Had a good day yesterday. Not only did my stitch dictionary come, but I got a nice little package full of all sorts of gifts (including a gorgeous cream-colored handspun) from a lady in Montana.
It's a two-plied fingering weight spun from her own Icelandic lambswool/kid mohair. So soft, so shimmery, that I don't actually want to knit it; want to keep it as it is. However, that's not what yarn is for.
With the yarn came a pattern for a pair of lacy fingerless gloves (perfect for this time of year) and a yarn-winder that one of her sons carved. Thank you, Corinna!
Stopped by Rodney's after the doctor appointment and found yet another book to put in the queue:
The author of the Madeline series was actually one of the less-talented members of a family of reknowned Austrian/German hoteliers. Still, that would make him head and shoulders above most of the competition around here, anyway.
All this was wonderful, but it was eclipsed by something completely unexpected and un peu bouleversant: a letter from my brother.
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