The Hat

She left her relatives squabbling over the contents of the old house and quietly made her way to the haven she had shared with her grandfather many years ago. The screeches of greedy outrage followed her out the back door and down the pathway to the old shed. The doors creaked open reluctantly and dust motes danced in the sunbeams as she stood there. Slowly she moved through the doorway and let her eyes wander – searching, searching.

Battered, misshapen, stained with sweat and other unknown substances, displaying a couple of holes from mice and heavy usage, the dusty old relic hung sadly on a nail behind the door. She reached for it with trembling hands and clutched it to her heart, tears flowing unchecked down her pale cheeks as her mind reeled under the flood of childhood memories. As the youngest child and only girl, in a family with six boisterous brothers, she had often needed shelter from their rough games and unthinking cruelty – she hadn’t always wanted to be the only Indian for their cowboy posse to capture and cops ‘n’ robbers often had her running screaming to the shelter of her grandfather’s arms.

Her memories scrolled back through the years, remembering holidays spent on the farm among the cattle and horses. She couldn’t ever remember seeing her grandfather without the battered old hat on his head, tufts of white hair protruding through the holes in the sides and the ragged brim drooping down over his ears. Many a time she had seen the old hat slapped across the ribs of a young horse reluctant do what his rider commanded or landing on the rump of a young heifer needing a little persuasion to enter the milking yard or bail. It had done duty over the years as a fly swat when the blowflies whirred like little jet planes around the latest carcase of beef destined for the big fridge and had once been used to put out the flames on her grandfather’s trousers when he had inadvertently stood too close to the camp stove. When she had walked with him around his lines of rabbit traps, the old hat had again been pressed into service to hold the barbed wires apart so she could climb through fences unscathed and again when springing the traps to release the rabbits that would be going into the big stew pot that evening for the family and the farm dogs. How she relished those times when she got to have her grandfather all to herself! He did not dismiss her childish chatter and always answered her questions with the wisdom of his years.

When the work became too much for him, he sold the farm and moved into town to be closer to her and her brothers. He spent his spare time making wooden toys for the neighbourhood kids and fixing furniture and oddments for the local housewives. The old hat came in handy for brushing away the sawdust and wood shavings, wiping off the surface of what he was working on or just wiping the sweat away from his face and arms. An old camp stove in the back of the shed held a billy that was constantly boiling and the old hat made a very useful potholder when the handle got too hot to hold or for brushing the dust and cobwebs from an old chair so she could sit with her hot chocolate.

Out for a walk one day around the local park, she and her grandfather had found a puppy caught in a snare set by some neighbourhood children. It was hungry, thirsty and bedraggled and whimpered in fear as they crouched beside it. The old hat did service, held as a bowl while the puppy lapped gratefully at cool water, then it gently shielded the injured leg as he untangled the snare and freed the small victim. The hat became a favourite chew toy stolen often as the puppy healed and insinuated itself into their family, becoming a much valued ally for the beleaguered little sister, his growls and sharp teeth keeping the brothers in check around her when they got too rough.

To her, the battered old hat was a priceless treasure and the trigger for memories more precious than diamonds. According to the will, each relative was permitted one memento from his possessions and the rest of his property was to be sold and the proceeds divided evenly between them all. Although the house was filled with valuable antique furniture and other objet d’art, the memento she chose was the precious, battered old hat she held in her hands. It symbolised for her all the love she had basked in over the years and missed desperately. Holding it tenderly in her hands now soothed her aching heart and brought her favourite person close to wrap her once again in the strong folds of love and peace.

Yes, she had the memento she treasured above all things and the one item she had travelled halfway around the world to retrieve, the one memento guaranteed to nurture that aching void in her heart – her grandfather’s old, felt hat.