I just got it! The thing about hats, that is.
Until now, I’ve never understood folk’s attraction to hats. I was raised in southern California during the 60’s and 70’s, when hats performed a very limited, decorative function, usually among old folks. People in my generation (class of ’74) did not have hat-happy hair. I did not labor over my faux-Afro, so coarse you could use it to clean a barbecue grill, only to mash it under some cap and then find it retaining the hat’s shape for the next 12 hours. Further, in the years before skin cancer-consciousness, tans were cool. We wanted to bake in the sun, not screen it out (very smart!). My generation disdained hats, especially the goofy caps with huge bills and giant fronts screened with some inane slogan (“I’m not an old fart, I’m a sexy senior citizen”). In short, once we gave up our playtime cowboy hats, head coverings were not a feature of our WASPish life.
But now, I’ve got it! Just last week, at a graveside funeral service, of all places. I was at a service in northern California, on the other side of the Siskyou Summit. It was absolutely beautiful: although ominous storm clouds ringed the valley, the service proceeded under a narrow beam of sunshine that lit the old, rural cemetery. This was not one of those manicured, carefully planned and neatly marked jobs. No, this cemetery has Civil War-era graves, long rows of family plots dating back to the early 1800s, and is maintained mostly by the sun and the moon and the giant trees that shade the graves (including one marked only with a loop of rope and a simple plaque reading, “Woman found hanging in a tree”).
The service, performed by my Co-Pastor, was in memory of the father of one of our sweet parishioners and her family. It was attended by a sizable crowd, including a couple of old boys who looked as though they might have been the cemetery’s original gravediggers. The deceased had retired from the County road crew, after helping to carve the Interstate into the adjacent mountains, and a cadre of his crusty co-workers were there to pay their respects. A handful were straight from Central Casting: if you’d been making a movie that called for an “Old Prospector” you could have started filming these guys without a stop at makeup.
And that’s why the thing about hats finally dawned on me.
As I listened to the service unfold from the back of the knot of mourners, I watched one old boy in particular. This guy was a throwback: wizened skin more like jerky than leather, a pinstriped denim work shirt that looked as though it was soaked in transmission fluid, and oily dungarees of the kind I’d wear if I were an old railroad man, hung from suspenders wider than a dollar bill. On his hip, a knife longer than the one my Uncle Monty used to carve the Thanksgiving turkey. And on his head, a hat. Not some silly cap, or pretentious county-fair-goin’ dress-up Stetson. No, this was one of those no-nonsense, sensibly-brimmed jobs.
Watching this fellow out of the corner of my eye, I got it about hats. It was a revelation, an epiphany. Here’s the great thing about wearing a hat: you can take it off.
He sure did. Quite often. When the prayer began. When the scripture reading started. When a lady approached. When a stranger took his place next to the old timer. And this really struck me. (This is the part where it’s okay if you think I’m nuts. But this really impressed me, honest.) By doffing one’s hat, you can say, “I defer to you” or “I respect you.” Just by removing your hat.
What other article of clothing allows you to adopt such an immediately-humble posture? What other garment allows you to make such a godly statement? Remove your shirt and you just look dorky. Holding your watch over your heart? Weird. But removing your hat is sort of like kneeling before the Lord, without the wear on your knees.
We live in an ugly era of in-your-face and up-your-whatever apparel. “No fear.” “Arrest me, I’m a skateboarder.” “If you don’t like the way I drive, stay off the sidewalk.” Automotive decals that have the former cartoon-strip character Calvin urinating on the logo of the other brand of pick-up truck (“Friends don’t let friends drive Chevys”). BTW, where’s the trademark lawyers when you need them?
How remarkable that there are still people with the sense to demonstrate submission to God or His Word, or to a lady, or even to a stranger, by doffing a hat. How sad that you have to go to a graveside cemetery miles from the nearest big city to find such an attitude.
Copyright 2002 Dale K. Meador, Jr.