I glimpsed the delivery driver through the upstairs window, long rectangular box tucked under one arm, other arm out wide for balance as he teetered along the icy unwelcome mat that is our driveway.
"A package!" came the joyous cry from the housebound winter hostages.
"Thanks!" they chant in unison as our hero descends back down the steps and skates to his rig with both hands free and a purposeful glide.
"What is it Mama? Do you know what it is Mama? Is it for me Mama?"
"Oooooh...This...is. for. Me!" Mama says happily and with a quick apology to the other hopefuls.
The crowd senses something is up as she hurriedly searches for an implement to crack through the thick fortress of packing tape that reminds me of the presents I used to receive from my Nana when she was still alive. No crack is left un-taped but the Mama is resolved to get in as the onlookers watch in an increasingly curious manner. Everyone takes a few guesses as to what may be inside the unusually shaped confine.
A baseball bat! Tap shoes! A doggie!
With admirable but waning patience we wait. Mama breathes with relief as an end is wrestled apart. A silence falls over the room as she slides out a wooden cylinder which, when released from its' cage, unfolds into what appears to be a lampshade made out of popsicle sticks.
"What in the heck is that!!" exclaims Calvin.
"THIS. Is a swift!"
In general, I don't get too excited about deliveries...particularly, ones that aren't for me. But the swift is a marvel of engineering brilliance and practicality AND it rescues me from a lifetime of being the two handed stiff while Mama winds her yarn.