My Lucky Cap…

I have an old, beat pair of black Chuck Taylor All Star sneakers that some friends delight in labeling as my “homeless shoes.” I suppose I can’t argue, I mean their not even black any more but a faded-tinge-gray of sorts. I fashion my Chucks, as I call them, and I laugh as people who lack in the area of hipster-diversity gawk and comment on my footwear selection. I often times become greatly self conscience when I trade them for another pair of sneakers just prior to a ride on one of my Harley-Davidsons. Two to thee miles must pass before I am finally confident in the biblical power of my white Chucks, blues Vans, or black leather Dr. Martins.
We all have material items that we rely upon to guarantee our efficiency as human beings or to purely ensure fortune is in constant nearness to us. Along with my Chucks I have had several throughout my life but none so significant as my lucky cap.

He was born in Shannon Ireland and was constructed of pure highland wool, spun into weaving yarn and died blue-grey with speck of highlights and lows. I first saw him on a rack amongst several varieties of skullcap. I wanted a plaid one of course – this was Ireland you know – but having not been successful in fitting into several preferred ones he jumped out at me; simple, soft, snug, fit.

I paid for my new cap along with a black and gold tin flute engraved with the Guinness logo. I walked out of the shop, ran my hand over my hair and affixed my new cap on my head. Ignorantly I clasped each side of the bill of my new cap and bent it inward ala baseball had. The shearing snap of the hard plastic inside the woolen sleeve made my spine tingle. I though I would run it back inside and exchange it for another claiming the currently owned one was not of the proper color. I didn’t. I owed it to him to retain him for my travels.

He was the perfect accessory for any situation! Hipster meet up? A boho must, Punk concert? Rude boy perfection and Pubs of any sort? Well, you’re almost a part of the family before you walk in the door, never at want for refill of stout!

My lucky cap was the only cap that would stay fit snuggly on my noodle whilst zooming down the highway at seventy miles per hour on my motorcycle. He loved it! Should a helmet be required as a result of inclement weather he’d easily stash, flattened into the rear of my pants.

Years past and my cap remained at my side… or at my top, if you will. He sheltered my eyes from the heat of the sun and he warmed my brow in the face of wintry peril. He survived my attempted stitching and numerous adventures being left accidentally at bars, friend’s houses, or taxis…

Some how, some way, always making it back to me.

Smiles!