My boring life

I'm rifling through my brain for something entertaining to write about. After the excitement of Wild Apple Bohus showing up, the breathless retrieval from the post office, the fondling, the petting, the ogling ... well, honestly, all that probably wasn't terribly exciting to anyone but me, and everything else I have to write about will only highlight the fact that I'm abysmally dull.

My knitting right now is, well, boring. Still plonking away at the gajillion miles of green stockinette on Forest Darkness, still dithering about MS3. Working on a pair of handspun boot socks destined for hubby that are so completely devoid of ornamentation they should be in a dictionary under "stifling." Spinning some commercial top for the Guy Sweater. Turned the heels on the Monkey socks a couple of weeks ago, then stuffed them in a bag in favor of Bohussing. At least I feel guilty about it.

However, there are a few bright points on my small horizon. I have signed up for CLASSES.

Those of you who know me, know that I am not a take-a-class sort of knitter. In general, I'm far too antisocial and odd to be suitable for public viewing. (This is a bold statement, especially when we're talking knitters, but I stand behind it.) In fact, I am, up to this point, entirely self-taught. No classes. Not one. So how now have I found myself signed up for FOUR?

In general, my preferred method of learning is this: Buy the book. Read it. Mull. Try the technique suggested. Beat my head bloody for a few days or weeks until I get it figured out. (I seem to enjoy this part.)

So far this method has worked well for me. My forehead is curiously shaped, but other than that, no worries.

Here's the problem: I've run out of two things. Courage. And books.

The first class I'm taking is in late August. It's a two-day Fair Isle workshop taught by Beth Brown-Reinsel at Margaret Klein Wilson's farm. Beth wrote the (absolutely fantastic and highly recommended) book "Knitting Ganseys," and she's working on another one, "Knitting Scandinavian Sweaters."

I signed up for this class mostly because I am a coward: I have never cut a steek.

The mere thought of cutting into a perfectly good piece of knitting is enough to send me searching for a stiff snort of Scotch. Or a Valium. Or both. We need not speak of it. I figure the only way I'm going to learn is by exposing myself to devastating levels of peer pressure. Can't let all the other happy little scissors-wielding knitters in these parts know what a complete stinking wuss I am, right? So. This will work.

The second and third classes are in September, at Webs. Susanna Hansson, the woman who translates Solveig's Bohus patterns into English, is teaching a one-day class on Bohus techniques. Now, I do already have "Poems of Color." And I may have mentioned I am already knitting a Bohus, with two more to come. (Note to Lisa: Yes, you've mentioned it. About five thousand times. Shut up already.) But my theory is that there are probably a good many tricky little squibs of information about all things Bohus that Wendy Keele might not have gotten around to writing about.

(That is a very good justification, and I'm happy with it. But the real reason I'm taking that class is to ogle her collection of authentic vintage Bohus sweaters.)

Susanna is also teaching a class on "The Mittens From Rovaniemi." Check out the very top photo, which I stole from Susanna's web site. These mittens are constructed using ten or eleven separate yarn colors, teensy wee needles, and a fiendishly difficult intarsia-in-the-round technique which is apparently not in any English-language book, anywhere. At least not that I can find. Sensing a really, really good opportunity to beat my head bloody against a wall, I signed up for that one immediately.

The fourth class is a five-day workshop titled "Designing in the Bohus Tradition" taught by Donna Kay at the Harrisville Knitting and Weaving Center in October. As mentioned, I already have the definitive Bohus book. It contains much interesting information and history. But no design or color theory, and as far as I can tell there is no book that covers this. Since one of my long-term goals is to spin, dye, design and knit my own version of a Bohus, and since I'm not colorblind but I am color-stupid, that seemed like a really good idea.

(Another worthy justification. But if we're being honest, there is another factor at work: I'm in a bit of a snit over not getting to hike the Long Trail and figured this would be an acceptable substitute.)

So. We'll see if I can overcome my completely unforced ability to be eccentric, hermitish and cranky. Knitters are in general a kind and gentle lot, but after 20 years in journalism I find those qualities odd and mildly suspicious. Also, knitters often do not swear, at least not loudly, and I am rather fond of same. Put me in a room with knitters who are also longshoremen and I'd probably be quite happy.

I'll let y'all know how it goes.