I was born in the Willamette Valley, made a brief stop in the suburbs of Baltimore, before finding myself three thousand miles from my origin, my extended family, in a small town in the western portion of Massachusetts. I live in what I would call a small town; you know the kind of town where everyone is related. It seems to me, as I look around, that everyone I come in contact with is somehow related to someone else I know. I inadvertently meet the grandmother of a classmate daily, or the cousin to a friend without my knowledge.

I am, a familial orphan, in this town of Wilbraham. I am the strange girl from Oregon, no reason to live here, other than a job my father received twelve years ago. It was just my four-person family living here in Wilbraham, but since both my sister and father have moved away, it’s just my mother and I. Two-person family. Does blood and matching chromosomes make you family? Is family a group of people who gather around a table on Sundays sharing a meal, or the people who you are forced to spend every holiday with? I think family, is not about blood, its about those people you choose to love, the people who no matter the circumstance, are there by your side.
I actually have a big family within the confines of this town. No, our blood does not reveal familial links, but never the less, these people I call aunt, sister, family are mine. I have created my own family.

Marianne moved into the spare bedroom, the same day the tornado struck our small world. She came running in the door, two duffle bags in, same light blue flare jeans, five inch wedges, hair straight out of the seventies, completely unaware of the wind storm directly out the window. “Well, hello ladies” she dragged out the “o” sound, creating a melody, the exact same phrase she has said to us for seven years. That night we sat here together, the three of us, on the sectional, watching movies, I was drinking hot chocolate while both mom and Marianne nursed their wine. Luckily for us, our edge of town was the only part with power. We ordered pizza that night.

Marianne raised boys, and as her adopted niece, I was her doll she never had. She dragged me along with her to Marshalls. I like shopping, do not get me wrong, but Marianne takes shopping to an Olympic level. The deals, the steals, they were her prize. I can take the first hour, its fun, the conversation flows between school, boys, friends, but after four hours in the racks, the dressing room, the shoe section, I can barely take the sight of another blue sweater. I end up sitting on the floor, in front of her dressing room, while she tries on her six selections, before retrieving the next six.  “Does this look good? Am I too old for this? Can I wear this to dinner? Golf?” the endless questions, “yes, uh huh, maybe, no”. Even though, I know exactly what Marianne means by “Let’s go shopping”, I never say no, it always an immediate, yes. Marianne, she’s my aunt.

Kristi, oh Kristi, she is probably unlike anyone you have ever met. She is hopelessly forgetful, hopelessly spiritual. Kristi is always smiling or joking, making everyone around her feel like they are the North Star. Currently my internship is also the place where Kristi works. Everyday I walk in, and I get the same series of questions “How are you? How’s your mom? Anything new?” On one particular occasion, “Well, the fridge broke, so mom called the guy, the guy fixed it. The fridge broke again. Went to basement to plug in spare fridge, discovered basement had been flooding. Upon inspection the sub pump fried at some point over the summer”. Kristi true to form remembered mom’s wish to move in the next five years, “Oh my god! I’ve got goose bumps! The angels are literally screaming at your mother!” Kristi smiled so large it looked like it would pop out of her face, and she swept her arms up and down, as if performing a moon dance.

Thanksgiving, I am home with my mom for the first time since the divorce. Our family gathering is intimate. Mom, Samantha, Dovrah, Kristi, and I partake in one oversized turkey, four too many sides, and two too many pies. Kristi shows up two hours late, but that of course was expected so we pretend she was on time. Pie is served, Kristi, walks around, she hugs us all, smiling excessively. She is completely unaware of the argument that just ensued, mom bad been excessively angry with Samantha and I because we barely helped cook dinner. “Oh I just love you guys,” Kristi coos. Kristi is the fun aunt; you know the one in movies, the earthy crunchy one. For the four years I have known Kristi, she always has a spiritual stone strapped around her neck, a psychic reading planned, and a deck of angel cards near by And with that overly happy smile, and the hugs, we all forget the previous fight.. I remember her talking to mom, after the thanksgiving pies, about her latest psychic reading, “Oh Sandy, you will never guess what she said about…” both their voices dropped so low only the dogs at their feet could hear them. When I approached, looking right at me “Can you believe that, Allie”, as if I had heard every word. That’s my aunt Kristi.

I want to tell you about my adopted sister. She grew up in the Willamette Valley, about half an hour from me, next door to a cattle ranch. The funny thing is, I didn’t meet her until she walked in the door of my fourth grade class in Wilbraham. It took three thousands miles to meet Tia. I could tell you how she is my best friend, how we have everything in common, and how we just connect, but the truth is we are usually complete opposites, I find her at times utterly annoying, and we often just butt heads over and over. You see, Tia and I, we are sisters because even after we fight about how she likes to point out every little flaw she can find, and how I just feel compelled to boss her around, we can still sit on the couch all day, not talking, playing a video game from start to end. We actually did that; back when Halo 3 was cool, started it around five in the afternoon on a Saturday finished it just after seven the next morning. Yet every time the fight occurs, it is not long before one of us texts the other a funny picture of character we both love, or a dog jumping in a puddle of water, and we are once again normal. Tia is my sister.

I am no longer a familial orphan; my family has expanded to include some aunts, some sisters, and some uncles. Family is not blood, it is those who you love, love them no matter the quirks, the hazards. So I have a big family, and everyday a classmate meets my aunt at the grocery store or my sister in the hallway, never knowing they are mine.