Sunday, January 3rd. On the way home from my walk, I fidgeted
about whether or not to put on my hat. I pulled it from my pocket and
held it folded in my left hand and deliberated. Usually I wear it because
at this age direct sunlight irritates my bald scalp. The sun felt so good
on my face, I decided, nah, I'm just about home anyway.
At that moment, I came upon two Birds of Paradise lying like mates on
the grass strip between sidewalk and street. Perhaps they fell out of
someone's arrangement, or, more likely, they had been cut by gardeners
and left there.
I crouched down to admire the flowers.
The next morning, when preparing to walk, I reached into the usual pocket
for my Stanford Golf Club Hat, and realized it was gone. Completely gone.
Vanished. Lost. I had had it since about 1985 when I began to play a lot
of golf.
Distracted by the beauty of the Birds of Paradise, I must have lost the
hat behind me. It must have slipped out of its usual pocket, or I simply
missed putting it into it and dropped it. In a panic I retraced my steps.
It is lost.
I do not have nor acquire many things. But I admit I was/ /am attached
to that hat. It had been with me for a quarter of a century.
Saturday, January 9th. Checking out at the register at Whole Foods, the
man bagging my groceries suddenly asked, '...Where's your hat?..'
I suppose he is not a total stranger, since along with thousands of other
shoppers there, he has seen me over the years. The impact his remark had
on me was profound. I felt the gentle warmth of human kindness from him.
In tears, I thanked him and left the store, wheeling my cart out into
the sunlight.
I opened the sunroof and reached for my Stanford Golf Hat, but it had
transformed into the back-up hat--the terry-cloth Silverado hat. It is
a youngster. I have only had that one since 1997.
Nah, I thought. The sun roof is open. Let the sun shine on my bald head
today.
Sunday, January 10th. The Bird's mate was still lying on the grass strip,
so I brought it home, too.
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