Make a Simple Fleece Hat

How I Spent My Flu Vacation!

Look what I made! I’ve been knitting and crocheting hats of all shapes and styles for so long that it never occurred to me to sew one. That was until Mr. Vagabond came home for Christmas with a super cool, and very warm fleece hat. 

Oooh, Ahhh, Warm!

Quick-like, I bought some baby blue fleece, the cheap stuff, and set out to make myself a hat as warm as his. Because this was a trial run, I didn’t want to spend a lot on fleece.

I call this hat my Big-Ol’-Head hat. Because I have a ton of hair and a big ol’ head. For a kid’s hat or one for a person with a much smaller head, you’ll need to scale it back a bit.

What You’ll Need

Flexible measuring tape

1/4 yard fleece fabric

Chalk, pencil or marker

Scissors 

Needle & thread

Sewing machine and matching thread

First, tug the fleece to determine which direction it stretches. Nicer fleece may stretch in all directions, but mine was cheap. It only stretches one way. You want it to stretch around your head. If the hat only stretches top to bottom, it won’t be very comfy. Lay out the fleece on your work table with the stretchy direction running left to right. 

Measure around your head to determine how wide the fabric needs to be. Take the measurement around where the bottom of the hat will fit. Now add 1/2 to 1 inch to that measurement for a seam allowance.  Measure across the fleece to the measurement around your head plus 1/2 or 1 inch and mark it, then cut the fabric straight across at the mark. Cut out an identical piece for the second layer. 

Now you’re ready to trace the design onto the fleece.

Ignore the text on this image about adding 1/4 to 1/2 inch. It should be 1/2 to 1 inch (which gives you 1/4 to 1/2 inch on the left and the right).

This pattern is more of a guide than a real pattern. I’ve never made a pattern to print out before, so I have no idea how it will come out if you print it. So I added the dimensions that you’ll need to get started. From the bottom edge of the fabric to the part where the peak begins to curve up is about 5 1/2 inches. From the bottom edge to the highest point of the peak is about 9 inches. Again, this is for the Big Ol’ Head version. 

The single peak image is just one section of the whole hat. The larger image with a row of peaks shows how the fleece should look once you trace the whole design. Place the single peak pattern on the fleece with only half the width of the peak on the left edge of the fabric and trace around it (or draw it freehand). Continue the design by moving the pattern over or tracing a full peak and another and another and so on until the outline looks like the second image. Cut out both layers of fleece.

It should look kind of like a goofy crown. 

Now to start sewing it together. 

If you have a serger, awesome on you! That’s the best way to go because it allows for stretch. For mere mortals like me, you’ll need to do it the old-fashioned way with a sewing machine set for a wide zigzag stitch. 

Pin and the baste one layer of the hat together. Basting is important with an imprecise pattern. It lets you make adjustments before sewing it together permanently. Basting is just sewing a straight stitch by hand, and a bit loosely. 

It should look like this:

Baste the left and right ends together, which makes the back seam, then baste the edges of the peaks together. 

Now turn it right side out and try on the hat. I worked and worked to make a design that didn’t resemble a cone or an elf’s hat. That’s the opposite of ideal. If it fits the way you want and doesn’t resemble a cone, you’re all set. If not, repin the hat, baste it again and make adjustments with stitch placement until it looks the way that you want it to. Getting rid of a point at the top of the hat means shortening the peaks. Narrower and taller peaks makes a pointy hat, while wider and shorter peaks help it fit flatter against your head. 

Time to sew!

Sew along the basted stitches with a sewing machine set on a wide zigzag stitch, or if you’re lucky, use a serger. Trim off the excess fabric as close to the stitches as possible (fleece doesn’t ravel), then sew up the second layer of the hat. 

Now it’s time to put the hat together. 

Leave one layer of the hat wrong side out and turn the other layer right side out. Slip the right-side-out layer up inside the wrong-side-out layer. The idea here is that the right sides of both layers should be touching. You’ll likely need to wiggle them around to make the seams in both layers align. I’ll wait here until you get that sorted out.

Right-side-out section goes inside, wrong-side-out section goes outside. 

Like so.

Pin the two layers together around the bottom edge of the hat like so, leaving a few inches unpinned:

Now sew around the bottom edge, leaving an opening where you didn’t pin the hat, and remove all of the pins as you go. You need the opening to turn the hat right side out. Trim off the excess fleece. 

A zigzag stitch lets the bottom edge stretch.

Now the fun part. This is where your hat turns into a hat. 

Reach into the opening... 

...and pull the hat through. Pull, tug and wrangle the material until it looks like this:

Both right sides should be on the outside now.

Now push one of the layers up inside the other like so:

Now it's time to sew up the opening. Because the hat is right side out now, you'll need to sew it with an invisible stitch. That's secret code for sewing it together by hand on the inside of the seam. It's not really a secret. 

Pick up some fleece inside the hem with the needle...

And pick up more fleece from the opposite side of the hem. 

Sew back and forth like that all the way across the hem opening. Your stitches should look sorta like this.

Then pull the thread to close the seam.

And now you have a very simple, very warm fleece hat!

Top view.

Plain and simple, super-warm hat!

The groovy thing about this hat is the customization possibilities. It’s ultra basic, and it's neither a girl hat nor a boy hat, so you can do a number of things with it. 

You could use two different colors of fleece for the two layers, since the hat is naturally reversible. You could make the peaks 13 or 14 inches tall instead of 9 inches tall to make a hat with a cuff that you can turn up around the bottom edge. Make cute little flowers to sew or pin onto the side, make a pompom for the top or even sew a ruffle around the bottom edge. 

And there you have it. Have fun! 

What a Month!

Last year, I had the worst Christmas ever. No kidding, it was the worst that I can remember. Mr. Vagabond was sour, and eventually I turned sour as well. We didn't even give each other presents! The whole thing was a great beg *meh.* Because I didn't want a repeat, I emailed him in October with details about how this year we'd do Christmas my way. 

My way includes no "I don't care one way or the other" comments about a Christmas tree, and there'd also be no Bah Humbugs when I played Christmas music. He replied to my email quickly. The first line said, "It isn't even Halloween yet!" Afterward, he said, "I am suddenly plum full up with Christmas spirit… because I know what's good for me." I think there was a "Yes ma'am" in there somewhere, as well. 

So I was all set to deck the halls and sing Jingle Bells, bake Christmas goodies and essentially have a rockin' Christmas this year. 

And then it happened. 

I developed a thing. We shall only refer to this thing as a thing, because really and truly that is all you wanna know. I had to have minor, outpatient surgery on this thing. The minor part ended abruptly when after five attempts at local anesthesia, everyone in three counties understood that anesthesia wasn't going to work. Because he was out of town, like he usually is, and I drove myself, like I usually do, there was no hope for stronger meds. My solution was to alternate between blood-curdling screams and trying in vain to bite the pillow on the doctor's table in half while she basically cut off my leg with a dull chainsaw. Really. 

Ok, not really. She didn't cut off my leg. The dull chainsaw part remains to be determined since that's exactly what it felt like.

After two hours of the fun and games, I was sent home with a prescription for mind-altering pain meds and antibiotics, both of which consumed the lining of my stomach. More fun. I was broken on the inside and the outside.

So there I was, my hubby plum full up with Christmas spirit, and me whining on the couch and unable to even set up the tree. The clock was ticking.

After about a week, I did manage to get Fred set up and decked out. You remember Fred, my dependable little 4-footer. I added more decorations throughout the house and took pictures in between snoring episodes on the couch. Mr. V. came home and we had a reasonably nice Christmas, even though I was still barely ambulatory.

The day after Christmas, he had a dr. appointment of his own. Because I am super awesome, I went with him. It only took about five minutes in the waiting room to remember that doctors' waiting rooms in wintertime are no place for any healthy human being to be. And yet there we were, breathing in every germ-laden sneeze and cough inside that stylishly decorated room.

They should really issue HazMat suits to everyone who walks through the door.



Lying in bed approximately 48 hours later, I sneezed. I rarely sneeze, so this was noteworthy. When I sneezed again, I felt his eyes bearing down on the side of my head. I pretended not to notice. And then I coughed. And then I pulled the covers over my head and demanded, "I AM NOT SICK!"

"You'd better not be."

He's such a sweetie. Ha.

So here we are on December 30, trading swallows from the NyQuil bottle and chasing them with Motrin. We have three flavors of cough drops and enough chicken soup in the house to feed a small country.

I still won't accept responsibility for bringing the plague into the house. If I did catch it first, that's only because I was a goodly wife and accompanied him to the doctor. I do think I need to reassess my Christmas plans for next year, though. Christmas My Way doesn't seem to be anything like what I'd hoped.

I hope your holidays have been much kinder to you!

(It's worse than I thought. The cat just sneezed, too!)

Fred, the Christmas Tree

With so much sadness and anger in our country right now, I decided, instead, to offer just a bit of a smile.  

_______________________________________________________________

In a season filled with magnificent trees with branches bowed from decorations, I have Fred. Fred the Christmas Tree. Fred was not always my tree of choice, but I learned to appreciate him the way I learn everything else: The hard way.

Fred is very festive this year

My house was once a rest home for old, broken, discarded trees. My mother began the practice of handing down unwanted trees to me the year she began the questionable tradition of hanging ornaments on her Ficus tree. Family members followed her lead (not with the Ficus, mind you), and it seemed I was never without a tree in need of a hug. I took my job as caregiver seriously. As long as I had enough tinsel, electrical tape and a decent corner to hide missing branches, I could make almost any discarded tree look respectable for a while. However, I grew tired of patching pieces together and attaching splints to broken poles. I recalled the scent of pine. I wanted a fresh tree.

Epiphany was my first real tree. She was so-named because it took a great deal of imagination and inspiration to haul her well-developed self up three flights of steps to our apartment. At least the nice, young, college-age guys stepped aside to allow me to drag and huff and puff and gasp and drag and wheeze past on the stairwell. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to appreciate Epiphany. I spent that Christmas in bed recovering from two sprained ankles and a broken spirit. I hear she was lovely.

The next year brought us Belle. Belle was even prettier than Epiphany, at least before I wrestled her, step by determined step, up the stairs. She had a thing about heights. After I broke free of her prickly headlock, I considered greasing her branches but decided against it. Tree trimmings wouldn’t be nearly as festive once they slid off into a heap on the floor. 

Fun Facts: 

• Turpentine removes pine sap from hair. 
• Turpentine is flammable. 
• So is hair.

The following year, Ingénue caught my eye. She was coy yet perky, and brimming with personality. The nice man at the store assured me that binding her limbs with twine would facilitate pulling her up the stairs at home. He was right, too. Only a few little needles were left on the steps. I only realized the danger once she was upright in the living room. The second I cut one section of twine, the rest followed suit--ping! ping! ping!--without my assistance. Her branches popped out with a force that discharged a barrage of pine needles throughout the house like a volley of ninja darts. She was a fresh-cut booby trap worthy of an action movie, or at least a B-grade martial arts film. Each of her offended appendages bounced wildly and then settled into an aggressive stance. If a tree had hips, her fists would have been planted on them. I hid all the cutlery before going to bed. Christmas had an entirely different tone that year.

Last year, after the attack of the Ingénue, I passed by many fresh trees while doing my Christmas shopping. Some called to me, but I fixed my gaze on Christmas cacti and Santa ornaments, pretending not to notice.

“Take me home! I will be a lovely addition!”

“Don’t take her; take me! She’s old and worn out. I’m fresh. See?” She lifted a flexible branch high to demonstrate her youth.

“Not on your life,” I thought. “I barely survived the last episode of battery by flexible branches.”

“Psst. Come here, lady,” one misshapen tree whispered. “I’ve got something to show ya.”

I scurried past. I think her name was Anita Fixx, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out for sure.

And then I spotted it. Only 4’ tall among giants, this artificial tree stood with a confidence that said, “I am fine with my stature. If I don’t suit your needs, I will suit someone else’s. Have a nice holiday, ma’am.” I think he even tipped his hat. Something about this tree was oddly attractive.

On the drive home, I learned that his name is Fred. From his perch on a table, Fred stood watch over our holiday festivities with a butler’s non-intrusive, quiet self-assurance, unlike those prissy, and sometimes scary, trees of years past. I had found my Prince Charming.

So you can have your Epiphanys, Belles and Ingénues, and dress them to impress. I’ll take good old artificial Fred. He is sturdy and dependable, requires no water and assembles in a snap. More important, he’s never hurled a needle in my direction.

Happiest of Holidays!











I wrote this piece in 2010 for the humor blog, An Army of Ermas

Apparently I Really Wanted to Vote

This past Tuesday, I voted. I understand that voting might not seem like an extraordinary feat, but it was for me. 

Mr. Vagabond fired up the big truck Sunday morning and headed back to New England. Storm aftermath or no storm aftermath, he had to go back to work. Approximately 15 minutes after he left, I picked up a ladder and promptly found myself on the floor, unable to even scream. I really wanted to scream. My mouth was open and my eyes were wide. My fists were clenched. All of the earmarks of a good scream were there, but it just wouldn’t happen. I did manage a few jagged gasps for breath. Now I have picked up ladders many times in my life. Not once has it resulted in me curled up on the floor. This time, it was special. This time, phantom metal rods had been jammed through my spine. My spine was not happy about the arrangement. 

I called Mr. V. to whine about my predicament as soon as I found my words.  

Because it was Sunday, I opted to hobble off to the sofa and feel sorry for myself until I could see my regular doctor on Monday. This hobbling was truly a spectacular feat. I could walk, sure, but only when I was bent over at the waist with my hands almost touching my toes. The dogs were confused, and tried to trip me at every opportunity. Monday arrived, and with it came a 40 mile drive to Knoxville, a series of X-rays and medication, and another 40 mile drive back home. Off to bed I went until Tuesday. 

Lumbar sprain. Awesome.

Back to Tuesday morning. I remembered that it was election day as soon as I opened my eyes. I had to vote, so I had to get out of bed. I, with my ridiculous lumbar sprain, anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxers and pain meds, drove my shoulda-been-bedridden self to the poll and cast my vote like a good American. I even managed to put on jeans and a sweatshirt, which wasn’t easy to do. I was tempted to go in my jammies, but they didn’t match. A girl can’t to out among civilized folk wearing mismatched jammies. I also considered wearing a pair of Mr. V’s slip on shoes, but kayak isn’t the best look for me. 

When I arrived at the poll, I remembered the steep incline from the parking lot to the building. Dang. Hunched over as if I were Quasimodo’s long lost cousin, I made my way to the front door. This would be the same front door where a woman in a sleeveless blouse, tight polyester pants and huge plastic jewelry scurried to pass me up, and then closed the door in my face. Thanks a lot. I wasn’t going to say it, lady, but you have wobbly, fat arms, a dimpled butt and a really bad haircut. 

She asked for it. 

Inside the building, I presented my ID, signed the paper and hobbled up to the little machine. I cast my vote, but I didn’t even get a sticker. I really wanted a sticker. 

Driving home after voting was an interesting experience. There was a sense of exhilaration. Excitement. Or maybe it was the pain meds cocktail. Who knows. I did feel like I had participated in helping shape the future of our country. Luckily I only had to drive three blocks, and they were all sparsely populated back streets. I don’t think anyone noticed that I was driving 9 mph and peeking over the steering wheel the whole way. 

Tuesday evening, I switched on the TV and started watching the returns. I switched from PBS to CBS to ABC to NBC. I watched Diane Sawyer acting as though she may have been ever so slightly inebriated (still wondering what her deal was). I watched the Twitter feed scroll by. I read hopeful posts on Facebook, and I read just as many that predicted doom. 

And then finally it was over, and the President was re-elected. 

Voting is a privilege, and one that I ignored for many years. But now I look forward to it each election year. Maybe it’s because I am older, and maybe it’s because media and social media ensures that all of us are inundated with politics on all fronts at all times. I dunno. Although I wished this year that I had voted early, which would have allowed me to stay in bed on Tuesday, I will still likely show up at the poll in person in 2016. Whether or not it is an extraordinary physical feat for me next year, it is extraordinary that Americans are able to express our opinions in a way that counts. 

OMG, It's Election Terror: 2012

So it’s election season once again. If you hadn’t noticed, then I’d love to be you. This isn’t a typical political post. I won’t talk about any candidate. Pinkie swear. This post is about boundaries, manners and common sense. 

Every four years, Americans are browbeaten, encouraged, coerced, promised, threatened, warned and roused into either solidarity or discord. This manipulation is not always at the hands of some nameless stranger nor any ruler. More often, it’s inflicted by people we normally consider friends, at least when it’s not an election year. 

Elections do strange things to otherwise rational, civil people. 

First, there are so-called news articles that are easily found online. Sadly, some people tend to believe anything (and everything) that they read, especially if it supports something that they desperately want to believe is true. If it’s accompanied by a byline, then it’s all the more a trustworthy source, right? Hardly. In this age, almost anyone with an opinion and a reasonable grasp of the English language can snag a byline somewhere. 

Next we have Facebook. Facebook is loads of fun for socializing without actually have to be in the same room with another person. This is fantastic for people who live in remote areas, and it also works for people who prefer a wide margin between their person and another person’s... um... person. Facebook is also a colossal source of unsubstantiated rumors, misinformation, propaganda and good-old-fashioned soap box tirades. Anyone with a computer and an opinion can write up the lengthiest collection of words that they can muster, and then post it for all of their friends to read. If they post those words publicly, their friends can share them with other friends. 

Then there’s the old standby, email. Email is a wonderful invention, and it’s another gargantuan carrier of propaganda. In an email forum, a group of words that would otherwise be harnessed by character limits and a handy “report post” or “block user” button has the freedom to continue on and on and on. Randomly typing IN ALL CAPS and using BOLD, COLORFUL FONTS and *BULLET *POINTS is highly encouraged. For emphasis, of course. Gotta be sure that people are paying attention, right? 

Blogs are another source, but I’d wager that the vast majority of bloggers would agree: A blog post has about as much chance of reaching a huge audience as the post’s writer has of obtaining a book deal with a major publisher. 

So what’s wrong with sharing opinions? Absolutely nothing, when they are presented as opinions, and not hard, indisputable facts. Momma always told me, there’s your side and there’s my side, but the truth is usually located somewhere in the middle. Wanting to believe it’s true doesn’t change anything, except, perhaps, the intensity and persistence of the delivery. The problem is that the anonymity of Internet brings about the 10-feet-tall and bulletproof sensation. Most of us are guilty of typing out something that we would never say out loud in polite, flesh-and-blood company. At least those of us with a reasonably-developed sense of what’s rude and what isn’t, and those of us who actually care whether or not we are behaving like a temper-stomping child demanding attention. During an election season, it seems that the Internet makes many of us forget important social skills: Manners, tact, and simply behaving like a decent human being. 

Candidates will never stop coming. With them come policies and ideas that we agree with, and others that we don’t. In well over 200 years, America hasn’t yet collapsed on its foundation, and it’s not likely to do so anytime soon. I know that at this point, some folks are likely shaking their heads and thinking that I just don’t understand how important this election is. How America is doomed, I say, doomed if so and so is elected into office. 

If you believe that current issues are so much more important and potentially life-altering than the issues of the past, think again. There was a time in America when a person couldn’t find a job simply because of his heritage. And this issue still exists in many places. How important would an equality issue be if you were an Irish immigrant, as my ancestors were, and had to change your name in order to secure a job to feed your family? What if you were a woman whose sex (not brains) only qualified you to wash a well-off person’s dirty laundry, sew in poor light inside a garment factory that was doomed to burn and kill you and your friends and family, or perhaps pluck feathers off chickens to feed the mouths of other people who could actually, you know, afford chicken for supper? 

What if your entire family, from the elderly to infants, were owned and eventually worked to death, often literally, by a person whose local policies agreed that such an arrangement was ok? Lets imagine that you’re in a married couple living in America, and the government had the right to decide whether you were allowed to use contraception. Or maybe you are living in a fledgling America, and another country had the right to take your money and possessions. 

Do you believe that any of those issues were critically important to the people who had to live in those times? Then it’s not a far stretch to imagine that the issues of today aren’t likely to make America crumble. Important? Absolutely. Remember, there were people on both sides of each of those problems that Americans faced. There were people who were just as opposed to or in support of each of them, just like you may agree or disagree with others about current issues. Thing is, America is still here. If a person believes that current issues are the highest pinnacle and can bring about the downfall of this nation, maybe it would serve them well to consider just how egocentric that really is in the broader sense. 

There is nothing new under the sun. Naturally living in these times means that current issues have a greater influence over our lives. But time will march on. One day, these things will be buried under thousands of newer ones. You will die. I will die. Just like generations that came before us. And once you and I are nothing besides a memory to some and a file at a courthouse to others, which would be a better thing to have left behind? Would it be an addiction to the ease of passing on as much caustic misinformation as possible, trying to change someone’s mind? Or would we be better remembered for behaving online the same way that we would if we were standing in front of the person we were trying to reach? 

Encouraging others to agree with our opinions is natural. What isn’t is resorting to scare tactics and outright lies to strong-arm or frighten people into believing what we have to say. If we can’t make a point without blindly grabbing at every mean-spirited, Photoshopped image and rumor, is it possible that we don’t have a real point to make in the first place, and are just inebriated with the ability to talk and be heard? 

A Little Boy Gone on 9/11

Every September 11, I post this note. I made a promise to myself and to the memory of this little boy that I would never forget him. 

This is Rodney Dickens. 

Rodney was only 11 years old when he lost his life on September 11, 2001. And his will forever be the face I see when I think of that terrible day.

When photos started streaming across the TV screen in the hours after the terrorist attack, his little face gripped me. 

As a mother whose kids were close to Rodney's age, I couldn’t stop the barrage of thoughts running through my head. "Who was with this little boy? Was he traveling alone?" 

My boys had already flown alone as a pair several times.

My heart ached when I wondered if he knew what was about to happen; that his life was about to come to an unreasonable end. Did anyone put their arms around him, or did he face the those final moments as alone as any human being could ever be? Did he cry? Was he afraid? Did anyone hold his hand? Did he pray for God to rescue him? Did he have dreams, goals, plans for his future? Was he even old enough to begin dreaming of what he would do when he was all grown up?

When I researched to find the name that belonged to this sweet little boy, I learned that he was, indeed, traveling without his parents; he was with his classmates. Again, parental instincts crept in and I sobbed thinking about his mother and his father. Were they watching as this all happened? How devastatingly helpless must have been the feeling, knowing that they were powerless to protect their child from the wickedness of these terrorists. I have had nightmares about Rodney crying out for his mother in the seconds before his life was brutally stolen away on what should have been a day filled with joy.

And then my emotions turned to rage. Correlations between this precious, innocent child and my own children filled me with so much anger, knowing that the terrorists would not have cared if my children were on that plane. Regard for cherished human life was tossed aside like an unwanted object by those... I'm sorry, I cannot use the word "people." In fact, I don't have any other word for them besides terrorists. I feel that nothing appropriate even exists in the English language.

As I write this, my arms are covered in goose bumps. My eyes are filled with tears. This child. This sweet-faced little boy lost his life before he even had a chance to begin living.

Rodney, I never knew you. But I love you. With all of my heart, I love you.

And as long as I live, you will never be forgotten.

Favorite Things -- Salt Cellars

I'm weird. Pretend you didn't know that. While some people get a thrill from finding beautiful chachkies in a shiny, brightly lit store, my heart flutters while sorting through second-hand stuff at thrift shops, flea markets, salvage yards and garage sales.

There's just something exciting about digging through boxes of unloved, abandoned objects. It's a treasure hunt with a 90% chance of an allergy attack. That's part of the fun. 


I learned pretty quick to carry a bandana, a pack of tissues and a bottle of Purell at all times. 

One of my favorite castoff things is a set of dreamy, sea green porcelain salt cellars with gold trim. A former landlady gave them to me. Until about 6 years ago, I didn't even know what a salt cellar was.

A salt cellar is a small cup or bowl that is used to serve salt. Pretty simple. They were fairly common until the mid 1940s. A set usually includes tiny spoons. Either my spoons are missing, or the fluted edge was used to sprinkle the salt. I may never know.

The maker's mark on the bottom reads, "Epiag / Cecho-slovakia." It's listed on most pottery websites as "unidentified" with regard to the date.


Salt cellars are hard to find, at least in east Tennessee. This is the only set I have. But that's another great thing about being a lover of vintage things. As long as there are still people who clean out attics, closets and garages, the search will never be over. 


Zyrtec should pay me to shop.