Winter has arrived after an overly long absence. The temperature has dropped and the cold has settled in. At this time of year we dig into the backs of our closets and the bottoms of our drawers and pull to the top our warmer clothes for everyday wear.

I found myself doing this on Saturday. As I pulled the bottom drawer of my bedroom dresser open I was greeted by a pile of knit caps. There are about ten all together each of varying color and all of the same rough and slightly unfinished style. These knit hats are among my most prized possessions.

Sentimentality has a value that only lasts as long as the life of the sentimentalist. I know that when my life ends the likelihood that these miss shaped hats will find their way into the bottom drawer of another persons dresser is highly unlikely. Nor will they be stored away with care.

These knit hats that make me smile each time I touch them; these knit hats that warm me on cold mornings; these knit hats that accompany me through miles in the Sierras; these knit hats that adorned my head while fishing with my father were knit by my grandfather towards the end of his life. He would sit and knit to pass the time. When he passed, all the hats he had made were offered up. I don't know who of my family took them but I eagerly grabbed as many as I could.

 

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AuthorClinton Robison