The Hat: A lesson learned from my father

Spectrum, by Anker Hanson

As a teen-ager, I remember watching my father put on his American Legion hat. He'd place it on his head, tilt it a little forward and slightly to one side, always the same ritual. It was the kind of hat that looked like an upside down rowboat. I used to tease him about it, too.

"Dad, your dinghy is showing again." I'd say with a smirk.

"Hey! Thanks for noticing," he'd reply, and head out the door to one of his Legion meetings.

It seemed as if he always had a city meeting or a political function of some sort to attend. He was very interested in politics and the democratic process, and he was very active in community events. He encouraged youngsters to get involved in politics and become participants in society rather than be passive observers. Every year he asked me to play taps on my trumpet at the Memorial Day service at the cemetery outside town, convincing me that a little civic pride was good for a man. Even if I messed up a note or two, he was very proud of me for helping, and he always made sure everyone met the trumpet player. I was embarrassed shaking hands with these veterans with the funny hats, but it still felt good to be there.

A few years later he was elected Alaska Director of Boys' State; an annual American Legion event where boys ages 16-18 would attend a week long camp and have mock elections, and learn the American electoral system by actually staging campaigns and running for office. He got a lot of satisfaction from this work with the youth of Alaska, and he was honored to accept an invitation to the National convention for Boys' State directors to be held in Indianapolis, Indiana.

I drove him to the airport for his departure to the convention, and pulled the car up to the curb to unload.

"See you in a few days," he said, as he got out of the car. He was of course wearing his Legion hat, with it's glittering collection of service pins, attendance awards, and commemorative medals.

"Nice party hat, Dad." I never could seem to resist these comments.

"Thanks son, glad you like it." He made a quick salute with three fingers to his temple. Then he said, "Take care of everything for me, okay?"

"Sure Dad, no worries. Pick you up Monday," I said, and he closed the car door.

Thinking back now, I really wish I'd said I love you Dad, because it was the last time I ever saw him. A drunk driver in Indianapolis killed him. Actually, there were three other directors from other states with him in the car, and they all died in that crash, coming home from a dinner after the closing ceremony on Sunday night. The ironic thing was, the young man who killed them was eighteen. Just the sort of person my dad and his friends tried to help. Four families were wrecked inside that car.

In the days before the funeral, I got an idea of the many people my Dad's public service touched. We lived in Palmer, Alaska, a small town with a population of about thirty-five hundred people, and it seemed like all of them came to the house in those few days, bearing gifts of homemade food, or sympathy cards with cash, or just to ask if we needed anything. One man told me how my father had helped him earn his high school equivalency diploma by tutoring him in the evenings. Even though Dad taught school during day, he somehow found time to teach a class at night. Many of his American Legion friends said if it wasn't for him, Memorial Day services at the city cemetery might have been without a live trumpeter, or floats for parades wouldn't have been built, or picnics for charities fund-raisers wouldn't have been organized. Another friend told me how Dad helped his family move across town when they were flat broke. All these people were truly moved to thank me for my Dad's kindness. They wished to express their gratitude to him through me, and I realized that his many small acts and helpful deeds added up a to a very compassionate and full life. I found myself very proud to have been his son.

Now that many years have passed since his death, I finally decided to go through his old books and clean out some of the things from his downstairs office.

One of my father's favorite hobbies, was collecting antique textbooks, and now that I'm a writer, I thought it might be useful to have a few of his old books on my library shelves. I opened an unmarked cardboard box, and lying there inside was his American Legion hat. I picked it up and held it in my hands and looked at the medals and pins, and the bright gold embroidery on the navy blue material. Somehow the hat seemed bigger and brighter than it used to be. I stepped in front of a small, dusty mirror on the wall, and placed it on my head. I pulled it slightly forward and a little to one side; the same routine I watched him do so many times before. For a moment I saw my dad looking back at me, and without thinking I saluted the man in the mirror, three fingers to the temple, and snapped it down. At that moment, my son, age thirteen years old, walked into the room.

"Nice hat, Dad." he said. I smiled because I detected a bit of a smirk in his voice, and without missing a beat, I said, "Hey, thanks for noticing, son."