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.