Brown Hat

Brown Hat


It was a hat of a legend. It hung on a nail near the back door for as long as John remembered. Grandpa Joe wore it everywhere.

Brown felt, sweat stained and crumpled. Bent to fit his head just so. He wore it summer and winter. Spring and fall. Always the brown cowboy hat.

Joe asked Grandpa Joe once about the hat. Why he never wore another hat. There was a good place they would go on horseback sometimes midsummer. That was a nice ride up the mountain to a trout stream where the cut-throats were a foot long. A fire roasted trout supper was guaranteed after fishing the afternoon with Grandpa Joe.

Then as the fire died down, they talked and talked. Grandpa Joe talked about his life. He started working on the railroad when it first came to Montana. He talked about working for a time in the mines in Butte. Then when he got tired of that, he made his way to where he lives now, bought the ranch and made his way with cows and sheep and horses. He was a strong man back then, he told John. But you have to be strong to make it in the world.

Grandpa Joe told John that the brown hat followed him from the railroad to the mine to the ranch. The hat had stayed on during all those jobs. It stayed with him during the heat of summer, the snow of winter, the dirt of the mine, the wind of the prairie. He only takes off the hat to eat, to go to church, and to go to bed. It had become a part of him.

And so it was when Grandpa Joe was laid to rest, the brown hat rest on top of his casket.