Chapter Twelve --- "The Old, Old Cap"

An ancient, stained and faded, gold-colored stocking cap lays on the kitchen bar in front of me just now, still a little damp from perspiration - an indication that it did its job well this morning.  It is intricately woven with ultra-soft, multi-layered material, and generous in size.  It looks tired, and although appearing to have seen it’s better days, it still has the singular ability to serve its intended purpose - equal to the day it walked out of the sporting goods store with me when I was still a pup - exactly fourteen years old.  The round, fuzzy ball that used to grace the top, has dwindled to but a few strands—a mere tuft—having left tiny bits of itself in many different places.

I’ve tried to replace the vintage cap on a number of occasions, but find that it is simply irreplaceable.  All other stocking caps are too tight, or made of itchy material, or the wrong color or . . . whatever.  I’m afraid this one is here to stay.

I must say too, that on occasion the old cap has been a source of education—as I learned one morning in Southern Ohio, while working on a dairy farm a long time ago.

“Mornin’ Dave . . . good ‘boggan weather.”  Matt greeted me in the milk parlor on a frigid January morning.  The clock on the wall of the farmhouse kitchen said 4:45 AM and the star-studded sky lit my path across the snow-covered pasture to my morning duties of extracting milk from the our herd of Holsteins.  I had checked the thermometer on the back porch, and shivered in anticipation before tossing some more logs on the fire and pulling on my faithful stocking cap.  It was difficult to leave the cozy warmth of our old lap-sided farmhouse along the Ohio River.

I couldn’t believe I was still wearing that cap.  My brother Gene and I thought we needed something to keep our heads warm, so we headed off to Pierce’s Sport Shop in Wooster.  After trying on a large assortment of caps, we stumbled onto these.  We knew immediately that our search was over.  Gold in color and much softer than most caps—and best of all—not too tight on our big Ross heads.   Without hesitation we laid down our cash and walked proudly out of Pierce’s, wearing our identical caps.

In the years following that most fortuitous purchase, the cap had accompanied me and kept my head and ears toasty through many sledding and skating parties.   It had also walked with me while hunting rabbits and trapping muskrats.  Many were the times an errant bramble had yanked it from me, and I had to take a step back to retrieve it—or most of it.  I think a thousand little golden strands must be lodged in a thousand different briers all over Wayne County.

But here it was, twenty years later and many miles from home—like the clothing on the Israelites in the desert—refusing to wear out, and still keeping my head warm at the age of thirty-four.  And now it was beginning to accumulate the unmistakable scent of a dairy farm.

I looked at Matt, and had to agree with him.  Yes, this was good weather for streaking down the snow-covered hills of Gallia County.

“Do you have a toboggan?” I asked.

“Yeah, a couple of them.”

“Where do you go to ride them?”

That question turned Matt’s face from a smile to a rather confused look, and his response was just as bewildering.

“Huh?  You don’t RIDE them. You WEAR them—just like the one you’re wearing right now.”

Now it was my turn to look confused.  Wear a toboggan?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Matt—wearing a toboggan!?  I ride a toboggan.”

“On yer head, Dave!”

“On my head? What?”

“BOGGAN!  . . .YER CAP!”  Matt made sure I understood him this time.

“Boggan?” I mused, as it began to sink in. “It’s a stocking cap!”

“Stocking cap?” Matt chortled, “Never heered that before.  It’s a toboggan.  We say boggan for short.”

Now I was laughing, “A toboggan is something you ride down a hill.  It’s a long flat sled that’ll hold about four people.”

“Well, that’s a boggan on yer head too.   But it’s a girly boggan!”

I wasn’t ready to hear that, but knowing Matt, I could expect anything.  “Whadaya mean, a girly boggan?”

“It’s got that ball on top.  I’d cut that ball off if it was mine!”

Now we were both laughing, and after getting the parlor set up for milking and the compressor running, we headed out for the first batch of cows.  Opening the doors to let them in, the air felt even more frigid than before.  I sure was glad to be wearing the old boggan.

The next day, it was still cold, and my faithful boggan kept my ears warm once again.  This time it was Lisa, Matt’s sister, helping with the morning milking.  And wouldn’t you know it, she had to have a word about my cap too.

“Where’d ya get that boggan, Dave.”

I gave her an educated smile,  “I bought this boggan when I was fourteen.  It’s twenty years old, and I can’t find another one that’s even close to being this warm or comfortable.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it!”  Lisa’s words took me off guard, and again bewilderment twisted its way across my face and out through my eyes.

 “Well, why not?  You’re wearing a boggan too!”

“Yeah, but mine doesn’t have a ball on top.  That’s too girly.”

“But . . . but . . . you ARE a girl. Why . . . ach!”

I shook my head and busted out laughing, “I don’t know about you guys!  Toboggans are made to ride down hills, and YOU wear them on your heads.  And I don’t CARE if my stocking cap has a ball on top, as long as it keeps my head warm.”

Lisa just smiled at me sympathetically.  One thing was for sure—the flatlander with the girly boggan on his head had a lot to learn.

But the ball stays--what’s left of it--fifty years and counting.

Artwork by Larry Ross