Until today, my dad’s earnest efforts to convince me to wear hats “fed om dep ees” as Buckwheat might have said. For the first time in my life today and about 14 years too late to thank him for his wisdom and persistence, I decided to pay attention to him.
The occasion was a visit from someone I’ve forgotten since we attended Lawrence Elementary school in the mid 50s. Cindi Bilyeu was a year behind me, but she explained she remembered me during a phone call Friday. She said a teacher I don’t remember, but who told her she taught me remembered me as well. The teacher’s name is Claudine Mander, now in her 90s. When Mrs. Mander read the superb local print media coverage of my book Springfield Aviation, she contacted Cindi who bought a copy for her, for her own family and for her employer, the Illinois Association of School Boards, a private enterprise. During our Friday phone conversation, she asked if I would autograph them if she brought them over Sunday, and of course I said “SURE!” For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I had nothing on my calendar for today besides catching up with AeroKnow and the house in general. When she called me this morning, I decided it was the perfect time to rake at least part of my front lawn for the first time, and to be visible outside when Cindi came by.
Because I was grateful for Cindi’s buying my books and what seems to be the start of a new chapter of my life, I decided to begin that chapter wearing a cap that I had purchased years ago, hand-made from multi-colored hues of corduroy from a coffee house called Terrapin Station on Wabash. I used to play guitar, share my songs and poetry there and emcee a poetry open mic before they went out of business. I’ve always treasured the cap, more a beret. But I’ve seldom worn it. Springfield is not a beret kind of city, and if the cap didn’t grab me for other reasons, I would not have worn it today. The panoply of colors, combined with the panoply of fallen leaves and bright November sun, made it a natural.
Cindi and her husband pulled up to the curb about three minutes after I had begun raking. She remembered me from my voice, the then-voice of a second or third grader. My mind (what’s left of it) drew a blank. She could have told me she was Donna Parks if she had a British accent, whom I do remember, (then recently arrived from the UK; sat in front of me in Miss Kessberger’s third grade class), and I would have believed her. During our convivial chat as I signed the three books, I asked for and was given permission, to take a few pictures of her for my AeroKnow web site home page where I will post one early this week.
Then, bouyed by the happy good fortune of that warming encounter, I raked the half of my front yard between sidwalk and street. I had planned half an hour, but it was so much fun, and I was so determined to do all of that area, I spent a little more than an hour, doing the rake thing. The rest will be easy if we have decent weather next weekend.
The Terrapin Station cap helped. The heat I could feel trapped between scalp and the lining of the cap seemed to radiate down through me. I knew I didn’t have to work fast, that I could work at a natural pace that would be easier in the long haul, and what I set out to do I would do completely.
And I did, thanks in part to following dad’s timely advice. Throughout the tempest of knowing him, especially as a adult, he accused me of not doing things for no other reason than to intentionally go contrary to his words. I didn’t buy his complaint for the 44 years in which I consciously knew who he was, but I’m beginning to think he was correct. I know I’ll be more of a “hat guy” this winter than before (though I’ve always been a “hood guy”). I believe that wearing a hat makes sense, and if your father has been telling you the same thing, don’t wait 14 years after he’s departed with no forwarding address to act on that good advice.
Wear a hat. Not because your dad told you to if you want to be like me. Wear it because it will improve your life.
Live long . . . . and warmly.
