I only saw my Dad wearing a cowboy hat a minimal amount of times, in my life, as this practice really wasn't "his thing". We would have to be going to a rodeo or horseback riding before Dad would bow to wearing a cowboy hat. I don't ever remember him wearing a pair of cowboy boots, for that matter, except for a pair of Wellingtons that he liked to wear from time-to-time. I never really accepted Wellingtons as real honest-to-goodness cowboy boots. So, whenever Dad did wear a cowboy hat, it was a memorable sight. Myself, I first wore one , as a kid, in emulation of my hero, Hopalong Cassidy. He wasn't William Boyd, to me, he was HOPPY ! I also had two six guns, in holsters attached to a belt, a studded vest, and a pair of boots. But the cowboy hat was the real deal as all real cowboys were never without their hat. I never wore a working cowboy hat until we moved to Montana. There, I probably wore one just about daily, getting quite accustomed to it's use and proud of the privilege. My sister, Frances, was keen to have a nice hat, as well, and she was really hooked on a buckskin mare she named Velvet. My cousin, Laurene Currah, from Bellingham, Washington (at that time) was allowed to come out and spend the summer with us. Her Dad gave her enough money to see her through the summer. Before she even got to where we lived, on Pryor Star Route, she had found a way to buy herself a big black hat and a pair of boots. Boy, did she strut around, at first. This bit of impulsiveness got her Dad so riled that the air was thick and the climate pretty smoky to say the least. The expenditure had taken a hefty hunk out of her trip money cache and her Dad, Uncle Carl, wasn't about to tone down his displeasure. Things were pretty hot and heavy and the duds went under cover and out-of-sight until Uncle Carl left to return to Washington State. Even then, the return to glory, of these western embellishments, was slow in reviving. And, until Uncle Carl left , no one dared bring up the subject. When my family left Montana, we spent 8-9 months again in Salt Lake City, Utah. After suffering through two bitterly cold Western Montana winters, Dad and Mom were ready for a sunny reprieve. We finally came to reside in the warm desert in Phoenix, Arizona with its palm trees and cacti. It was a far cry from Montana and I often wore my cowboy hat in protest. Frances and I still had bad cases of "Montana-itis" and, in honest actuality, have never been cured, even to this day. Grandpa Slater would chide us all the time bellowing out with "Montannna" every time he thought we were moping around. The two of us, Frances and I, would choose places and things to do that would justify our wearing cowboy hats whenever we could. I always wore my cowboy hat outside (in the Arizona heat), whenever I chose to go hunting, in riding around in my old Chevy, during times we went to the drive-in restaurants or theaters, or to go dancing at the Riverside Ballroom. Frances, I think, loved Riverside even more than I did (or, maybe she really just really loved being around the cowboys-as there were lots of them there), and she was the one that originally got me interested in going. It was so much fun--I mean FUN! Frances even got jobs working at two different Western clothing stores: Jordans and Stockmans. I think she worked at Millers , in Glendale, later on, as well. She went to all of the rodeos and once represented the City of Glendale as Miss Firecracker! Of course, she wore western garb during all of these activities and had quite the wardrobe. Dad was pretty tolerant about the clothes Frances and I chose to wear but every once in awhile he would lean on us to wear something different. Once, he was called at home to take command of me at Bob's Big Boy restaurant, located on Central Avenue (I think on Osborn) in Phoenix. I had gone in there, with friends, (John Okvath and Butch Mattingly) for a Big Boy Hamburger as they were deliciously smothered to death with ample amounts of lettuce, tomato, and thousand island dressing. We were regular customers and loved to "hang out" there whenever we could afford it. Of course, I had my cowboy hat on. Someone, on the staff, evidently objected to me wearing my cowboy hat in their restaurant (They had never objected to me wearing it there before!). I, naturally, was highly offended: "Like, Good God, It's only a Cowboy Hat"! Being among my peers, I was not about to sway and be pressured by strangers to remove anything as precious to me as my cowboy hat. After all, wasn't Phoenix billed as a western town or not? The cops were called and two officers attempted to convince me to give in or leave the restaurant. I wasn't about to budge on either request. They called Dad and the heat was on. Dad was pretty embarrassed over his sons' behavior and, of course, for me, it was a no-win argument and Dad took me grumpily home. At least I didn't lose face with my friends and that was the main thing to me. I could handle the restaurant and the police, but not my Dad. That was the limit! I remember the year I took my daughter, Cari, to London, England (a promised 16th year birthday trip just with Dad). I chose to wear an old beat-up cowboy hat against my father's dim view. "You aren't really going there wearing that, are you?", he exclaimed. I didn't hesitate in answering back: "Yeah...." (I wanted the English people to recognize that I was proud of where I was from.) The Londonaires loved it. A captain stationed at the gate of Buckingham Palace motioned me personally to his side and reservedly hinted that Cari and I shouldn't leave the gate area, just yet, as had all the other tourists. So we hung out a little longer not knowing what was up. When, finally, the automatic gate opened and a big black Bentley came out. Cari and I were the only observers besides the Captain. A dapperly dressed man, in a dark suit, casually smiled and waved to us as the car pulled out and hastily sped away as Cari and I dumbfoundly watched. Cari eased over to get closer to me and asked: "Who was that. Dad?" I told her that I thought the man was the Duke of Windsor, Queen Elizabeth's husband. With that, Cari immediately moved away and stood facing the huge wrought iron that surrounded the palace complex. I couldn't tell what was happening but I noticed a little tremor in her stance and her lithe little body seemed to be swaying a bit. I moved a little closer to see if something was wrong and when I got within hearing range I discovered Cari mumbling to herself "Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl"! It was quite a surprise and taken aback, as I was, I was really touched. The only Duke Cari had ever heard of before, was in this song, and the sight just now of an actual Duke was totally overwhelming for her. We were both moved. Other times I wore my cowboy hat in a foreign country was whenever I took solo trips to Mexico. Sometimes I hitch-hiked across the Mexican country-side for weeks at a time. I was everywhere except Mexico City and those regions further south of Mexico City such as Chiapas. I never got to the Taxco area, as well, but just about everywhere else. In trekking through the countryside exploring all the wondrous sights, I always wore a beat-up (Made in Mexico) cowboy hat. This habit really helped in getting the Mexican people to freely drop their guard and they always treated me warmly and genuinely friendly. It was always a pleasure being among them in THEIR country. I used the same approach in Panama when I was down there on an active-duty assignment with a medical unit when I was in the Army Reserves. The Panamanians so respected my decision to get down-to-earth with them by wearing my beat-up old cowboy hat, whenever I was off-duty, that all I ever got back was smiles. Anytime a vaquero would ride by me, he would never fail to rein in his caballo, tip his hat, dismount, and politely ask me if I would like to try a hand at riding his hoss. But, what the heck, it's only a cowboy hat. This innate principle was one of the few notions Dad never seemed to grasp but he usually never objected severely over my personal choice in wearing one. I don't think he ever said much to Frances about her choosing to wear one either. Of course, the hats Frances chose to wear were never the beat-up style that I cherished. Still, enough said, It's only a cowboy hat.