I wear many hats.

A veterinarian in general practice has to wear a lot of hats, especially when you're a solo act (with a great back-up group of staff).  I'm the internist, surgeon, dentist, radiologist, pharmacist, sonographer, clinical pathologist, behavior counselor, grief counselor, office manager and I forget what else.  But that's not what I came here to talk about, as Arlo Guthrie says in "Alice's Restaurant".

When I was a kid I was a faithful watcher of Captain Kangaroo.  One of my favorite things about the Treasure House was the hat tree, adorned with all manner of hats: a fireman's hat, a policeman's hat, a cowboy hat, indeed a hat for every occupation.  I coveted that hat tree.

At this stage of my life I'm more into figuring out how to travel light instead of accumulating things.  For years, though, I built up the costume closet, especially hats.  At Christmas my mom had it easy -- my head size wasn't changing and she just had to find a new hat to add to the collection.  The costume closet has been a resource for SEMO Little Theater, for high school thespians, Halloween, Fourth of July  galas, guerilla theater, and strange video productions by my offspring his friends.  It was once well organized, but the depradations of outsiders have jumbled it a bit.  At this point, the only catalog of its contents would be my fuzzy memory.

Last night I was looking for my fez. Mom got it for me many years ago direct from the official supplier to the Moolah Shrine.  Actually, that was the second night I was looking for it (a long story) and inexplicably found it in a sack of Pilgrim costumes.  It was accompanied (also inexplicably) by the Mad Scientist goggles.  Oh well, all's well that ends well.