Every day at noon I take a walk through the north Salem neighborhood where I work. Aside from a handful of people making their way back and forth to the grocery store, most of the people I meet have taken up residence in the nooks and crannies of the area. Isn’t this an odd thing to say: the homeless people have made their new homes here. Their colorful patchwork of tents and tarps seems to grow day by day.
Recently, I was walking and one of my new neighbors appeared to be having a particularly bad day. He stood there on the sidewalk howling and swinging has arms against an invisible enemy.
I gave him lots of room, but he spotted my hat. It had a Portland Trail Blazers logo on it.
He stopped for a minute and turned to me.
“Go Blazers,” he said. Then he turned away and continued his rant.
I always wear hats when I go for walks. They offer some protection against the inevitable rain, but they also offer something just as important: identity.
In this case, my neighbor and I found common ground through my Blazers hat.
Hats are that way. Just the act of putting a hat on your head helps you make a statement. It might be an affinity for a sports team, a company – even a political stance. Veterans denote the branch of the military or the outfits they served in. In my world, all hats are welcome. It’s the First Amendment without the noise.
I should say that hats are also dangerous. If you have a hat, the odds are that someone will jump to the conclusion that you need more hats. The rate of growth is exponential. One hat becomes two. Two hats become four, and four become 16. Before long I felt like a rabbit farmer keeping track of my hats.
Some years ago, my wife evicted my burgeoning collection of hats from the house. I moved them to my office, and things only got worse. Friends, acquaintances – complete strangers – would see the hats and add to the collection.
I had to do something, so I donated them to the local homeless shelter. Soon after, I’d see what were once my hats making the rounds downtown. It was so much better than having them stacked on a bookshelf collecting dust.
I still have a supply of hats on ready alert. After all, you can never tell when a special occasion will require a different hat.
This month I am due to have my annual physical. Along with the yearly reminder that I need to lose some (more) weight and avoid eating like a 12-year-old boy – chocolate cupcakes were banned a long time ago – I will also put on a full-court press to get the coronavirus vaccine. After all, I’m old enough to fit the demographic of folks who should get the shots.
I realize there are lots of folks out there who say they won’t get the vaccine. They say they don’t trust science and technology. They will broadcast this to the world using science and technology that until a few years ago didn’t exist. Smart phones and the internet are apparently OK.
After I get the vaccine, I’m going to dust off one of my other hats. It’s from the Salem-Keizer Volcanoes baseball team. On the front is a large “V.” In addition to standing for the team, that letter will take on a new meaning: “Vaccine,” which science and technology have supplied to us to finally defeat COVID-19 and help us all get back our normal lives.
As that happens, the “V” will have yet another meaning that’s far more important. It will stand for “Victory.”
Carl Sampson is a freelance editor and writer. He lives in Stayton.
