I was a kid in the crowd that witnessed President Kennedy take his oath of office in
1961, but I failed to notice that he’d removed his top hat. And yet historians say that
Kennedy’s hatless swearing in, televised worldwide, contributed to the demise of the
tall, black toppers that had been worn on formal occasions since the 1700s.
In two of the four mini-memoirs here, I feature a certain top hat that is still with me
after decades of history, from my childhood in Washington, D.C. in the 1950s, to my
home now in Shelburne Falls.
A Night on the Town — Washington, D.C., 1950s
My sisters and I would gather on the stairway in our pajamas when mom and dad
departed in their finery. Mom’s floor-length, tulle gown was familiar to us from playing
department store in her dressing room; it was not the main attraction. We waited to see
dad, in his white dress shirt and black tuxedo, take his collapsible top hat — flat as a
pancake — and thump it against his chest, causing the spring-loaded top to expand
instantly with a pop. Then he’d put the tall hat on his head, offer my mother his arm, and they’d step out the door.
Inauguration Day — Washington, D.C., January 1961
We were pressed against the windows in my father’s sixth-floor office, just one
building away from the White House. My friend Randi and I watched as the limousine
carrying John and Jackie Kennedy passed below us, taking them to the Capitol for the inauguration ceremony.
As 14-year-olds, we had no interest in staying at my dad’s office party; we had
to follow that motorcade down Pennsylvania Avenue. We didn’t run the two miles to the
Capitol — we flew. How else could we have heard Robert Frost read his poem and
President Kennedy ask what we could do for our country?
Capitol Hill — Washington, D.C., November 23, 1963
That dark night, the late President Kennedy was lying in state. Randi and I,
anguished teenagers, drove downtown to Capitol Hill like many thousands of others
intending to file past his coffin. Instead, we were stalled in traffic near the brightly lit
Capitol.
Suddenly Randi whispered, “Look—there’s Jackie and Bobby!” The two people
who’d been closest to the president’s heart were conversing, heads bowed, on the
sidewalk near our car. Minutes later, the traffic moved forward. But we no longer wanted to join the throng in the Rotunda. I turned the car around and we found our way home.
A Night on the Town — Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts, 2020
My grandson Jakob was visiting me in snow-covered Shelburne Falls. One evening
near the west end of the bridge, we laughed to find two snowmen seated on a bench,
apparently having a chat.
We decided to eat at the West End Pub, but first dropped some parcels at my
house. There, to Jakob’s surprise, I brought out my father’s top hat — safeguarded for
60 years. Back at the pub, I placed the hat on one of the snowmen for passersby to
enjoy while we dined. Jakob protested, “Nana, somebody might steal it!” I replied,
“Nobody will. This is Shelburne Falls.”
Lynne Pledger is a writer, born and raised in Washington, D.C. After a summer in New England at age 10, she decided then that she would move north when she grew up. Standing by that decision, she lives in Shelburne Falls.