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 bareheaded.
More than once she threatened to burn that hat
Or take it out and use it to bait a coyote trap,
But she never did.
Sometimes in the corral that old hat
Could stop a wild horse or turn a charging bull—
Well, I said “sometimes.”

That ol’ flattened felt had spirituality
And respect for authority.
Seven sons admired that battered old hat,
And not one of themever tried to knock it off
Or to wear it himself.
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 an 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 feel
My dad’s old hat.