Lincoln decided on his own costume this year, no suggestion from any of us. I was printing part of my dissertation in my office one afternoon several weeks ago and he was digging around on the bookshelf. I turned around to find him intently perusing a book on national cinema that had a 19th century cartoon of Uncle Sam on the cover. Well, he was perusing the cover. He wanted me to read it to him. I said it was a book for grown ups. "But who 'dis?" he replied. "Who 'dis man there, with that top hat?" I looked at what was, admittedly, a dark, scary, disheveled drawing of Uncle Sam and tried to explain to him who he is. I said something about the federal government, and the country and a few other things that he had no interest in and he kept interrupting me to point out interesting components of the avuncular ensemble. "Black shoes!" "A vest! He have a vest!" "Why he have those pants, Mama?" I gave up the lesson in symbolism, or patriotic jingoism, or whatever I was trying to explain and instead went over each little detail of his uniform ad nauseum until my "olden-days" obsessed son was satisfied. And that was it. "I can be Uncle Sam," he said. "I can be Uncle Sam and dress up for Halloween." And he stuck to it. For weeks. So one trip to Goodwill, a few ribbons stitched with the sewing machine and paper stars later, there he was in our living room. Uncle Sam, in a top hat he already owned and a cotton goatee taped onto his chin.
(He wants YOU.)
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