Sharon Fagan McDermott: The Hat   

And mostly I’m grateful that I take this world so seriously.”  

~Mary Oliver “The Gift” from House of Light

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It was a new route to work. I didn’t own a car during my twenties, though I was a single mom with a little boy, Brian. We did a lot of walking the hills of Pittsburgh together. And I carried a lot of heavy loads with me to and from—both emotional and physical. The emotional lift was trying to navigate my failed marriage, my loneliness in a city far from my family, and my unrealistic expectations of myself as a single mother. The physical hefts were books and graded English papers, which I carried the 1.5 miles back and forth from the small private high school I taught at in the neighborhood of Shadyside. Or the sacks of groceries I carried slowly home from Squirrel Hill’s Giant Eagle market. 

That first day I noticed the handsome stranger, I was wearing a skirt and heels, walking delicately down the cracked sidewalks of Shady Avenue. This dressing-up for work was new to me. I’d been teaching for a year at an “alternative” high school for students who had struggled in more mainstream schools. When I was first hired on as an English teacher, I was surprised when they informed me that teachers could dress casually—jeans, T-shirts, sneakers. So, I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not—at that time– have to figure out where the money was going to come from for me to go out and buy a dressier wardrobe. 

But in September of my second-year teaching, the principal decided that I looked too much like the students who were just a few years younger than me. In fact, several of the high school boys had asked me out, and I had mentioned this to my principal, concerned about how to handle this situation and needing help with how to be clear on and maintain boundaries between a young teacher and her students. That’s why my principal called me in her office one day and decided the first thing I needed to do was to dress more professionally—blazers, skirts, heels, and button-downed blouses. Wearing heels took some time getting used to, but I actually liked dressing up, while my students dressed casually. As a 25-year-old who was finding her way as a single mom, I embraced anything that made me feel slightly more adult.

So, that’s why on this sunny early-October morning, I found myself navigating heels amid sidewalk cracks as I headed down the steep, winding slopes of Shady Avenue.  The houses on either side of this spacious Pittsburgh roadway were large and architecturally beautiful with equally large plots of land surrounding them. Tree-lined and landscaped by professionals, this daily path offered me an exercise in paying attention to the dynamic interaction of the natural and built world in Pittsburgh.  On that October morning, my senses worked overtime, as I smelled the smoke in the air rising from chimney flues. I paused to admire the red and orange ivy twining the black iron fence railings to my left–and to my right–the duo of red maples whose fiery leaves floated down, sun-streaked in the early morning light.  Unbelievably, I managed to live in this Eden of a neighborhood, despite my paltry salary. I was lucky enough to have found and quickly rented a tiny railroad-flat apartment with two small bedrooms for $295/month. (This was back in the 1980’s.)

As I rounded one of the bends in the sidewalk, I caught my first glimpse of a tall, lanky, handsome man walking toward me from the hill below. He had a loping gait and brown hair, which fell into his eyes when he looked down. Soon, we were face to face.  It felt as if our steps slowed as we drew closer to one another. We locked eyes–perhaps a beat too long—then quickly looked away and mumbled flustered “hellos” before continuing on our way. He had a kind face, a bashful smile, and hazel eyes. I liked that his eyes had widened with happy surprise on seeing me. From that day on, every morning that school year, in rain, snow, cold, and sunshine, I walked to school down Shady Avenue.  And every morning that year, he would appear somewhere along the sidewalk and my heart would thump a little harder. He was almost always dressed in a button-down shirt (sometimes white, sometimes denim blue), pants, and sometimes a dark blazer. When we stood next to each other, he towered over me, though I was 5’8” and wearing my two-inch heels.

Before long, we began to stop and chat with each other. We learned each other’s names.  “Hank” was heading toward the Squirrel Hill Bookstore to sell books. I told him I was a brand-new high school teacher. Hank was 26 and had grown up in Colorado; I was 25-years-old and had grown up in New Jersey. We talked about books we read.  We laughed over so-called “best-sellers” that neither of us were terribly excited by. We discovered that we shared a love of dogs and the natural world. We happily shared funny stories; he about his store’s customers and me about my students.  He shyly began to pay me compliments: “You have a beautiful smile” or “Your blue coat matches your eyes.” We remained a bit flustered in each other’s company– but happily so–and that was part of the charm.  I felt safe with this relative stranger.  I told him, early on, about my beautiful son whom I’d just dropped off at his pre-K class at Shady Lane. Our banter was light and full of laughter.  But, we rarely, if ever, touched on deeper topics—past relationships, past lives, goals. Our tete-a-tetes felt very intimate and warm and supportive and left each of us looking forward to the next time we would meet.

One snowy day in January, after the Christmas break had wrapped up, boots on and trudging a snowy, icy walkway, I found myself slipping, then tumbling down onto the cold sidewalk, my books and papers scattered in the snow. Within seconds, Hank materialized and swiftly picked up every paper and book, brushed off the snow, and put each item carefully back into my bag. He bent down and rescued my hat from a small snow pile and tenderly shook the snow from it and said, “Do you mind?” and put the hat snugly back on my head.  He then said he “had a little extra time” that morning, and offered his arm to me. I looped my own arm into his, and we walked, together, down the final slippery slope toward 5^th Avenue.

What was unusual about our budding “relationship” was that it stayed firmly in the present moment. Never before or since have I lived so exactly in-the-moment with another person. Many times, I wished our budding relationship would become more.   It was obvious that we were attracted to one another, and he was kinder and more tender-hearted to me during those months than I’d ever experienced before. But, at other times, I was happy in our bubble. I loved the way time stopped on those mornings. We were keenly attentive to the other. I could carry the warmth of each encounter with me throughout my school day. Winter cycled past. We met each other on days where snowflakes caught on our eyelashes and our breath came out in huffs of smoke. He told me my eyes were “their own sky.” We told each other how much we looked forward to seeing each other. We told each other we dreamed about one another.  Standing next to Hank for those cherished moments was like a second sun rising within me.

Spring arrived slowly that year, snowdrops and daffodils began their rise from the earth, and before I knew it, my birthday was on the horizon.  At that point in my life, with no family living anywhere near Pittsburgh, except, of course, my toddler son, I would turn my birthday into a celebration for me and Brian. After all, I considered my son the greatest gift in my life, so why not celebrate every opportunity that we could? Brian and I made my birthday cake together. As we iced and decorated it, Brian cheerfully ended up with more chocolate icing on his face and fingers than on the cake itself. If I was feeling a little more financially solvent, we ate dinner at Eat-n-Park, the nearest thing Pittsburgh had to the diners I’d grown up with—and then walk home and enjoy birthday cake together.

But that year, everything felt a little dusted with magic.  Those moments with Hank were a gift that often gave me the energy and spirit to be my best self on a particular day. My mornings with Hank were encapsulated, “out of time,” something “just for me.” They were all present tense. No past. No future. I was buoyed by exactly what I had with Hank, as it elevated me out of my financial challenges, my doubts as a new teacher, and my steep learning curve about being a single mom.  I feared I was chronically making mistakes in all areas, except in those moments with Hank. There, the world felt as if it righted, and everything made sense. Mornings with Hank were all gift and no demands. As an unabashed romantic, our time together ticked off almost every need of my romantic heart.

One sunny, early April morning, I mentioned to Hank that my birthday was coming up soon, on the 19^th. I remember at that time, we had been admiring one of those sprawling Shady Avenue lawns, blooming with daffodils and a huge flock of red-breasted robins. When I mentioned my birthday, his face lit up. “I love birthdays!” he said. He asked me what I was going to do that day, and I explained my ritual of celebrating with Brian.  He said, “I hope the whole day is as special as you are.” His smile crinkled his eyes.  When Hank smiled down at me, I was filled with warmth and would walk away thinking, “I matter to someone. I’m seen. I’m going to have a good day no matter what lies ahead.” 

On the day of my birthday, April still held onto her chill, offering a last dusting of snowflakes. I wore a new ivory sweater that my mother had sent me in a birthday package. I put on my tweedy coat and some gloves, but in my haste to get Brian to pre-K on time, I forgot to wear a hat.  A light snow fell on the houses, roadway, and my long dark hair.  As I headed downhill on Shady Avenue, my heart began to beat a little faster in anticipation.  Then, I spotted Hank’s handsome face, smiling at me. He carried something in his hand. As he drew closer to me, he began to belt “Sharon –Smile…” to the tune of Hall and Oates’ hit song, “Sarah Smile.”  I laughed. When he reached me, he said, “Happy Birthday, Blue Eyes!” Light traffic past us on Shady Avenue, but we were all alone in that moment. He handed me a box with a blue bow. I looked at his face and tears sprang to my eyes at the sweet look he gave me in return. 

“Wow! This is a surprise. Thank you, Hank!” I said. I could feel myself blushing.  “Open it,” he replied. So, I slid off the bow and opened the box there in the middle of the sidewalk. Beneath tissue paper was a red beret –not that ugly, brassy orange-red color, but a deep red-blue. “How did you know that red is my favorite color?”  I asked him.  

“I guessed. Based on your beautiful spirit,” he said.  He brushed the snowflakes from my hair and put the beret on my head at a rakish angle. I modeled it, made a little twirl, and we both laughed. It fit perfectly. 

“I knew you’d look great in it. I had to buy it for you,” Hank said, and he wrapped me in a long hug.

                                                            ******

As a romantic, I’m aware that many will read this and want the fairy-tale ending here—human meets human, girl meets boy in an unusual way, some wonderful frisson sparks between them, and it blossoms into a love, which blooms into a lifetime together. And yet, this year of morning communion with Hank finally came to a close. Hank got a new, better-paying job. He would no longer be walking up Shady Avenue to work.  We were so sad on that last morning. We held each other for the second and final time. 

When Hank pulled back, he said, “I owe you an explanation.” But, he grew flustered and instead said, “These mornings have meant everything to me.”  “Me, too,” I said. “I’ll miss you a lot.” We lingered for a long while. Two months later, a letter addressed to me arrived at my school. Hank had written me a long letter. He told me he had fallen in love with me. But, he also shared the reality of what his life was then:  he was newly sober and working hard on recovering from an addiction, working on holding a good job, and working on remaining healthy. His sponsors had cautioned him about starting any new relationship at that time. Instead, he was rightfully told to focus on getting himself sober.  He told me that our loving mornings together had given him the strength and motivation to keep going “one day at a time.”  And he thanked me and said he would never forget me.

No, reality isn’t the fairy-tale.  But the universe has a way of gifting us riches beyond our wildest imagination if we learn to embrace the gift exactly as it is, without expectations of “more.” The beauty of Hank’s presence in my life was not diminished by the fact we never became a couple. That was a year of grace and laughter and love, seeing and interacting with handsome Hank on the hilly slopes of Shady Avenue. I celebrate meeting this kind and loving man. Reality may have tugged us in different directions, but I wore the gift of that red beret for years afterward, whenever the winds turned colder. And it never failed to warm me.  

~~~~~

Copyright 2025 Sharon Fagan McDermott

Sharon Fagan McDermott is the co-author of Millions of Suns: On Writing and Life with M.C. Benner Dixon, and the author of  Life without Furniture, a collection of poems. She lives and teaches in Pittsburgh.