The diaphragm is the membrane separating the thoracic and abdominal cavities.

A membrane is a sheet-like structure that forms a boundary between one space and another. In addition, some membranes allow for passage of some things through it while excluding others. The human body has several different kinds of membranes. On a microscopic level, the contents of each cell is surrounded by a membrane called a phospholipid bilayer. Built into the cell wall are molecular gateways that control the passage of materials in and out.

I doubt, though, that the Buddha, even in his infinite wisdom, understood the mechanics of cellular biology when he recommended his monks contemplate on the 32 parts of the body as a means of overcoming sensual desire and attachment to one’s own body.

On a macroscopic level, the grosser membranes are more easily discernible. The heart, for example, is surrounded by a thin, shiny double-walled membrane called the pericardium. The visceral organs are covered in peritoneum. It also has two layers, with the outer layer serving as the lining of the abdominal cavity. The mesentery is the portion of the peritoneum that anchors the small intestine to the rear abdominal wall. The mesentery has a rich blood supply, which picks up digested food for circulation throughout the body. It is the selective nature of the peritoneum that allows for peritoneal dialysis, a process that keeps alive many people whose kidneys have failed.

We also have synovial membranes that line joint capsules and produce a lubricant called synovial fluid, and mucous membranes that line passages that connect internal organs to the external environment. Mucus secreted by the membrane traps foreign particles and aids in expelling them.

The most obvious membrane in the human body is the diaphragm. Unlike the other membranes, which are thin layers of specialized cells, the diaphragm is a muscle that separates the thoracic cavity (chest) from the abdominal cavity. It has several openings that allow for the passage of the esophagus, the inferior vena cava, the abdominal aorta, and other structures. The principle function of the diaphragm is breathing. When this muscle contracts, it pulls down on itself, increasing the volume in the thoracic cavity, thereby reducing the air pressure, which allows for the intake of air into the lungs.

This change in air pressure, which is essential to breathing, would not be possible without another membrane, the pleura. Like the pericardium and peritoneum, the pleura has two layers, one that covers the lungs and the other that lines the thoracic cavity. The two layers slide against one another, reducing friction. There is also a negative air pressure between the air-tight layers, which keeps the lungs in contact with the chest wall. If the outer membrane is torn, air will get between the layers and the lung will collapse.

Through breathing, oxygen and carbon dioxide are exchanged within body tissues. The simple act of breathing is one of the mechanisms that keeps the body alive. Mindfulness of in and out breathing is the simplest form of Buddhist meditation practice. When you train the mind to observe the breath you see that each breath is a microcosm of all that happens in the universe. What comes into existence must, eventually, go out of existence. Everything that comes into existence sets the conditions for what comes next. Change the conditions, change the outcome.

Note: For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.

A platter of lamb kidneys, courtesy Wikicommons

My grandfather on my father’s side died not long before I was born. He had seven children – five sons and two daughters, not counting the baby who died. My grandfather died of kidney failure. He had a progressive and incurable genetic disorder called polycystic kidney disease. With this disease, the kidneys are slowly overtaken by fluid-filled cysts. The kidneys get larger and larger and less and less functional. Without at least one functional kidney – or an artificial means to perform the organs’ duties (dialysis) – the body cannot get rid of excess fluid and wastes. The body becomes more and more polluted, and, over time, it will die.

Genetics is a field of study I comprehend only slightly, certainly not enough to explain how this disease is transmitted from one generation to another. Yet I do know that if one parent has it there is a 50 percent chance that each offspring will have it, generation through generation.

Polycystic kidneys, courtesy Wikicommons

In this regard, I am a lucky man. My father did not inherit the gene for polycystic kidneys. One of my uncles and both of my aunts, however, did. And so did several of their children, my cousins. The uncle and aunts have had kidney transplants – but not after years of increasing suffering through various aspects of the disease. Several cousins also have had transplants. One of them had a kidney that had grown to the size of a newborn baby and weighed ten pounds.

Kidneys are paired organs, each about the size of a clenched fist. They are located in posterior portion of the abdominal cavity approximately in the area of and protected by the lower two ribs. The functional unit of the kidney is the nephron. Each kidney contains up to a million nephrons. Blood is filtered through the nephrons. Everything in the blood except the red and white blood cells is removed. Then – through the magic of chemistry, osmosis, and semi-permeable membranes – the nephron returns to the blood all the chemicals and water the body needs. What’s left behind is urine.

Not everyone is born with two kidneys. Sometimes, they are joined into what is called a horseshoe kidney. If one had a horseshoe kidney, one wouldn’t know it without some sort of definitive exam – ultrasound or MRI, for example. Or surgery.

One normal kidney is sufficient to do the job, which is good for those who are fortunate enough to find a donor for transplant.

For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.

Human Remains, Wikimedia Commons

When I was 11 years old, I had what may have been my first real moment of insight. I was in fifth grade at a Catholic elementary school in Portland, when I slipped out onto the playground ahead of the rest of my class. I can’t remember why I was out there alone – perhaps I didn’t have to go to the bathroom, where the rest of my classmates were herded before recess. This was 1962, and the Sisters of the Holy Child maintained the strictest order to ensure that all God’s children in their care would eventually be herded into heaven.

Whatever the reason for my being separated from my classmates and teacher, there I was clambering up the metal bars of the the play structure at the farthest corner of the asphalt playground, alone. Near the top, I reached out for a bar but lost my grip. In an instant, I hit the ground, stunned by the pain that came from my right arm near the wrist.

The playground now swarmed with kids. I sought out my teacher to tell her I’d hurt myself. “That’s what you get for coming out here before everyone else,” she said. When I insisted that it hurt, she told me I had a sprain and sent me to another nun who, she said, used to be a nurse. The nun who used to be a nurse told me to run cold water over it. At a water fountain, my left hand twisted awkwardly around the handle and my right arm under the meager trickle, I did what I was told. It didn’t help.

I noticed my arm had a slight S curve to it. I considered the situation, hearing in my memory the snap when I hit the ground. I’d heard of people breaking arms and legs. But before this moment, I hadn’t understood what it meant. I’d figured that having a broken arm was something like having doll with a broken arm. There were two pieces: the doll in one hand, the arm in the other. Now, no one needed to explain it to me. The bone inside my arm was broken, and I knew it.

Eventually I made it into the office. My mother was called, and off we went to the hospital.

By definition, a bone is an organ, although it’s not usually what comes to mind when we think of organs. The 206 bones in an adult human make up the skeletal system, the framework of the body. Our bones serve more purposes than providing structure and support, however. Bones protect the brain and spinal column and the contents of the thoracic, abdominal, and pelvic cavities. Muscles and tendons work with the skeleton to create movement. Tiny bones in the ears allow for hearing and the bones of the skull enhance the the sounds we hear and give resonance to our voices.

Bones are a storehouse of calcium and phosphorus. Through the marrow within them, bones are the site of blood cell production. (Marrow and blood are separate categories in the contemplation of the 32 parts of the body and will be discussed later.)

Bones are comprised of living cells and the non-living mineral calcium phosphate. Like other tissues of the body, bones grow through the process of cellular division. In addition, and unlike other tissues, specialized cells called osteoblasts create a protein mixture that mineralizes into the solid structural component, bone. Other cells – osteoclasts – break down bone tissue to release calcium and phosphorus into the bloodstream. Bones go through an ongoing process called remodeling. Our bones – like everything else – are constantly changing. On the molecular level they come into and go out of existence day after day, just as each breath does.

Bones, being mostly inorganic calcium phosphate, remain long after the once living tissues of the body decay after death. The skeleton, or some parts of it, is a symbol of death. The skull and crossbones is the universal symbol for poison. Some pirates used it as a symbol on their flags – the Jolly Roger – as a means of frightening their victims into surrender. Not doing so was certain death.

Skeletons make popular Halloween costumes and play a prominent role in Day of the Dead celebrations in Mexico (these two religious holidays are related).

Sometimes, while lying next to Robin, I feel her bones. There is a skeleton beneath her skin – skull, ribs, vertebrae, tibiae, pelvis, etc. Her bones hold her up, allow her to move through space, and to touch me back. Someday, though, they will not. Nor will mine.

Surrendering to the inevitable – and not clinging to what is impossible to hold for long – is the purpose of contemplation of the 32 parts of the body.

For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.

From the collection of anatomical drawings by Bernardino Genga (1620 — 1690), courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Getting to the meat of it, the sixth part of the Meditation on the 32 Parts of the Body is flesh. Flesh is muscle, the most abundant tissue in the body. The body has three kinds of muscle tissue. Cardiac muscle keeps the heart pumping throughout a person’s lifetime. Smooth muscle lines the veins, arteries, intestines, stomach, bladder, and various other organs and vessels. Cardiac and smooth muscle are responsible for moving substances through the body. They contract involuntarily, and we have no direct control over them.

Skeletal muscle gives power to the body, allowing it to move. The contraction of skeletal muscle is voluntary. That is, we can exert conscious control over our flesh, although it may not always seem so. Sometimes the voluntary control over our muscles is overridden by the nervous and endocrine (hormone) systems. Skeletal muscle also helps keep us warm. About 85% of body heat is generated through muscle contraction.

Muscle moves the body through contractions stimulated by the nervous system. When a muscle contracts it applies force to bones, which are linked together in a series of joints. While the nervous system – inspired by our thoughts to move – is stimulating muscles to contract, it also is inhibiting the contraction of other muscles. If all muscles contracted at once and with equal force, we’d be unable to move at all. So with every movement of a normal body, there is complex coordination of muscle contraction and relaxation.

As a person ages, muscle mass and strength diminish, impairing movement. In my own body I notice subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) changes in my ability to do things. Some chores have become more difficult merely because I don’t have the strength I once had to do them.

One of my occupations is that of licensed massage therapist. I work directly on the muscles of others, young and old. I also teach classes in kinesiology – the science of human movement – to students interested in pursuing that career. I’ve had several opportunities to visit a cadaver lab and examine at hand the muscles of the body.

Clinical studies aside, examining a cadaver is a good opportunity to contemplate a body that has lost its life. As we all will.

For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.

]]> http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2009/05/04/part-6-flesh/feed/ 2 http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2009/03/13/parts-1-5-the-double-ended-bag/ http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2009/03/13/parts-1-5-the-double-ended-bag/#comments Fri, 13 Mar 2009 14:39:05 +0000 Paul http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/?p=1066 Bag of Bones is the title of a novel by Stephen King. The title evokes what one would expect from King, whose forte is writing detailed accounts of all things bloody and creepy. The phrase “bag of bones,” of course, didn’t begin with King. It’s been around a long time as a useful means of describing an emaciated person or animal or just someone old and creaky.

Thinking of the body as a bag goes back at least to the Buddha, who sometimes described it as a double-ended sack made of skin and filled with all manner of things, not just bones. He compared the body to an ordinary bag with two ends filled with various grains and beans. Pouring out the contents, a knowledgeable person would be able to distinguish this  grain from that bean. In the same way, a contemplative person would recognize his or her own body as being a collection of things, useful to the whole but undesirable in and of themselves. The Buddha instructed his followers to be mindful that the body was nothing special, just a collection of parts. The parts of the body – 32 of them – become objects of meditation.

Furthermore, the monk reflects on this very body from the soles of the feet on up, from the crown of the head on down, surrounded by skin and full of various kinds of unclean things: ‘In this body there are head hairs, body hairs, nails, teeth, skin, flesh, tendons, bones, bone marrow, kidneys, heart, liver, pleura, spleen, lungs, large intestines, small intestines, gorge, feces, bile, phlegm, pus, blood, sweat, fat, tears, skin-oil, saliva, mucus, fluid in the joints, urine.’ Just as if a sack with openings at both ends were full of various kinds of grain — wheat, rice, mung beans, kidney beans, sesame seeds, husked rice — and a man with good eyesight, pouring it out, were to reflect, ‘This is wheat. This is rice. These are mung beans. These are kidney beans. These are sesame seeds. This is husked rice’; in the same way, the monk reflects on this very body from the soles of the feet on up, from the crown of the head on down, surrounded by skin and full of various kinds of unclean things…

MN 119, Kayagata-sati Sutta

The first five parts of the body – head hair, body hair, nails, teeth, and skin – are the bag and its accessories. The outer parts are what we present to the world. We identify with these parts because they are how we identify ourselves to others. We spend much time and money on these parts, and not always out of necessity. We strive to make ourselves more appealing to others and at the same time distinguish ourselves from them. There are other psycho-social reasons, too, but but I don’t want to wander further into the realm of psychology.

The next 12 parts of the body comprise the solid matter within our double-ended bag of skin. They are seen rarely by anyone except those who would  repair a wound or address an illness. We don’t think too much about these parts unless we are ill or broken. The exception is muscle (flesh), because well-toned muscle enhances the overall appearance of the bag of skin that surrounds it. We give a lot of attention to muscle.

The remaining parts (with the exception of the brain) are produced by the other parts. Most of these parts we take great care to conceal. Sometimes they  come out at unexpected times, often to our great embarrassment.

Note: If you are here for the first time, please take a moment to read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project in the sidebar for background information.

]]> http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2009/03/13/parts-1-5-the-double-ended-bag/feed/ 0 http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2009/03/07/part-5-skin/ http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2009/03/07/part-5-skin/#comments Sat, 07 Mar 2009 23:53:48 +0000 Paul http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/?p=1020 Note: For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.

The other day I visited, for the first time, a dermatologist. I have on my skin a small collection of questionable areas that needed examination. Nothing serious, but potentially cancerous. He prescribed a chemotherapy-like cream for that crusty spot on my scalp caused by too much sun exposure. Those barely perceptible blotches on my right forearm were most likely caused by the use of epoxy resins during my canoe-building days. The doctor used a scalpel with a short blade and green handle to slice off the actinic keretosis which had been on my left forearm for a year. He sent that off to the lab for questioning. I’ll know the results of the investigation in a couple of weeks.

The skin is an organ of the  integumentary system, which also includes hair, nails, and sweat and glands. Most people don’t think of skin as being an organ – not like the the stomach, liver, and kidneys – but it is. Like many of our our organs, it’s one we can’t live without and has many important functions. The skin, among other things:

• Maintains body temperature
• Guards against water loss
• Detects changes in environment
• Begins vitamin D synthesis
• Excretes water, salt, and some wastes
• Protects against the elements, pathogens, and other harmful substances
• Participates in the immune system
• Is the boundary between me and not-me*

The skin is made of two layers. The deepest and thicket layer is the dermis. Within the dermis are blood and lymph capillaries, nerve endings, hair follicles, and oil and sweat glands. All these are held within a matrix of  connective tissue, which is in part composed of elastic fibers.

Above the dermis is the epidermis. The epidermis is much thinner than the dermis and consists of four layers (the palms and soles of the feet have five layers). The deepest layer of the epidermis is a single layer of squamous cells called keratinocytes. This layer also contains melanocytes, the cells responsible for skin pigmentation. As the keratinocytes reproduce, older cells are pushed outward, dying slowly as they move closer to the surface. As they move outward, they flatten and fill with the protein keratin. They also secret a waterproof lipid (fat). The outermost layer of the epidermis is the corneum, which contains about 30 layers of dead, fully keratinized cells. These cells are constantly sloughed off. Dead skin cells are are the primary source of food of the house dust mite. Estimates indicate the average body sheds 40 pounds of epidermis during a lifetime at a replacement rate one new layer each month. That’s a lot of dust-mite chow.

It seems reasonable to think that with a new layer of skin each month one’s skin would forever look new and fresh. Not so, because aging takes its toll, as does exposure to sun and wind and myriad contaminates and chemicals. Maybe someday this aging process will be reversed by even greater strides in technology, but not today. As the body ages, blood flow to the dermis decreases, the dermis and epidermis get thinner and become more and more fragile. The skin’s ability to heal itself diminishes.Even small wounds take longer to heal and so are more susceptible to infection. The skin also loses its elasticity with age. It sags and bags under its own weight.

Various skin cancers notwithstanding, there are hundreds and hundreds of things that can go wrong with the skin from acne to zygomycosis. My own skin problems – which are relatively mediocre – are nothing unusual for skin of my age. It has begun to wrinkle and sag. It gets blotchier by the day. The skin on my neck looks like that of a plucked chicken. I can expect more actinic keratoses as the years go by. The breakdown of my skin is part of the process that began at birth, nearly 58 years ago.

As an object of meditation, that’s a lot to contemplate.

*This is moot because the discussion of auras, energy fields, and odor and other molecules and waste products that emit from the body, etc. is not to the point.

Note: For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.

Imagine checking into a 5-star hotel (okay, first imagine your the kind of person who can afford a 5-star hotel) and finding a pubic hair on the toilet seat or in the bathtub. Imagine your indignation at being subjected to such a disgusting sight and all it implies. Perhaps you’d demand a free night’s stay and the immediate termination of the housekeeping staff. Never mind that you yourself have left a trail of hundreds of the little pluckers in every restroom – and a lot of other places, no doubt – from here to middle school.

When a new human being begins its journey through the birth canal, it is covered nearly entirely by a fine coat vellus hair. While developing in the womb, however, the fetus has a different coat of hair called lanugo. Just prior to full term, lanugo is shed and replaced with downy vellus hair. The presence of lanugo is a sign of premature birth. Vellus hair is commonly known as peach fuzz. Sometimes boys are teased about having peach fuzz on their faces instead of a manly growth of real facial hair – a feat they are unable to perform until after puberty. Sometimes long after.

As a person ages, some vellus hair is replaced with terminal hair, which is longer, thicker, and darker. On the head, this happens either prior to or not long after birth. At the onset of puberty, vellus hair on other parts of the body is replaced with androgenic hair. This change is triggered by androgens in both males and females. Androgens are hormones that stimulate or control male secondary sex characteristics. The most commonly known androgen is testosterone, which is produced in abundance in the testes in males. In females, testosterone is produced to a much lesser extent in the ovaries. The adrenal glands of both males and females also produce testosterone. Androgens are the precursors to estrogen, the primary female sex hormone.

The hair follicles that produce facial hair in males, and pubic and axillary (armpit) hair in both sexes, are especially sensitive to androgens.

The extent and patterns of androgenic body hair differs in males and females. It also differs with geography and ethnicity. Genetics too, plays a role. Males – in addition to having facial, axillary and pubic hair – have androgenic hair on the arms, legs, chest, abdomen, back, and buttocks. Androgenic hair on females is usually limited to the forearms, axillary and pubic regions, and legs. Both sexes have eyebrows. Excessive body hair on the face, chest, and abdomen in females is known as hirsutism. This condition is linked either to a higher than normal production of androgens or a hypersensitivity of follicles to normal levels of androgens.

What people do with hair of the body differs within and across cultures. It’s common for males to shave their facial hair. Some wear beards and mustaches either full or neatly trimmed. Some religions, Sikhism for example, may require that men not shave their facial and head hair. In some countries women shave the hair on their legs and under their arms according to fashion and convention. In other countries they don’t. Male athletes – swimmers and cyclists come to mind – also may shave their legs and chests. It’s not uncommon within our own culture, although you wouldn’t notice it day to day, for men and women alike to shave or otherwise remove some or all of their pubic hair. Islam prescribes that both men and women remove their axillary hair, pubic hair, and hair around the anus about every 40 days for reasons of cleanliness. For another reference to this, click here.

I’ve had a mustache – except for maybe three days – since I graduated from high school in 1969. The one time I shaved my mustache – sometime in the 70s – I just couldn’t bear to look in the mirror, I was that appalled at how my face looked without it. I’ve had a beard of varying lengths and styles most of my adult life. I’ve been bare-chinned several times over the years, as well. The only thing that bothers me about not having a beard is the irritation from shaving every day and the annoyance of having to do it.

When my daughter, Kathryn, was about five, she went with her mother to visit her grandparents for three weeks. While they were away, I cut my hair and shaved my beard. When I picked them up at the airport, Kathryn would not approach me, nor would she speak to me. Only when we got home, and I showed her some of the things I’d done in her bedroom that we had discussed before she left, did she acknowledge that just maybe I was her father and not some crazy person she should never get into a car with.

As I’ve aged, I’ve noticed several changes in my androgenic hair. Like the hair on my head, it is turning gray, although there are plenty of places where it is still dark. The hair on my legs is thinning, but everywhere else it is more abundant. In many places it tends to grow longer than it had when I was younger. My chest in particular. I get these long wisps of gray hair poking out of my collar. Occasionally I snip them with a scissors. My beard is nearly white, and these days I keep it trimmed close.

Judging by the condition of my head hairs and body hairs, as well as the condition of several other of the 32 parts of this body, I do believe I am aging. I do try, however, not to take it personally.

If you are coming to this blog for the first time and are wondering what this series is about, please read the Introducion to the 32-Parts Project listed in the sidebar.

I was in fourth grade, working my way along the cafeteria line, when the white-smocked woman who served up my portion of fish sticks said, “Do you know you have a receding hairline?” I just blinked at her, grinning red-faced, not knowing what to say. What was that supposed to mean? I wondered, and why would she say that if it weren’t true?

I don’t think it began in fourth grade, but sometime later my hair really did begin to thin. It slowly went gray, too. It doesn’t bother me, though, losing my hair. I don’t have great hair anyway. It’s very fine and soft, but my scalp is higly productive of oil. When my hair is clean, it looks good enough. But clean only lasts a day. On the second day it’s stringy, dull, and unmanageable.

When I was in elementary school, my hair was short, as was the hair of most every boy growing up in 1950s America. My father cut my hair and that of my brothers. I’d sit in the middle of the kitchen on the gray stool he’d made in the basement, a towel draped over my shoulders and clasped at the neck with a clothespin. My dad would take the Wahl clippers and give us all crew cuts. When he went to Vietnam in 1962, my mother took over the job.

I attended a Catholic school where, back then, everyone wore uniforms and a short haircut was part of the dress code. During those days, I let a small portion in the front grow a bit longer, three-quarters of an inch, maybe. I used Butch Wax to keep that part sticking up in what I thought of as a wall. I never had a flat top. My hair wouldn’t work that way.

Later, finally away from the nuns, I let my hair grow longer. In junior high school, during the early 60s, I wore my hair swept back in a pompadour with more than a dab of Brylcreem. My future involved driving a hot rod with flames painted on the front fenders and a cool name like “Too Hot To Handle” painted on each rear fender. But that never happened. Circumstances changed, and I never got a shot at being a greaser. Besides, by the time I was a halfway through high school, I had other interests. I played in a band and wanted to look the part. But my parents wouldn’t have it. A lot of discord was the result. All that changed after high school, though. I wore it as long as I wanted, because I wanted the world to know I could do what I wanted.

Yet again, things have changed. As in the 1950s, I now keep my hair short, about a quarter inch. I cut it myself every couple of weeks, using the same clippers I bought years ago to cut my boys’ hair, just as my father did mine. Now and then Robin gives it a going over to even up spots I may have missed.

So much of a person’s identity is associated with how the hair is cut, worn, colored, and adorned. Like so many of the other things we humans do, it’s a part of our self-expression. This is who I am. This is the group I belong to. It’s been true through time and place. And, unless someone comes along powerful enough to impose and enforce an international dress code, it always will be true so long as humans are able to grow hair on their heads.

Human hair of the head grows an average of 0.4 millimeters per day. About 12 millimeters or half an inch per month. That represents a lot of rapid cell division within each of perhaps 100,000 hair follicles on the average head. New cells pack together with older ones, pushing their way up and out of the scalp, slowly dieing and filling with the protein keratin as the shaft gets longer and longer. It’s because of this rapid cellular division that one’s hair falls out during chemotherapy. As chemotherapy targets rapidly dividing cancer cells, hair cells are caught in the chemical crossfire.

Each hair goes through a growth phase of from two to as many as seven years, depending on genetics and other factors. After a short resting period, the hair falls out. It’s part of the process to lose about 100 hairs a day. No wonder it’s not unusual (however disconcerting) for a hair or two to end up in the meatloaf. For some people, as they age, many of the follicles stop functioning and hair is not replaced. Thinning hair and baldness ensues. This applies to females as well as males. Same is true for graying hair. Thinning and graying hair are signs of aging, something that no one can avoid, premature death notwithstanding.

My own hair, thinning and graying, isn’t much to identify with anymore. Unless I identify with being old. It no longer functions as an adequate head covering. I must wear a hat during the summer to keep my scalp from sunburn and in the winter to guard against heat loss. As a part of the body, it’s rather useless.

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