Not too many of my readers will know the history of my ever-present signature visor. The story is rather long, but I’ll try and shorten it down to fit my allotted space. It all started triple decades ago. I stood belly up to a retail counter in a basement-situated store.
The ceiling was not high. A twin-lighted, eight foot, florescent fixture was mounted firmly just inches above my head.
Because our just-starting business dealt both with dog grooming and the collecting of large birds, as introduction to my long-awaited breeding program, there was always a plethora of interesting animals that invariably attracted a considerable number of young people.
One was a pleasant young girl, perhaps 10 or 11 years of age, a latchkey kid whose parents both worked, so she spent a couple of hours each day petting and talking to the birds and animals before going home.
She was actually a great help to me at the time, as I usually developed an annoying headache about three in the afternoon. One day, she gave me a visor made from construction paper that she had made in her craft class at school. It was adjustable; it fit perfectly, so I wore it. It was not until I was walking home in the evening that I realized my headache had left me.
The next afternoon, not wanting to displease her, I put it on again early, as she had hinted she would be writing an exam and would probably be in earlier. She did come in early but my headache did not show up.
My Little Lady had a stand at the then well-known Fergus Market. She was a vendor there each weekend for 13 years hand running. Not far from her stand was a leather worker, with handmade jackets, purses, belts, and things all the way up to saddles. I left with him my paper visor, asking if he could make one for me. Later I asked him to make six more as identity for the staff I was later to hire.
They worked well, shading eyes from the glare of light, especially when out in the sun. They doubled on more occasions as well. They kept the rain off my glasses, as I loved to walk in the rain, and the soft, pliable leather acted also as a sweatband, soaking up the salty sweat that would bead on my brow, faithfully keeping it from trickling into my eyes as I worked in our garden.
On occasion, I would wear it going into the house while getting a drink or answering the phone. It was there it caused detrimental trouble. Sweat- soaked leather has not been known as pleasing to one’s nostrils; it picks up a peculiar obnoxious aroma. In simple language, it stinks. So more often than not, my Little Lady would snatch it from my head and throw it back out the door from which I’d just come in, muttering loudly why I kept bringing sun-weary roadkill into the house.
I am aware that a rose by any other name still smells the same, but the unquenched truth is I need to wear it, and have done so for the past 30 years. It shadows the glare on my glasses, when inside and out, and has become through time my signature headgear. It and my glasses have bonded, being last taken off at night and first put on in the morning. My glasses rest on the bedside dresser and my visor hangs on my bed-foot bedpost.
It is my hope that when my inevitable time elapses, my roadkill hat will be buried with me. It would probably stimulate my heart to beating again just to see my Little Lady once again stamping her foot as she tosses it back out through those pearly gates.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105