He Always Wore His Hat

When I was a boy I remember that we used to get three
magazines each month at our home.
I loved the day each one showed up in the mail and I
was always the first to go skimming through them.
The one I loved the most was Sears-Roebuck monthly
(not the big catalog) because once each year my little brother Johnny
and I got to pick out one pair of Tennis Shoes for my Mom to order.

Boy that was exciting and we drove her crazy,
asking if they came each day.

Field and Stream usually came in a few days and it was
time to read about the wonderful Fishing and Hunting
places all over the world and do a little
dreaming about being there some day.

The third magazine was for my Dad and it was called
Stetson and was only about men’s Hats.
100’s of different hats and every couple of years
my Dad would order one for himself.

My Dad always wore a hat.

He always ordered a “Business Hat” just like Harry
Truman wore and that hat could always be seen
hanging on the small rack we had behind our Couch.

If my Dad was home.

Like most kids I would wait each day for my Dad to get
home from work, especially if I had done something
wrong and my Mom said “wait till Dad gets home”

This was not going to be one of a Kid’s better days.

I bet you to might remember a day or two like that.

On those days I was scared but usually could talk my
way out of most of the terrible punishment I had
dreamed up for my bad doings.

Here he would come. Up the dirt path to our home,
lunch box in hand and of course wearing his hat.

Maybe it was the way he walked...tall and stately (later I
looked down on him, he was only 5feet 4 inches
tall)...maybe it was the way he smelled...just like a Dad.

Later I would understand that part of it was the faint
smell left of the Gillette after-shave he always
used early each morning.

He always smelled clean...but smoky - the way men do
when they smoke a lot working hard all day.

I would wait for him outside on the steps leading to the
front door, running back in the house now and then to
cool off in front of our swamp cooler.

The Mojave Desert is one hot place during the summer
and one windy place most other times.

Seemed like forever sometimes but he would walk up
that Desert dirt path leading to the house and even if it
was one of those “How bad will I get it”
days I was happy to see him coming.

He would always tussle my hair, saying Hi Bobby how
are you doing? I’d look at his face with his dark
Blue eyes and it looked like it was carved from marble.

My Dad, he was a handsome man and a very smart man
I thought, that was all before he got so sick.

As he walked on into the house I’d trot in behind him
and most of the time my Mom would almost never
mention how terrible I had been.

Maybe she just forgot most of the time, maybe she had
other things on her mind. Regardless of the reason I
was one relieved little boy.

I was so happy about him being home and I have to
admit, escaping the possible punishment I could and
probably should have received, it was a good
day for a Boy I thought.

Whenever I close my eyes and think of those
moments... Those moments of magic before
it all started.

Early on, before it started he had a routine.

He always hung up his hat first and was out of site, I
would crawl up on the sofa, balance myself holding the
wall and carefully lift that hat from the stand.

I’d try it on just like my Dad wore it but it was giant
compared to my little head so it would fall down over
my face and I’ll never forget that smell.

Maybe I was 3 or 4 or 5 years old.

It was my moment of being just like my Dad although I
had to always be sure that Hat was always right back
where it belonged when he left it.

As the years went by, sometimes that hat hung there in
the house all day when it would normally be at
work with my Dad.

He and Mom took to just staying in their
bedroom all day sometimes.

That was after he got sicker.
That was after they both got sicker.

The sickness was drinking.

More and more through the years.

He has been gone a long time now...he’ll never walk of
that path again but that hat remains a vivid memory and
I often look at the only picture I have of
Mom and Dad in my room.

Mom in her jeans and my Dad with his wool shirt and
handsome hat, standing beside their old Car up
on Sierra Highway.

That marble face, that half smile, my Dad
A good Man perished, he went down and it made no
difference how hard I tried to right him.

It made no difference how many times I sat with him all
night, trying let the liquor drain from him once more.

Maybe this time it would work.

But..

It took him out of this life and he was the only one
that could have saved him, but the sickness
was just too much.

My Dad like so many others could not fight
hard enough to win.

Before he left us he somehow bought my sister a Horse
even though he no longer had a job, he just knew how
much she loved horses and always wanted one.

That was enough for my Dad so he used up what
little he had been able to save.

Funny, but the bad times are almost completely
forgotten and the good times are as clear
as they can be.

Out of him came me, my sister Louana and my brother
Johnny who has since also left us.

We all have our own children, so his blood still flows
with that part of him that was so good.

I hope someday my little grandson Austin finds that he
must quietly slip on one of these hats I wear, maybe
my Laker Hat and he’ll remember old Papa in some way.

Funny what you remember about the ones that
you love the most.

Written for my sister Louana, my daughter’s, Lori and
Robin, my sons Bobby and Kenny
and of course Dad.

Bobby Smith April 2005

Click here to send this Page to a Friend

Free Hit Counter