I indulge in simple pleasures; I’m a woman of simple tastes.

I also like talking about things I live and often wonder and why should I not? I am the only one who’s constantly around and the only one I am stuck with until the end of my days. Tolerating myself and understanding whatever it is that I am is part of this relentless pursuit of self, which is often tricky and rather exasperating.

I am an egoist but haven’t visited a salon to have my hair done or nails polished in over ten years (I’m 28-years-old, if you were wondering).

Let’s talk about how I see the word egotistic. It means… self-centered. Self-seeking. Self-absorbed – When I was a little girl, I used to repeat something I heard from either my father or the TV (I hope I got it from my deceased father, I would hate to find out I got this line from watching He-man or the Brazilian version of Sesame Street), I would take a deep breath, push my chest forward and proudly utter “your limit ends where mine begins!” The crowd, i.e. preschoolers and astonished school staff members, did not find it amusing. They often disagreed and either continued to push me around or ignore me completely, which was exactly what I wanted them to do.

Or was it? It was.

Starving for attention is not healthy but craving for the right attention, is. I always had the attention I needed.

I was (and still am), differently from some other kids I used to know, the daughter of parents who loved me so much they made sure to remind me of how important I was to them and how capable I was. They pointed out frequently that, as soon as I started to understand what was it that I wanted to do or be, I would have all the support in the world. My father wisely added that even if I didn’t figure it out in a timely fashion, they would be right there, supporting me, regardless.

I find it odd to hear about some people I know who never got to hear this from their folks. The fact is that support is an interesting word, it can change your world by empowering you but only if you take it at a somewhat moral (for lack of a better term) level and leave the concept of support as a crutch behind, especially while discovering in reality what you truly are or may, in time, become. A butterfly doesn’t go from caterpillar into the beautiful insect it is with the help of fellow members of the Lepidoptera family, does it?

My father knew from the get-go that by showing me that there’s a wild world out there I shouldn’t be afraid of and letting me see it my way, I would have a better chance of being successful; on my own terms.

He knew I would respect the fellow man’s decision to be his own man because I was given the opportunity to be my own woman.

I cannot say this enough but, how wonderful would this world be were all fathers and mothers out there as likely to teach their children the importance of self-seeking as they taught me. But then again, we’re all different and I’m happy it is that way ~

Because I am old, my stories may twist around one and another. Like weeds, they may entwine and grow to far greater heights than they were in actuality. Time has been pushed together for me and jumbled my history and the history of Wellington. But I will do my best.

Wellington. Wellington—it made us or we made it. Anyway it was home.

Our town was small then just as it is now but it had a subtle hum to it; it had life.  People were born. They were raised and grew to marry one and another and borne a new generation. There was gossip as there was laughter. We mixed, you see. We were muddled together-and even more—we cared.

When Old Widow Jenkins got lost on Main Street and began accusing that nameless orange cat that perused the dumpster behind The Well of stealing her heart and placing it into the cookie jar, we (any one of us) would kindly take her hand and lead her home. When the high school’s prom was held, all of the mothers would be there hanging streamers and you could guarantee that come football Friday, those foldout benches would be full. Saturdays the park was crowded of picnickers and on Sunday’s the church fought to squeeze in all of Wellington.

So yes, it was different. And I hope that one day you will know a home like that—in the meantime, I will give you mine. I will give you my stories. I will give you the Wellington that I knew.