The New Hat

By Nancy

Rating: G

It is utterly astounding the things that people can become attached to. Take Pa’s hat for example.

He bought the thing before we left Independence. That was four years ago.

I concede the point that it takes a long time to break in a hat, and after you do, you are loathe to train a new one. The same is true of boots. Or a saddle.

But those are different. A person doesn’t have to notice your boots or saddle every time they look at your face when you’re outside. Pa’s hat brim droops so much that we can hardly see his face at times. And, trust me, there are times when it is very important to see Pa’s face, particularly his eyes.

I don’t think Pa’s hat bothers Hoss as much as it does me. But then . . . well . . . look at Hoss’ hat. Mine was probably in the best shape of the three of us, but when it started mildewing I decided it was time for a change. Besides, Joe’s new hat was drawing even more attention to how bad mine looked.

There wasn’t a hat that fit me in the Orowitz’ store – most of them looked like Hoss’ hat anyhow. But Mrs. Orowitz had a catalog from an import company located in San Francisco. I decided a good hat was worth waiting for, so I ordered a black one with a leather band that had a small silver buckle.

I learned the first year we were in Eagle Station that patience is more a necessity than a virtue when it comes to waiting for the mail. All the same, every morning for a month or more as I put on my fungus-growing hat, I wondered if it would be for the last time.

Then the hat became the least of my concerns. Coyotes were shadowing the heifers, and had already taken down two calves. I left home on a bitter, drizzly day, and after three days of having a cold camp, I still hadn’t located the pack. When I couldn’t find fresh sign, and I didn’t hear them yipping at night, I decided they had left the area.

To be safe, though, I slowly pushed the cows and calves closer to home. By the end of the second day of the push, I was riding in a heavy rain, my breath fogging in the air. Despite my gloves, my hands were so cold they ached, as did my legs. My coat smelled like a wet sheep. And my hat – let’s not even discuss my hat.

By the time I could see the house, all I wanted was to get Beauty dry, warm, and fed. I wanted the same things for myself.

As I picked the carrots from the stew that Hop Sing had warmed when he’d heard me ride up, I asked Hoss where Pa and Joe were.

"They had errands in town," he said around a mouthful of pie. He’d already eaten a noon meal but in the spirit of fellowship, he’d joined me at the table. "You shoulda seen that list that Pa had. I figure they won’t get back until late."

Which meant that much as I would have liked to stay in the house and drink coffee, there were extra chores to do.

The day was already dark because of the cloud cover, and there was less than an hour of daylight left when Pa and Joe returned home. Joe beamed after he pulled the team to a stop alongside the corral.

"Joseph," Pa said with a big smile and a congratulatory pat to my youngest brother’s back, "that was a fine job of driving." Pa stepped down from the wagon and walked to where Hoss and I stood on the porch. "Adam," Pa said in greeting, pulling off his gloves. "Did you find the coyotes?"

I shook my head. "I moved the cows and calves up, though. Into the east pasture where Smoke can keep an eye on them."

Pa stepped up to the porch and then quickly turned to face the wagon. "Joe? Would you bring that package to Adam, please?"

My new hat!

"Sure, Pa!" Joe called out as he clambered into the wagon bed. He picked up a package that looked the right size to hold a hat. And then, before my disbelieving eyes, Joe jumped off the back of the wagon, tripped in the mud, and fell stomach first onto the package.

I don’t know which sound was more sickening. The squish as the package dug into the mud, or the crackle as the wooden hatbox inside broke.

Joe managed to get to his feet. He even dusted at himself, as if that would remove the mud from his pants. Then smiling, he plucked the package from the slurping mud.

Ever the optimist, Joe looked at the shattered remains in his arms. He grabbed the top of the hat crown and let the rest of the package fall to the slippery ground.

There was no leather band around the crown – that was probably in the packaging Joe had tossed aside. The crown was still creased but it was taller on the left than the right.

Joe saw me frowning and he flashed a grin. "Oh that?" he said with a "pshaw" wave. He strolled toward Hoss, Pa, and me. "That’s easy to fix." He shoved his fist inside the crown, which stretched, rounded, and looked . . . like Hoss’ hat.

"See?" Joe held the hat toward me. "Good as new."

If I had fallen on someone’s brand new hat and ground it into the mud when I had been Joe’s age, Pa would not have let me escape consequences. But as I gingerly took the hat brim from Joe, Pa slid his right hand over his mouth and then rubbed at his chin. As soon as he realized I was staring at him, he straightened and cleared his throat.

I watched Joe walking back toward the wagon, strolling as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Then, I looked down at the forlorn slab of black wool in my hand and told myself not to yell at Joe . . . until Pa was out of earshot.

Truth told, I was angry with Pa, too, for not saying anything to Joe about his carelessness or how he intended to replace my hat. I slapped my brand-new-hat-that-looked-worse-than-my-old-hat against my leg and walked toward the house. Maybe Hop Sing could use it as a mop.

"Adam?" Pa’s voice was gentle with humor.

I stopped with my right hand on the door handle, closed my eyes and pulled in a deep breath. "Yes, Pa?"

"Adam," Hoss cajoled, "ya might wanna see this."

What I wanted was to grieve in solitude, but solitude and the name Cartwright do not go together.

I turned from the door and took a few steps so I could see down the length of the porch. Pa was leaning back against one of the porch posts, his eyes bright with mischief. Hoss was leaning against the next porch post, smiling as if he’d just caught on to something. And there at the end of the porch stood Joe. I couldn’t see my little brother’s eyes, and could barely see his nose, because he had on a brand new black hat with a creased crown and a leather band with a silver buckle.

I gaped at the jumble of black wool in my hand, then stared at Joe as he grinned at me and raised the hat from his head. He motioned with it toward the one in my hand. "That’s not your hat. Pa and me swapped a bag of candy with a man in the wagon yard for that one." He stopped in front of me and held the new hat up with both hands. "This one’ll look better prob’ly."

I dropped the beaten up hat without a second thought. Then I slowly, reverently placed the new hat on my head. It felt stiff the way a new hat does. And it had that fresh smell the way a new hat does. And when I studied my reflection in the window above the porch bench, the hat looked the way a good hat should look.

And if it looks brand new as it sits on the shelf in the bunkroom, that’s because I rarely ever wear it.

You see, my old hat has been with me since Independence, riding over the prairies, to Fort Laramie, through the South Pass, across the desert, hunting in the mountains, fishing in the streams. It’s been with me in bone-chilling cold and skin-blistering heat. It’s shielded my face when I slept by campfires and more than once it’s provided padding between falling pinecones and my head.

My hat and I have been through a lot together, and you don’t toss aside a friend just because he starts showing his age.

I’m telling you, it is amazing the things a person can become attached to.

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