I want to preface this blog by saying: If you knew Dexter Worrell, then this post will make perfect sense to you. If not, then I encourage you to read anyway and get to know the awesome legacy he left behind. Not only was Dexter Worrell a soldier in the U.S. Military and the Lord's army, he was a friend to all, and as long as I knew him, he was my Pappaw.
I wrote this story/excerpt as part of a writing assignment in college. The point was to have an inanimate object tell a story. It was a difficult assignment, but I was happy with how it turned out. It was one more way for me to honor Pappaw Dexter and the impact he had on my life.
The Hat Left Behind
The old black hat stared up at me, its golden embroidered letters shining in the sun like a call from the past. The words inscribed on the hat were simple: “WW II Veteran” with the Navy emblem in the middle. It didn’t mean much to someone else. It was just an old hat collecting dust on a shelf. To me, it was the gentle, aching reminder of the person who last wore it. When I looked at the WW II hat, that wasn’t all I saw. That wasn’t all I heard. If the hat could talk, it spoke to me as the distant echo of Pappaw’s voice. Each time I walked by, or caught a glimpse of the hat in a photo, it spoke something different. When my self-esteem had taken a hit, it would call out, “Hey beautiful, sweet, precious, lovely granddaughter.” When my faith was shaken, the old hat whispered, “Remember the Lord in the days of thy youth.” If I was
trying to show someone a random act of kindness, the hat would speak up, “Until you’re better paid.” When I was feeling lonely, it would gently remind me, “It’s better to be single
and wish you were married than to be married and wish you were single.” If I was beginning to feel like there would never be a special someone in my life, the hat would bring a
humorous word to the table. It would jokingly say, “If I was about 20 years old, I would’ve already snatched you up.” Finally, as the shadows passed over the dust on the edges of it’s bill, the hat would mumble, “It’s just old age.” I could hear the deep, soothing voice as it sang a hymn of praise, always wondering what would come next. When I saw the black and yellow hat frayed by many years of wear, I lovingly recalled the treasures it held. I remembered the crooked smile Pappaw gave me, the bright eyes hidden behind the thickness of tinted lenses. The hat reached out, and pulled up memories as far back as my mind would take me. It was like gazing into a freshly cleaned mirror, where the image is so clear, there’s no denying who is standing there. I saw his handwriting scrawled across an envelope I knew he had stuffed with cash. I looked up as he had to reach down and steady himself on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around his large belly, knowing it would be a while until next time. I could rest in the fact that there would be a next time. When I saw the hat, a million memories replayed.
In scene one, there were giant, brightly colored lollipops. In scene two, there was a $5 or $10 stuck to my hand. Scene three was a replay of breakfast dates at Stack’s or lunch dates at Kunkel’s. There were a million memories the hat could replay, but not all of them in one day. The hurt and loss was still fresh. I always held onto the times we spent together, but never realized just how much those moments would mean to me. I never knew how important a WW II Veteran hat could be. Somehow, I always knew the memory of the hat would never fade. Even if it collects dust on a shelf, and no one else wears it, I will remember who did. I remember his voice. I remember his face. I remember his wisdom and generosity. I remember the mark he left on my life. The old black hat with its golden embroidered letters is a call from last December, and it reminds me that Pappaw’s legacy lives on. Like words on a page, the hat left behind jumps out at me. It holds my attention as every detail of his life rushes back to me. From birth until now, the memories underneath the black and gold hat are only a mirage. It’s wishful thinking, I suppose. Still, I believe, that hat is watching over me. If it could truly call him back, I wouldn’t let it. Instead, I live with the traces left behind by the old black and yellow Veteran hat-the war stories, the revival stories, and the stories I am in. The stories I was a part of will always be my favorite. The old black hat stares up at me, as if expecting me to repeat the stories it has already spun.