It’s January, and lately in Ohio we've had some cold, snowy days. The Zuercher Road walking-route still beckons, and six or seven days a week I buckle down and do the three mile hike . If it weren't for the warm, soft comfort of my ancient stocking cap, this may not be possible. As I pull it onto my head and step out the door, the instant soft warmth caresses my ears, and a flood of memories pour out from under it, warming my heart as well.
Everyone has a favorite something; a cap, a coat, or a pair of shoes, and this cap is mine. It is faded gold and 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 serves it’s intended purpose equal to the day it was new. The round, fuzzy ball that used to grace the top, has dwindled to just a few strands - a mere tuft - having left tiny bits of itself in many different places. One side is missing a baseball-sized area of the outer layer - attesting to a moment of inattentiveness while I was operating a spark-spewing grinder. I wasn't wearing it at the time, but had laid it on the workbench before running the grinder. When the rim is folded up just right, the burnt-away layer can be covered.
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, too thin, or made of scratchy material. It’s important to be comfortable when facing the elements. Not too hot or cold, too tight, or too loose. Seems like this one is here to stay. It is so old, there is no possibility of recounting everywhere it’s been with me, but one or two events float to the top of the memories.
The old cap has been a source of education - as I learned one morning in Southern Ohio, while working on a dairy farm about thirty years ago. It was my first winter on the farm. Gone were the hot sultry days of summer, and the pleasant days of fall. Winter was upon us. On this particular morning, I would be sharing milking duties with Matt, the farm-owner’s mischievous twenty-four year old son.
The silvery moon and star-studded sky were shining brightly enough to light my path across the snow-covered pasture to my morning milking duties. I checked the thermometer on the back porch, and shivered in anticipation. It was difficult to leave the cozy warmth of our old lap-sided farmhouse situated back a long lane near the Ohio River. After tossing some more logs into the wood stove and pulling on my old faithful stocking cap, I headed out the door.
I couldn't believe I was still wearing that cap. I had purchased it at the age of thirteen. My brother Gene and I thought we needed something to keep our heads warm, so we headed off to Pierces 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 heads. Without hesitation we laid down our cash and walked proudly out of Pierces, wearing our identical caps.
In the years following that fortunate 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 for many years of hunting rabbits and trapping muskrats. Many were the times an errant bramble had yanked it from my head, 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, nineteen years after acquiring it, and many miles from home - like the clothing on the Israelites during their desert journey - refusing to wear out, and still keeping my head warm at the age of thirty-two. And now it was beginning to accumulate the unmistakable scent of a dairy farm.
After arriving at the barn and rousting the cows from the free stalls, I walked them to the holding pen, closed the gate, and stepped into the milking parlor. Matt was already there, hooking up the lines and getting the milkers ready.
“Mornin’ Dave, looks like it’s time for the toboggan.”
“Yes it is,” I replied. The new layer of snow covered the many hills, and I looked forward to streaking down them on a sled or toboggan.
“Do you have a toboggan?” I asked.
“Yeah, a couple of them.”
“Where do you go to ride them?”
Matt’s face went from a smile to a rather confused look, and his response was just as bewildering.
“Huh? You wear them - 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. Wear a toboggan!? You 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 slowly, as it began to sink in. “It’s a stocking cap!”
“Stocking cap?” Matt chortled, “Never heard that before. It’s a toboggan - ‘boggan for short.”
Now I was laughing, “A toboggan is something you ride down a hill.”
“Yeah, I know, but that’s a ‘boggan on yer head too - and yours is a girly ‘boggan!”
“Huh!?” Knowing Matt, I could expect anything. “What do you 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 finishing with hooking up the milkers and turning on the compressor, we opened the door to let the first batch of six cows in. The air felt even colder than before. It sure was nice to be wearing the ‘boggan.
The next day, it was still really cold, and I was again wearing my faithful stocking cap. This time I was helping Lisa, Matt’s sister, 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 my best educated smile, “I’ve had it a long time, Lisa. Just can’t find another one that comes close to being this warm and 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 laughed, “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 shook her head and smiled at me sympathetically. One thing for sure - the flat-lander from Wayne County with the girly ‘boggan on his head had a lot more to learn about life on the farm in Gallia County. Now, many years later, the ‘boggan still survives. It gets a lot of use every winter - forty-nine years and counting.
A man returned from a rapid, three-mile walk, thankful for good health and another day to get out and breathe deeply of the fresh invigorating air. He hung an old coat on the hook, parked his old shoes under the split-log bench, and pitched an ancient stocking cap onto the closet shelf. The man enjoyed watching buggies and wagons rattle up and down the road, seeing the corn shocks that are gathering snow while standing rigidly in the wind. He waved a greeting at the rugged Amish men who were hauling manure onto their frozen fields with horse-drawn spreaders that had been loaded using strong backs and pitch forks. He loved the sense of community and good will that he experienced in observing the farmers, and the chance meetings of young Amish men walking home from their job at the Chipmunk Hill Woodworking shop. This is life, he told himself.
Once again, we leave you with happy memories from scenic, snow-covered Kidron, Ohio, where all the good men keep the driveways clean for their lovely ladies who are in the house making chili soup for supper. And the children? Who knows what they’re doing. They’ll come around by-and-by. Maybe they’ll smell the soup.
Note on the names of caps:
Many variants exist for knitted caps, including the Southern American version, toboggan, and the American English version, stocking cap.
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