The knitting man

Like many other lovers of retro things, I like to create my own. I sew, I knit, I do a lot of things with my hands in general. It relaxes me, and it's fun. I bring a knit along with me in my bag wherever I go, and use whatever free time I have, be it waiting at the doctor's or riding the subway, to knit. And people stare, like they've never ever seen anything like it before. Granted, I'm not exactly the girl next door, not with my love for elegant pencil skirts, tailored blouses and pincurl sets, but I still feel that the surprise is directed towards my knitting.

People feel compelled to talk to me about it, to strike up conversation over my technique and style. Other northerners will know that Swedes tend to not be particularly sociable with people they don't know, so you'll see how I've been caught off guard by this behaviour. Not in a negative way of course, but I'm still puzzled.

However, the other day I had the most interesting knit-encounter so far. I was sitting across from an old man, riding the subway home. Suddenly he spoke up and said: "I have three sisters." Confused, I looked up, and he repeated himself. "I have three sisters." Then, before I could answer him, he went on. "They taught me how to knit. I don't do it anymore, but I still remember how fun I thought it was. I was the only boy I knew who could knit. I knitted myself a scarf, and I was so proud." I don't know why, but somehow this strangely personal story from a old complete stranger made me smile. Being a boy in the 40s who could knit must've been seen as extremely odd, and yet he displayed his talent with such pride. Such a darling man.