Then he began racing wildly up and down the bank, looking everywhere. ...[A]fter a while they found the canoe—but it was a mess. ... Stuart was heartbroken. ... "It's no use," he said bitterly, "it wouldn't be the same." From Stuart Little, by E. B. White
I thought I was going to learn first-hand exactly how Stuart felt. From mid-June until the 2nd of July, I labored on a very special project which, upon finishing, I wrapped and boxed and promptly shipped west to Portland. As Ben and Alise have recently moved, I sent the parcel to Alise's office by priority mail.
With the holiday last week, I nonetheless optimistically assumed she would have the box by Friday. It had not arrived by the end of Friday. Alise stayed home on Monday (so no package update) and home yesterday as well (so no package update again).
By last night (not realizing Alise had stayed home the second day), I was convinced the parcel had come undone somewhere between Ohio and Oregon. I had wrapped the project in numbered parcels; I knew parcels 1, 3, and 4 were scattered across the Great Plains. First thing this morning, I emailed Cindy, "I am making myself sick over this—if it is gone, it is gone, because it 's not like I can go out and buy another (and I don't know if I could bring myself to sew another)!"
Visions of Stuart, sobbing because his canoe had been vandalized, danced through my head all morning. That is, they danced through my head until I received the following text from Alise: The parcel is safely on my desk. Thanks april!
Come back tomorrow to read the story of the project.