Since "someone" in my last blog commented on the subject, I feel I need to address the hat. And, since no one other than my family has found this cubby hole, no one in the telling of this story need feel embarrassed.
It all started at an enormous yard sale overlooking the Columbia River...crowds of people seeking hidden treasure among makeshift tables scattered over half an acre of prime property. I don't like to spend more than two figures for anything in these sales but this item was exceptionally fine so I handed the proprietor change that came to the full one-dollar asking price. It was not the first orange hunter's cap to be purchased by a family member. No...indeed, it was the memory of that first one that caused me to purchase this one.
So, I guess it actually started when Father took energetic youngest child garage saling one wintry day in Alaska. No one recalls whether the child left with a hat on his head, but we ALL remember that, upon return, he was proudly wearing a slightly used fluorescent-orange, naugahyde hunter's cap with "fur"-lined flaps. It was an adult-sized cap on a skinny five-year old. For years, he wore it with pride, and I did not discourage his wearing it. I could spot him in any crowd, particularly on playgrounds.
The hat never actually touched his head except where it rested on top. As the years wore on, the hat became a "bit" ragged until, one day, I disposed of it. It broke his little heart when I confessed my terrible deed. Now, years later, I stood with a brand new clone of that beloved article. At last, I could make it up to him.
That year, his big Christmas present was a bicycle. The dilemma of how to wrap it was solved with the stored-away hat. Father made everyone in the family a toy rifle...the kind that the cork pops out of the barrel when manipulated. Donning the hat and carrying his rifle, the young man led the family as we followed full-page-sized bear tracks through the house, up the stairs, through the shower (waterfall), down the stairs, out the front door, around the house...all the while singing the memorable camp song "Going On A Bear Hunt." When we reached the camper, everyone squatted and approached it cautiously. When our fearless leader reached into the cave (camper), touching his sister's polyester rabbit "fur" coat draped over the handlebars, everyone screamed and scattered from fear of the bear.
Thus, the orange hunter's cap was reintroduced to the family. The next blog will tell the rest of the story.
It all started at an enormous yard sale overlooking the Columbia River...crowds of people seeking hidden treasure among makeshift tables scattered over half an acre of prime property. I don't like to spend more than two figures for anything in these sales but this item was exceptionally fine so I handed the proprietor change that came to the full one-dollar asking price. It was not the first orange hunter's cap to be purchased by a family member. No...indeed, it was the memory of that first one that caused me to purchase this one.
So, I guess it actually started when Father took energetic youngest child garage saling one wintry day in Alaska. No one recalls whether the child left with a hat on his head, but we ALL remember that, upon return, he was proudly wearing a slightly used fluorescent-orange, naugahyde hunter's cap with "fur"-lined flaps. It was an adult-sized cap on a skinny five-year old. For years, he wore it with pride, and I did not discourage his wearing it. I could spot him in any crowd, particularly on playgrounds.
The hat never actually touched his head except where it rested on top. As the years wore on, the hat became a "bit" ragged until, one day, I disposed of it. It broke his little heart when I confessed my terrible deed. Now, years later, I stood with a brand new clone of that beloved article. At last, I could make it up to him.
That year, his big Christmas present was a bicycle. The dilemma of how to wrap it was solved with the stored-away hat. Father made everyone in the family a toy rifle...the kind that the cork pops out of the barrel when manipulated. Donning the hat and carrying his rifle, the young man led the family as we followed full-page-sized bear tracks through the house, up the stairs, through the shower (waterfall), down the stairs, out the front door, around the house...all the while singing the memorable camp song "Going On A Bear Hunt." When we reached the camper, everyone squatted and approached it cautiously. When our fearless leader reached into the cave (camper), touching his sister's polyester rabbit "fur" coat draped over the handlebars, everyone screamed and scattered from fear of the bear.
Thus, the orange hunter's cap was reintroduced to the family. The next blog will tell the rest of the story.
1 comment:
I hope we'll see some photo evidence>
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