A Feather in your Cap

My Uncle Bill stretched back in his recliner, eyes closed, a Budda smile, headphones were slightly askew over his full head of gray hair. He was in his late 80’s. I knew he was listening to the Mets and that night they were struggling with the Cardinals. 

I’d tuned in the game on the TV across from him. My Aunt  Alberta, his wife, my dad’s sister, was somewhere nearby in their Larchmont home, leaving us alone to watch sports and catch up on news. 

I’d only visited him several times in my life, growing up halfway across the country in Missouri. But, I’d come to visit for a couple of days. I’d been told by my dad before he died, “Your Uncle Bill has had a fascinating life.” 

He’d been a lawyer, who at the outbreak of WWII enlisted in the Navy, and due to his academic background was commissioned an officer. He spent the War on a ship in the South Pacific. After the War, he was ordered to Japan to try war criminals. He’d returned to the states and with my aunt, had raised two pretty daughters, and worked his way up the executive ladder with New York Life. He always appeared to have a calm and reasoned manner.  

The game ended. He shook his head to himself and slipped off his headphones. I flicked off the TV. “Not the 69 or 86 team,” he said, scooting himself up in his chair, about the loss to St. Louis. 

We talked for a few minutes. I told him I’d met the former Mets player Duffy Dyer. “A good catcher,” he said.

He studied me, then raised his index finger and left the room, returning moments later with a stack of books.

“These were my law books. It’s not too late for you,” he said, handing them over to me. “Why don’t you go to Fordham, it's not too far away. It’s summer. Talk to them about letting you in for the Fall. Boy, if you did that, that would be a feather in your cap!”  

I flipped through the books, mostly intrigued by the musty smell, not their contents: torts, civil procedure, constitutional law. I saddened some, knowing my father, also a lawyer who died too young, also a WWII vet, would have told me the same thing. A feather in your cap. 

I didn’t have the heart to tell my Uncle Bill that with only a C average in college and a 54 percent on the law school admissions test, those performances wouldn’t get me in too many law schools. Or, that my 15 year work history with Superior Court in Arizona hadn’t helped either. I had tried a few schools, but had quickly been turned down.

 “Think about it, Mike,” he said, leaving for bed. “You can keep my books for a start.” 

I stayed up late that night talking to my aunt. I took off early the next morning, leaving a note on the law books, thanking my Uncle Bill saying that I’d be back to pick them up, if I got into a school somewhere, yet knowing my pursuit to be a barrister would likely go no further

I never saw my Uncle Bill again. He died at 91. But what I carried with me that night was not his law books but his encouragement that I follow a quest for a feather in the cap.

Wikipedia claims that Feather in Your Cap is an English idiomatic phrase that goes back to the 1700s, each feather symbolizing a kill of an enemy or victory in a game. Today, the meaning has been altered to refer to any laudable success which can help one in the future. There is also a reference to the non laudatory symbol of a dandy with a feather in the hat. 

In Americana, we are most familiar with the colored headdress of Native Americans, the feather symbolizing some rite of passage. A wing feather is seen as the strongest.

The phrase implies trophies on the shelf, letters behind one’s name and gold coins in the pocket.

Perhaps my Uncle Bill knew when I visited him that having a wing feather such as a law degree would give me a union card of sorts, credentialing me in various circles. People do make judgments and often do so quickly. It’s helpful to be able to respond simply and proudly with, “I am this or that.”

As my life circuitously unwound, after my visit back east, I worked as a college speech instructor and high school history teacher, then as a newspaper reporter, and finally as a mental health counselor. Perhaps I was always reinventing myself in search of that wing feather. 

Settling into  work as a counselor with my own shingle above the door, I have come to understand that killing the buffalo alone, a wing feather does not make. But a quill also goes to the brave who kills mercifully. And to he who listens more than talks, to the parent who loves unconditionally, and to one who enjoys the spirit of game as much as kicking in the goal. Feathers come in how a life is lived, the risks taken and resilience to live another day.

All that aside, teaching the virtues of kindness and fairness has its place, but works best alongside the know-how to hunt. 

In reflection, my Uncle Bill offered his law books not so much as a persuasive gesture to become a lawyer, but a hint to find that wing feather.