My Purple Hat

When Samira puts out her wares for the summer sidewalk sale, everyone in our small town goes, at least everyone with any artistic inclination or pretension as the case may be. Usually, though, I miss out, remembering to go, if I remember at all, only at the very end when everything is pretty well picked over. This year was different. Early in the morning of the very first day of the sale, I just happened to be downtown copying some poems to share with my writing group when I saw the racks and tables outside our local stores calling out to all good consumer citizens.
My copying done, I hurried on over to Samira’s, poems and all. On the first table, I saw some beautiful broad brimmed hats—crushable straw, the sign said. I tried one on and smiled as I looked at myself reflected in the small mirror propped up on the wall, but with resolution strengthened through years of practice in economy, put it back on the table and walked on over to 60% off rack. There I spotted a green crinkle cotton skirt with inserts at the bottom to make more than a full circle around…just the thing for Friday night dance fiestas at International House. Living in a university town has its pluses in the multicultural social opportunities it offers, if one has the time and cares to take advantage of them.
This summer I’ve cared and had the time because Grandfather died in the early part of the summer, the 23rd of June to be exact. He’s not really my grandfather or even my father but my father-in-law who has always been Dad to me, my father-in-love. He’s been in a care home for the past six years, ever since Mom died, as his Parkinson’s disease has become progressively more debilitating. On Friday nights my ex and I continued the tradition of Friday Night meals to celebrate the Sabbath. One of us prepared a meal and the other picked up Dad at the care facility about 20 miles away. The work and responsibility sort of equaled out and each task was a welcome change from the other. Now, with Dad gone my Friday nights were free, almost frighteningly empty, mine to spend as I pleased with no feeling of guilt. At International House I learned Latin steps, learned to move to the Latin beat.
Samira’s green skirt was perfect for dancing so I got it—not to mention it was an
incredible bargain. Of course there was the top to go with it that wasn’t on sale but that’s the way it goes when you’re shopping. I have a friend who likes to say, “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping”. Being the poetic type, I used to think that a bit materialistic but now I begin to understand what she is talking about. It’s like discovering nuances when studying a foreign language. Anyway, I was very tough. Walking past the beautiful hats I’d seen before I couldn’t decide whether I like the purple or the black one best. Buying one would have been an event for me. I bought both.
Feeling strangely carefree I donned the purple hat and walked back to my car. On the way, everyone I met smiled at me. It was as if that hat held some sort of magic. And this summer I’ve been like a child chasing will-o-wisps that glow in the night. I wanted to see my daughter, hear her play with her quartet at Princeton, wanted to see my family by marriage in New Jersey and in New York, wanted to see a play there, the Frick museum and the Metropolitan, wanted to be free, more than devoted daughter-in-law or dedicated teacher, wanted to tap lightly on doors to see if they would still open to me.
I called my travel agent, got a special deal on Continental going to Newark and prayed that this time they’d get me to my destination without a major breakdown. Last time my flight was delayed by a crack in the windshield and the time before that some gear needed for take-off had to be fixed. Actually, I’m better off to pray that they always find what needs to be fixed while on the ground.
For the trip east I wore my green skirt, my green and purple tie-dyed top and my broad-brimmed black hat. I wanted to take my purple hat, too, but there wasn’t room in my one carry-on bag. Oh, the wants in one’s life that need to be weeded out, or left behind. It was seven in the evening when I arrived at Princeton. The leaded windows in the old stone buildings with simple concrete designs that spoke of another era spoke also of homecoming for me even though home was not at all like this except in the rugged simplicity of these halls: the stained glass windows that cranked open, the dormitory room sparsely furnished with bed, table and chest of drawers. It was a place of peace, of coming down right. My daughter played for me with the three young men who formed the quarter, the second and last movements of Brahm’s c-flat something…they were
beautiful, not because they were perfect but because their artistry gave the music so vivid
a life. Their mistakes that would be cleared up with more time and practice didn’t matter at all.
I wanted to spend more time here. There’s never enough time. So many stitches not taken in time. We wait in quiet stillness while time like a pilgrim keeps marching on. After a day and a half here I want to visit my Aunt who writes poetry, who is a sculptress and who is dying of cancer. We read our poems to one another, stopping in random detours to speak of family and life. I did not stay too long—I hope I did not for she tires easily. I want to return but there will not be enough time. Tomorrow I take the train into the City.
I wear my black Bill Blas jacket bought on sale last year and my broad brimmed black hat. No sooner had I settled myself with the New York Times I bought at the station than I hear a voice just over my shoulder, “Hi, Mom”. My daughter had gotten on this very same train earlier at Princeton station. What a miracle. Without my hat she might not have noticed me. She is going to have lunch with a friend in New York, has to be back for a 7 o’clock rehearsal. I’ll be going to Duffy Square to get a half price ticket to “Crazy for You”. A friend told me this is just the sort magical fluff I need. We leave Penn Station and walk together toward 42nd, then across to Broadway where we part to go our separate ways. We’ll try to meet at the Frick Museum at quarter to four.
As we walked my eyes had drunk in street scenes like a wino: the windows, the sidewalk tables with fresh fruit, peddlers seated at their stands, jewelry spread out around them, news stands, flower stands, people from all over the world seeking some little corner to earn a living. Though born on a farm in Wisconsin, I feel at home here. Shops have unlimited possibility. Sales abound. Shoes ½ off and more—I can’t resist. My hat is elegant and somehow even in NYC people smile when they see me but I know my sturdy walking shoes are rather clunky. No harm in taking a peek. I do find a lovely pair so I carry the old ones and wear the new. I’m spending money as if I didn’t have to worry about the future, as if it really mattered that I be beautiful, as if I were a lily of the field brought to city. I come to Duffy Square but it is too early, the line hasn’t even started. There are a few people gathered there and a woman who seems as if she must be someone’s mother, with a sparkle in eye speaks to me of the joy of eating and hands me
a brochure that invites me have lunch at the Pergola Des Artistes, a business lunch special for $7.98…included with the main course: hot French bread, and glass of Chablis or Burgundy. Just the ticket, I say to myself, I can have leisurely lunch and then see if “Crazy for You “is up on the boards. Maybe it was the romance of wine with lunch that really decided me.
It was a small restaurant with tables for four on either side and tables for one, in a pinch, two, down the center. Not many people were there, a couple to the right and a lone gentleman to the left. I had hoped for a gathering of artists in spite of the words, “Business Lunch Special” on the flyer. “One, Madam”, the waiter questioned with a lovely French accent. I thought, “Oui” in grand Parisian style but uttered a meek “Yes, please”. He led me down the narrow aisle to a middle table. Though I looked straight ahead my peripheral vision told me I had been noticed on both sides. My hat had done it again. It makes people smile just the way I did when I first saw it and kept returning until I finally bought it. The Chablis and French bread came right away and I discovered I was quite hungry and glad I had come. It wasn’t a loaf of bread, a jug of wine but none-the-less a kind of poetry. After a few minutes luxuriating in this special treat the waiter appeared asking, “Would Madam like a glass of champagne, there is no cost,” he glances at the man I had noticed before as I was being seated at my table, “the gentleman would like to share a glass with you”. I felt a moment of panic like a young girl fearing a strange man on the make but I am no longer young, there are greater fears. Suddenly, I’m the heroine in a Barbara Cartland romance or a forties movie.
“Thank you, yes”, I nod my head in my best woman of the world way.
He stands and approaches my table. “May I join you,” he asks.
“Of course,” I answer. .He doesn’t like to eat alone. I don’t either, at least, not in a restaurant. His name is Tom. My name is Laura. He loves my hat. I tell him that I do, too. It makes people smile at me. He’s in textiles. I’m a teacher. He’s from West Virginia. I’m from Wisconsin. He has a son and daughter. I think that all this getting to know you stuff is really trying to see below the words the person beneath the stranger.
I have three daughters. He wants to know how old they are—a way, I suppose of knowing how old I am but that doesn’t work well for me because I had my oldest child
when I was thirty-four and still have a dancer body with a classic sort of face that could be any age depending on the lighting, how close you are to me, how keen your eye sight is and whether I’m bending down of looking up. We both love books. He talks about some I haven’t read but I don’t admit it. He tells how the earth reaches up and around him, how the trees and flowers speak to him eloquently in the language of living green, how he wants to be able to write about the magic of his life, how he really is a frustrated writer and…”Yes,” I say. “You must write; you are a poet.”
Too soon he needs to get back to his meeting. He asks if he may give me his card, if he may have my address. He may. He takes my hand, lifts it almost to kiss it, a caress that holds for more than a handshake. I watch him leave. The dishes have all been cleared away. “Would madam care for anything else?”
“No, thank you, no.” He brings the bill. I’ve enough cash for the 20% tip and use plastic to pay for my meal. I tell the proprietor by way of conversation—a mid-western habit I ought to leave behind when I’m in the City but today I can’t—that I came today of a flyer a lovely lady had given to me. I wanted to know if she worked here.
“Oh, yes,” he says, “she is my wife. He smiles. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, “Have a good day”.
“I will,” I say, grateful that he has not responded with properly polite distance.
I decide not to wait on line for a ticket to Crazy for You but go to the box office and get a standing room ticket for fifteen dollars. That meant I had time to walk up to the Frick museum. On the way I stopped to watch some artists at work just where Central Park begins. Most people look and walk on and mostly I do, too, but a young woman with beautiful Filipino features urges me to let her do my portrait…only fifteen dollars, for you, ten... Something in me, maybe it is my hat makes me say, “yes”. I sit. We talk of our children, our dreams. It seems I have sitting a long time—my daughter and I had planned to meet at quarter to four. I want to tell her to hurry but can’t do that to an artist. At last she is done. The woman she has drawn is interesting but I don’t think she is me.

The hat looks great. I give her the fifteen she had originally asked for and wish it could have been more.
As fast as I can, I walk down Fifth Avenue but know I will miss my daughter. She had to catch a 5 o’clock train to get back to Princeton in time for rehearsal. At the museum I question the man who takes the tickets and he says, “Yes, a young woman in a flowered dress was asking for you but she left about ten minutes ago,” just what I didn’t want to hear. I hope she’ll forgive me…it was a tentative agreement…she wasn’t sure
she could make it (this was before we had cell phones).
I go to see Rembrandt’s self portrait and his Polish Rider who always seems to ride for me. Further on in the room near the pool, I gaze on Whistler’s portraits, two in dark shades on one wall and on the opposite wall, two in tones of white. In the library Holbein’s Cromwell and his Sir Thomas More still face each other on either side of the fireplace while El Greco’s St. Jerome looks out on the world kindly from his place above the mantle. I wait here awhile even though closing time is near. In my last room, the one furthest to the east, Millet’s young women at work bring me back to the farm in Wisconsin. So much art at the Frick speaks to me, work done in an era when the artists reflecting life reached out to realities of the rich and the poor in everyday acts of life and posed them with a vision wondrous and whole, not broken, ripped apart like so much of modern art. A single red spot is a red cap worn by a worker, not just a dot on the canvas. Appearance is everything. It’s closing time at the Frick but I’ve an hour to see again the impressionists at the Metropolitan before hurrying down to the theatre, time for Millet’s haystacks and Seurat’s “Invitation to the Sideshow”.
Even taking a bus and giving myself an extra ten minutes, I made it to the Shubert with just a few minutes to spare before the houselights dimmed and fantasy became a glow ever brighter on the stage. The impossible romance, the song and dance, the Zeigfield Follies extravaganza while not plausible were strangely pleasurable for all that my mind more suited to tragedies quibbled a bit over this improbable stuff. During the second act I even got to sit. Just as the lights lowered and the aisle curtain was closing, I thought I spotted and empty seat right under the standing room…I asked the young people on line and they said, “Go for it”. I wasn’t even wearing my hat, just holding it.
Tomorrow I’ll be back home, pulling weeds in my garden, getting ready for school to begin, writing poems, watching for a letter that may never come—but not to worry—I’ll be wearing my purple hat, the one I left behind. It’s perched on the hall tree by the front
door, ready to take off, waiting to take me beyond the closed door.

By Allegra Jostad Silberstein

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 28.11.2009

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