ould it get any better? It was Friday, always a bonus, and a quiet day at work since my boss was out. You can draw your own conclusion about what time I left the office. Then, when I called Shantelle on my way home, she uttered those special words that always fill me with eager anticipation: You’ve got a package.

I suffer from a chronic case of the Wells-Fargo Wagon syndrome. If you don’t know what that is, go rent a copy of The Music Man. Better yet, call me, and I’ll come watch it with you. I’ll even bring the popcorn. Bonus points if you live in Gary, Indiana.

You see, I don’t get a lot of packages. Not so for Shantelle. An avid quilter, she is involved in more round-robins and block swaps and cutesy fabric-of-the-month clubs than I have digits to count. So each and every day I open the mailbox and experience a futile flutter of excitement as I reach for the package inside, imagining that it’s for me. It never is.

Continued...