the olden days, I would have been an old maid. Because if I had it to do over, I never would have married. Women who don’t get married: what are they?
Career women, I guess. Isn’t that the only acceptable thing to do when you aren’t married and on your own? I never wanted to be a career woman. I just wanted to be at home keeping the home fires burning.
I think we have adopted a phrase that could have been elevated to another level. A career woman could be a homemaker. Is that such a stretch? I’m a career homemaker.
I love to garden, to commune with nature, to take care of pets, clean my home.
If I lived out in the country, where I really yearn to be, I’d have a bunch of chickens following me all over the yard.
I’d have delicious eggs from said chickens. I might even have a goat and a donkey. And of course dogs and cats.
Let’s add sheep. I like the softness of sheep. They have a certain genteel look to them. I never was that crazy about horses. But then the only time I got on one, it stepped on my foot when I got off, and I couldn’t get it to move. It was a painful lesson.
If I had sheep, I would get a loom. Add to that a big quilt frame. Sitting off to one corner, where you could go sit down and do a few stitches when you had the time. Under a big window that put out lots of light.
Then I’d learn to can. It’s back in vogue. For women who are thrifty and don’t want their families to eat preservatives. I grew up on canned food and vegetables and berries from the garden.
Quite frankly, most of the stuff in the grocery store is crap. And there wouldn’t be a Whole Foods for many a mile. I couldn’t afford them anyway.
I’d lead a simple life. I’d write, of course. Because from the time I could hold a pencil and do my ABC’s, I’ve been writing something or other.
Maybe I’d have a newspaper column where I shared thrifty tips and home life with a bunch of chickens, a goat, a donkey, and some sheep. Cats and dogs meandering around the property and lolling in the house.
And let’s add rabbits. Rabbits are cute.
While I’m being so lofty, how about raising some llamas? One of those things coming at you might run off bad sorts up to no good.
I’d have an old-fashioned stove to heat the simple house, which would be one big room. Since I would probably be poor, I might even have a tin roof. I like to listen to rain on tin. The pinging and ponging is somewhat sedating.
While I’m at it, in case I had a big piece of land, I’d give little plots to other women. If a woman was abused at home, she could come live on the land with me and we’d build her her own little house.
There would be a big locked gate. And if the fool messed with us, I’d bring out my shot gun and shoot up in the air till he had the good sense to move on.
There probably wouldn’t be a need to call the sheriff in. By the time they get there it’s often too late. If he crossed the bounds of decency and raised a hand to her, I guess I’d just have to shoot him. Probably first in the leg.
If he kept coming, I’d shoot him in the arm. And if he got within six feet of her with his hand raised or a weapon on him, I guess he’d be down for the count.
There would be no need to bother with anyone. If the sheriff wanted to waste the town’s money to bury him, so be it. If not, we’d have our own little cemetery way out past the pasture where the donkeys lived.
Wouldn’t that be fitting? He wouldn’t deserve a proper burial. But we would build a wooden box to seal him up in for all eternity.
For wood, we’d go to town and gather up those pallets that are so popular. Take them apart and build a coffin. That’s one project I haven’t seen made with pallet wood yet.
One by one the little plots of land would fill up. They wouldn’t have to pay me. We’d barter with skills. Maybe she could tat like nobody’s business, or fix a car or chop wood.
Money causes untold amounts of trouble. So we’d just move on past that to the things we needed.
We’d have our own female commune. No men allowed. This wouldn’t be for married folk. Just single women. Whether by being widowed, or being left, or being someone’s punching bag.
We’d have an old-fashioned house raising (think barn raising). And we’d all build it together. If we didn’t have the skills involved, we might have to call on Pretty Handy Girl.
I figure she could probably build a decent house. And she could bring all her fellow do-it-yourselfers to help out and teach us how to use those big powerful tools she carries around.
It would be for the common good of womankind. And bloggers of course.
We’d have a big garden in the middle. And the little shotgun houses would be on the perimeter and go all the way around it. We’d can food and stockpile it for winter.
There would be no need for granite counter tops and high falutin’ stainless still refrigerators. Those would be saved for CAREER WOMEN who lived in big condos in the city.
We’d all learn to raise our wings and fly together.
That’s what I think it would take to narrow the numbers on domestic violence, this simple life out in the country.
An abusive man is a coward, and cowards are too proud to bring men friends with them. So he’d have quite a time of it going against a whole bunch of women who stood together and protected their own. With shot guns in hand and grim looks on their faces.
And a big stack of pallets just waiting to be turned into coffins.
Because there’s safety in numbers. Women need to unite together and stop this hiding because they’re ashamed. They have nothing to be ashamed of.
In our little commune, we’d practice pride. Pride can be considered a skill in life. Because I think a lot of women don’t know how to practice pride. Or it’s been beaten out of them.
But everyone is good at something. Whether it be quilting, or chopping wood, or teaching children, or growing pretty roses. There is no need to judge which one is better than the other. They’re all skills. There’s no grading system here on the commune.
Just a bunch of women who have nowhere else to go. Or maybe the commune is the place she yearns to be. A place where women learn how to be proud and practice the skills they suddenly learn they have.
Where there would be no judgment rendered due to her mistakes in life. Because if you haven’t made mistakes, you aren’t still breathing. It’s as simple as that.
We’d take care of our own.
Now if anybody has a big piece of land she wants to donate, and maybe live there with us, we could just move on to drawing out little plots and piling up wooden pallets from town.