The war is on. It started innocently enough. I suppose most wars do. Rex Amos, artist, called “Old Trapper” by his intimates, “4” by me, (the number of his $100 mug at Clark’s), strode into a public gathering last week sporting a snappy campaign hat. Some Deschutes River folks had bequeathed it to him, a handsome topper all right, one of those Teddy Roosevelt beauties, the kind Smokey wears, the pinch-crown version, of standard issue to Royal Canadian Mounteds.
“Damn fine hat,” I offered.
“Thanks,” Rex replied. “Look inside here. See, it says nutria quality.’
Yes, I have quite a collection of hats. I’ve always fancied hats. Why, my friend Rick Rubin once wrote an article describing me as The Artist of Many Hats.”
Humph, I thought to myself. This shan’t pass unchecked.
“I’m quite a hat aficionado myself,” I countered.
“Hmm. Well, yes, I see,” Rex said, letting the thing trail off into other subjects.
At our next meeting, I was loaded and primed. I sauntered into the coffee shop where he was sitting, crowned in a stunning Nguyen Cao Ky style Thai baseball cap, all ornately beaded in elephantine designs.
“Fine hat,” he acknowledged.
That started the on-going scuffle that has yet to be resolved.
He counter attacked next day with a baseball cap that said “Will Work for Jesus.” I parried with a series of slouch hats and berets. He held the field for several subsequent skirmishes with a series of high-grade Stetson, dipped-brim beavers of 20’s and 30’s vintage. Quality hats, I warrant.
The Gettysburg of our current campaign occurred one memorable evening at a neighborhood barbecue. Amos hit the field like a Macedonian in full battle array, staging a vicious sortie, a full-frontal attack with pincer action on the flanks. He first donned a Salvation Army Colonel’s hat. Onward Christian Soldiers. A quick left, right, left, goose step, and he appeared in a Buddhist’s skull cap. The salvo culminated with his most cunning move. He Von Schlieffened me with a withering exchange, his last lid, a dazzling chrome, Kaiser Wilhelm, Old Blood and Iron, German spiked army helmet.
I rallied my side with a railroad engineer’s cap, an aged oilskin Sou’Wester, a dashing Akubra, imperial quality, snowy river felt, and a village idiot’s jester hat, a one-two-three punch that would have done honor to Bartholomew Cubbins.
Garrisoned, we prepare for our winter offensive. Mitres, toques, caps, berets, rain hats, fedoras, bowlers, beanies, sombreros, tam-o-shanters, birettas, bonnets, chapeaux, where will it all end?
Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory.... Gott Mit Uns.
In those famous words of Pogo, a possum who wore many hats, “Yep, son, we have met the enemy and he is us.”
Peter Lindsey has lived in Cannon Beach for more than 40 years.
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