In summer, he never left the house without his hat. Shade that it provided made work in the boiling hot sun bearable.
The brim of the hat protected face and ears from slicing corn blades as he worked the rows. It kept gummy tobacco leaves at bay as he shimmied down a stalk breaking off suckers. It caught the chaff that sifted from a pitchfork of hay pivoted overhead toward the hay stack.
He took it off and used it as a fan as he rested under a shade tree at the edge of the field. He fought angry wasps with his hat as a weapon when a nest was accidentally disturbed under a tier in the barn. He carried eggs to the house in his hat when he found a stolen nest in the orchard, and baby rabbits uncovered by the binder cutting wheat.
After dinner, a brief nap under the maple tree was a regular respite to relax tired muscles and renew strength for the afternoon's labor. He covered his face with his hat to keep flies and bugs from disturbing his rest.
When driving the cows that broke through the fence into the wrong pasture, he waved his hat as an extension of his arms. Nothing was better than his hat to shoo chickens off the back porch. I've seen him “sweep” a wagon bed by fanning his hat.
His straw hat wasn't much to look at. A new one became conditioned pretty quickly. The inside leather band was soaked with sweat and the discoloration oozed through to the outside. Dust settled in the greasy ring to make it even more noticeable. My mother gave orders for him not to lay it on the clean white counterpane.
The woven straw would break at the crown where his hand grabbed it when he took it off and put it on.
No matter what shape it was in, I liked to put on his hat. I felt proud and privileged.
Most of the time when I picture Papa in my memory, he has on his straw hat, pushed back with a little of his white upper forehead visible under the brim.
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