*POP* Goes the weasel

I order my wool from a charming mill out in Pennsylvania and I’m not sure who does the packing, but she has my deepest admiration.  She can pack a box like no one. I imagine it’s a she because I rarely speak to a man and when I do, he does so much fumbling around that I invariably end up asking if I should just call back later and he sighs with significant relief and says “could you?”  So, I’m left to believe that this is his wife’s gig because I do know the mill is a family hustle.

Anyway, the wool always arrives in timely order and the boxes make me laugh.  I know that she sucks the air out of the bag, then rapidly tapes up the box before the air returns.  I know this, because I’ve done it myself. I’ve just never done it with 12 pounds.

Opening this box will be very much like a jack-in-the-box; each cut is one note closer to that blasted clown that you’re never quite ready for.  No matter what your age.

You’re humming ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ now, aren’t you?


You’re welcome.

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