Home is Where You Hang Your Hat

It was a gift, eighteen years ago, from my brand-new mother-in-law, Pat. It adorned our first home - a tiny bright spot in a miserable, run-down duplex, where the dryer sat in the living room because it was the only space available. Just a simple straw hat, the flat variety that hangs on the wall, its brim tastefully decorated with flowers and a wide blue ribbon. It was dubbed "the Pat Hat" almost immediately, and would become an enduring symbol of love, and of home.

I was just eighteen years old when Pat came into my life, and I loved her immediately. I used to joke to my husband-to-be, telling him that I was only marrying him for his mother. Amazing how true those words turned out to be in hindsight. I was raised by a wonderful woman, so I was never deprived of a mother's love, but Pat was so different. My own mother was a loving, free-spirited flower child of the 60's, who taught me to dance and laugh and enjoy life; Pat was a 20-year marine wife who was all about efficiency and business. She taught me excellent cooking skills, how to properly fold a fitted sheet, and how to get rid of clutter and chaos. She taught me that it's sometimes wise to hold your tongue, even when you are right.

Over the years, she would also teach me that love is a choice - she chose to keep loving me, even when I deserved it the least. The marriage only lasted four years before it went the way of so many teenage marriages. My in-laws did not reject me, did not blame me. They have chosen to remain loving parents and grandparents in my life and my children's lives, even after the divorce. Especially after the divorce. They are such a blessing to us.

The Pat Hat has been through nine moves over the last eighteen years; it has held a proud and honored spot in every home my gypsy spirit has swept us into and out of. It hasn't always matched the room - sometimes it didn't match at all, but I've never let that stop me from putting it up. At each place, the Pat Hat is the first decoration to go up, and the last to come down. It is the only chatchke that has remained constant in my ever-fickle decor. It has watched my newborns arrive, and now stands guard during their last few years at home. It has shared space with every triumph and every tragedy our family has experienced.

Just a simple straw hat. A humble, dusty, well-traveled hat that has always meant home, no matter where home might be.