MY Father's Straw Hat


Springtime never came quietly to our beautiful country home in Pennsylvania. Instead, it was ceremoniously resurrected each year by the constant banging and slamming of the tool shed door. Tools of all shapes and sizes, still bearing the dregs of last year's harvest, would be yanked from their winter hibernation and were strewn all about our lawn. Yards and yards of green hose were streched out strategically around the grounds to await the fertilization of our many gardens. There were pots in an underground greenhouse, already bursting with herbs and spices, which were hoisted up and out, to take their rightful place in the front of my father's vegetable garden. Earthen pots, stuffed with black dirt, would await the annual trip to the garden store as my Mother would contemplate her color scheme for the new season..The Azalea bushes would be bursting with hues of pink and purple. Dewy Holly trees would be glisening in the morning sun . Rows and rows of vegetable poles were stripped of the previous year's withered vines and prepped with new white string. And, of course, there were the critters that took refuge in our yard, from rabbits to snakes, darting about and always mindful of their garden keeper.

There are so many wonderful memories of our Springtime ritual but none that can compare to the sight of my father in his straw garden hat. An old, torn, wide brimmed, sweat stained straw hat that he loved so. Clad with his khaki pants and flannel shirt, he would plop that hat atop his head and be transformed into another world. A place where he found peace and solace. A place where he could retreat from his busy life and do what he loved most. Making things grow. And grow they did! The bounty was endless and plentiful.

I have come to realize, in my later years, that what really grew from my father's garden were life lessons that molded me into the person I am today. Our conversations down by the garden were some of the most rewarding and tender times I ever spent with my Dad. l would stroll down to his garden very slowly and take in the splendor of his hard work and dedication. I would always be greeted with his warm smile and kiss. His hands were always crusted with dirt from his labors,but he always managed to hug me and everything seemed right with the world. My father's love was very contagious and all who knew him seemed to take his lead. He taught me great patience, understanding and forgiveness. His love of family and friends, the devotion to my wonderful mother, his unending generosity and his zest for life will stay with me the rest of my life. I have
yet to meet a man that gave so much and expected so little in return.

On a cold, rainy day in January, we buried my father, down into the earth that he so dearly loved, and through my tears I could picture him already tending to God's green garden above full of sunshine and smiles. All of his earthly worries were suddenly whisked away.

My father's straw hat now hangs silently on the tool shed's old hook, but the memories of the smiling, sun kissed man who peered out from under it, will glow in my heart forever.

I will always love you, Daddy. Your loving daughter, Trish