Yes. Here it is again. Another post about wool.
It can’t be helped. Through time and research and memory, the smell of the woolen mill is a forever-sensory-experience. When I DO get around to writing ‘that novel’, captured between the pages somewhere will be the sound of the machines and the smell of the wool…it can’t be helped. It is in me to share.
My readers have been patient and tolerated my obsession with this process, texture, landscape…you know it it is the landscape of this woman’s heart.
And so, I will keep words to a minimum and simply share that when my cousin, Laura, made a recent trip west, it was perfect that Laura, her brother Peter and I should drive north east to the Custom Woolen Mills, together. Cousins, in our family, share a special bond and one can not possibly, in a post such as this, capture or contain the sort of laughter and fun that is shared when we get together, even as adults. It’s pure joy and ridiculousness.
I am forever-grateful to our grandparents who gave us this bond and this relationship with wool and the manufacture of products from wool. It is pretty special!
We spent an hour or so together, researching and playing upbeat songs off of our phones…so hilarious. Here’s one.