I Made Caps for Walter Ashford for 23 Years. Last Friday He Let Me Go With a Phone Call.

My name is Frank Novak. I'm 64 years old. And until last week I was the other pair of hands in Walter Ashford's workshop.

Not the one you hear about in the story. Not the one on the website. The other one.

Twenty-three years I stood next to that man. Cut denim. Stitched crowns. Shaped caps on his father's bench. The same bench from 1958. My hands have been on that bench longer than most of his customers have known it exists.

I was there when Walter took over from his old man. I was there when we couldn't pay rent and I worked two weeks without a check because Walter said next month would be better. I was there when it got better.

And last Friday his accountant called me to say they're moving to a bigger space and they don't need me for the transition.

His accountant.

Twenty-three years and the man couldn't walk across the shop floor and tell me himself. He had some guy in a polo shirt do it for him. Said they were "streamlining the team for the transition."

Streamlining.

That word is going to stick with me for a long time.

I'm not a website person. I'm not going to pretend I know how to write something like this. But my granddaughter helped me put this up because I think people need to hear this from someone who actually made those caps with his hands. Not from a sales page.

Here's what I want you to know.

There are 2,847 caps sitting in that workshop right now. I know the number because I finished the last batch myself, three weeks ago, before anyone told me I was done.

Walter is giving them away. Free. You just pay shipping. Because he doesn't want to box them up and move them and store them while the new place gets built out.

He'd rather give away 23 years of my work than rent a storage unit.

Let that sink in.

And here's what really keeps me up at night.

I can't even be angry at the caps.

I made them.

I cut that denim. I washed it so it'd feel soft the day someone puts it on instead of stiff like the junk you get from overseas. I stitched the crowns. I set the buckles in the back so one size fits any head without guessing. I shaped them on the bench, one by one, the way Walter's father showed him and Walter showed me.

The bench from 1958. My hands.

Every cap on that website passed through my hands or Walter's. Most of them mine.

No machine. No factory line. No container ship from China with a fairy tale label sewn in at the end. Two men in a Baltimore workshop making caps the way it's been done in that building since 1958.

The slim shape that doesn't make you look like you're wearing a costume? I cut that pattern. The denim that feels like you've owned it for years? I washed and dried those bolts before we cut them. The stitching you can see on the crown? My stitching.

Walter charges $79.95 for these caps. And I never thought that was too much. Because I know what goes into them. My hands know.

Right now they're free.

2,847 caps. Three colors. All free.

Washed indigo denim. Warm brown. Dark charcoal. Every one of them. Free. Because Walter would rather clear a shelf than pay to move the work I spent 23 years making.

I'm 64 years old. I don't know what I'm going to do next. I don't know who hires a cap maker at my age. But I know this.

If you're going to get one of these caps for free, I want you to know what you're holding. It's not some promotional giveaway. It's not a gimmick. It's the best work I know how to do. And Walter's letting it walk out the door for the price of postage because keeping me on payroll for two more months was too much to ask.

Take them. Seriously. Take every color if you want.

Because when they're gone, they're gone. And I won't be there to make the next batch.