I’ve been pondering one of life’s great mysteries: what happened to hats? Real hats. The kind men used to wear when they went to work, went to town, or went anywhere except the shower. Once upon a time, a man wouldn’t leave the house without a fedora, a trilby, or something with a brim wide enough to shade half the county. Now the only folks still wearing real hats are cowboys—and even they take them off indoors, which is more than I can say for the baseballcap crowd at Walmart.

I watch Perry Mason before bed most nights. Not for the suspense—there isn’t any. We all know Perry’s client didn’t do it. I watch to see how much the world has changed. In the 1957 episodes, everybody wears a hat. Even Perry. The only hatless soul is Paul Drake, the detective, who apparently needed full cranial ventilation to solve crimes. And have you noticed? Nobody has a television in their living room. They’re sitting around talking to each other like it’s normal. Wild times.

Do y’all know what happened to hats? Should we start a new fad here in Ruston? On second thought, no. I’d rather someone start a movement to make neckties disappear. That’s the one part of my calling I’ve never understood. Why wrap a decorative noose around my neck and cut off blood flow to my already overworked brain? I’m trying to preach the gospel, not pass out in the pulpit. Someone please start a necktie revolt. I’ll sign the petition.

And while we’re talking about things that vanished—what happened to CB radios? That was the first social media. You could make friends for a solid five miles. Longer if you were driving 55 on the interstate, which we all were back then, unless we weren’t, which is why we needed the CB in the first place. “Breaker onenine, where’s Smokey hiding?” Then radar detectors came along and CBs went the way of the eighttrack.

Some things I’m glad disappeared. Felt boards in church. I never trusted those things. One wrong move and Moses would fall off Mount Sinai. Typewriters? Good riddance. I used more liquid paper than ribbon. I’m surprised they didn’t sell it by the gallon.

But here’s something I hope doesn’t vanish: you.

So go to church on Sunday—before someone starts wondering what happened to you.