My boss at Acorn Street encourages us to teach classes. Since teaching runs a close second to knitting as one of my all-time favorite things to do*, I cobbled together a class called “Demystifying Socks” and ran it up the flagpole. Somehow—perhaps because all the other classes are three or so hours in length—I decided I could teach my students how to knit socks in three hours. Starting from scratch. With time to look at sample socks and sock yarns. With time for demos. With time for questions. With time for a break. With time for actually knitting socks. What the what?!
Only AFTER the class was announced in the calendar did I ask my knitting peeps how long their sock classes had been and Diana, who had taken one just prior said, oh, we met a few hours every week for three weeks.
So there I was, committed to teaching people how to knit socks in a good, oh, nine hours fewer than required. But while prepping for the class, I took a long, analytical look at a sock and noticed
Which, when translated into the requirements of the class, meant:
…and I started to think I just might get away with it. First, based on what I’d sussed out about socks, I knit a “Frankensock" which consisted almost entirely of the "important" bits:
Then I combined the Frankensock with specific class requirements (e.g., students had to already know how to use dpns); a step-by-step but bird’s-eye view of how to knit a sock, to keep us on track; and detailed post-class materials…and the class was a success! Granted, there were only two students and, also granted, it could’ve been half an hour longer (I gave the Kitchener stitch short shrift) but the Frankensock and I, we’ll take it!
*I've been weirdly blessed with no fear of snakes, insects, spiders, heights, or—more relevant to this posting—speaking in public. Try to get me on a plane, though, and I’ll leave claw marks all along the fuselage.