Home Writing		The Hat The deaf gentleman did not stop moving until I shouted I LIKE YOUR HAT. He turned and   doffed it, smiled first at me then at the feel of the hat in his hands then at the hat at itself. "Yes," he said.  "Thank you." He held it up in a salute of broad brimmed straw and grosgrain ribbon and fine leather head band. "Italy," he said.  "Italian." THEY KNOW HOW TO MAKE HATS I shouted. His blue eyes searched over my face. "No need to shout," he said. He looked again at the hat turned it up on edge and brought it down on his head with one hand fore and one hand aft. "Cheerio now!" He winked and shuffled toward the door that squeaked when he opened it and walked out around the corner. Oh, Dear Man and Italian hat.  Oh, be careful out there in the fast world. Look both ways. Watch your head. Don't fall down. Cushion yourself with a bucket of air here and there. Cushion yourself with faeries and elves themselves. Cushion yourself with cotton batting or old aunts' tatting. And if you must die, Dear Man and Italian hat, oh, slip through the curtain gently. Put your feet up on a railing on a porch on a fine street where you will drink nectar and nod at passers by who will shout when they behold you I LIKE YOUR HAT! © 2001 Tulis McCall