By Rob Perez
Columnist

The Founding Fathers were remarkable men. Giants, really. Their understanding of humanity. Government. History. Human nature. Their foresight. Their vision. Their clarity of thought. They saw farther than almost anyone before them. Possibly anyone since. And now I think I know why.

It was the tricorn hat.

Some may protest: Rob, a hat is an adornment. An accessory for the head. A hat does not speak to the mind and soul of what lies beneath it.

Maybe. Maybe not.

I spent the better part of the fourth of July in a tricorn hat. Not at a reenactment at Colonial Williamsburg. Not in a parade. I was needed in the yard. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was simply headed outdoors for a long stint and needed a hat. It was the fourth of July, and The Wife had ordered a couple of tricorn hats and, on my way out, I grabbed the brown one.

Let me clarify: my wife ordered an eighteenth-century hat from Amazon and had it delivered directly to our door. George Washington crossed the Delaware for his tricorn. I crossed my threshold. Barely. I opened the door and reached. A very, very little.

I put on the tricorn and went about my tasks. I should mention that in a tricorn, you don’t have jobs. You have tasks.

My tasks that day were mowing and edging. Have you ever seen someone mowing and edging — in a tricorn hat? Well, on the fourth, t’was I!

I assumed a tricorn was a trifle, a novelty. I underestimated this headgear. A tricorn is not uncomfortable. It’s something you put on – and move on with your day. It’s only when neighbors slow down and point in your direction do you remember — that you are, in fact, up to something.

The brim stays out of your eyes. The shade it offers is wide. It doesn’t flop; it holds. It’s just a hat. No signage.

It’s a hat. With three corners.

The Founding Fathers did not invent the tricorn. It came from Europe. Good artists borrow; great artists steal. Let me tell you that our founding fathers knew how to steal.

A tricorn may not instill grit. Back in the day, many a layabout sported this hat and accomplished exactly zilch. Nada. Zippo. They waited. And nothing happened. But others donned the tricorn already imbued with grit. A good tricorn, well, it adds.

Once you set about your tasks in a tricorn, you complete them. In a baseball cap, you might mow the front and then grab some lemonade. In a tricorn, however, you mow until there is nothing left to mow. Then you edge like the world needs edging. Finally, you pull weeds. That’s on a Monday.

A tricorn encourages follow-through, pride. Better posture. I take myself a little more seriously. Whatever I’m doing in a tricorn has to be important.

Perhaps it alters your vernacular. A passerby with a dog says, ‘Hello.’ To which you reply, ‘Good day, citizen!’

History gives us very few true Renaissance men. Leonardo da Vinci was one. Benjamin Franklin was another: inventor. Scientist. Diplomat. Then he put on a tricorn. And he added wit.

And now I see how they did it. The Declaration of Independence. The Constitution. The Federalist Papers. Checks. Balances. Separation of powers. I mean, spend a day in a tricorn and you get things done.

Ever seen someone doom scrolling social media — in a tricorn? Exactly.

In a tricorn, I accomplished more in one morning than I had all week. Maybe in a month. By noon, lawn was mowed, garden was weeded, edges trimmed, and I wrote a quiet rebuttal to the Federalist Papers. Then I needed a sandwich.

We think of the Founding Fathers as philosophers, statesmen and visionaries. And maybe they were. Our Founding Fathers figured out exactly how much brim the male human needs to excel. Three.

Until Napoleon came along with the tricorn 2.0. He called it — the bicorn.