Jun 10

Written by: ngreditor
6/10/2008 5:33 PM 

Dad's old hat

Daisy Scholl

Dad’s old hat had personality. It had character. It was a history, an autobiography, and a reflection of his rugged yet gentle heart. Not the kind of hat you see at the stock show or at the rodeo or county fair. It was the kind that has to grow with a fellow and share his lumps, until it becomes a part of him.

At times Mother would have been more at ease if Dad had worn his “Sunday” hat or even gone bare headed. More than once she threatened to burn that hat but she never did.

That ol’ flattened felt had spirituality and respect for authority. Two sons and a daughter ad- mired that battered old hat, and not one of us ever tried to knock it off or to wear it ourself. Soiled and dusty, it stood for an honest day’s work.

Companion to dirt, yet a complete stranger to vulgarity or profanity—yes and hypocrisy, it never tried to act like a Stetson. That hat could nicely carry a dozen eggs or and equal number of baby chicks, a frightened cottontail, or enough grain to capture a horse.

It carried my trust and covered my ideal. Men don’t speak of heritage like that, but when I look back I see and I feel my dad’s old hat.