4-year-old was seeking break from cowboy way

When my son was 4 years old it was all cowboy, all the time.

He wore Western shirts and boots and, frequently, a pair of six-shooters strung low across his hips. In hot weather, when he swaggered in from the back yard, tipped his hat back and asked for something to drink, I suggested he take off his heavy blue jeans – the rugged kind with extra fabric in the knees – and instead, put on some shorts.

He just looked at me and said, “Real cowboys don’t wear shorts.”

So naturally, when Halloween rolled around, it was assumed that he would want to be a cowboy. We went to the upscale children’s shop in the village and, because it was still a few weeks before the holiday, snagged one of the two cowboy costumes in stock.

It was a fine costume with a little leather vest, a sheriff’s badge and a pair of matching chaps. And it wasn’t cheap.

I’m sure we talked about his wearing the outfit. I mean… I think I’m sure. But on the night before Halloween my son looked at the cowboy finery and then looked up at me.

He didn’t want to wear it.

I was shocked. Not wear the cowboy costume? All he ever wanted to wear were the things he thought cowboys wore. He liked fringed shirts with pearl snaps, and he slept in pajamas printed with bucking broncos. Why wouldn’t he wear cowboy clothes on a day when everybody got dressed up to pretend they were someone else?

That was just it.

As I stood there holding the expensive costume, trying to think of something – the right thing – to say, he said it for me.

“Mama,” he said, putting the palms of his hands, hands that were still soft and dimpled on the knuckles, on either side of my face,” “I’m a cowboy every day. For Halloween I want to be a scarecrow.”

I looked into his eyes, a deep, soft, brown with just enough green in them to change when he wore that color. And then I understood.

When I looked at my son, I saw a little boy masquerading as a cowboy. When he looked in the mirror, he saw the real thing. Why would I expect him to wear his work clothes when he went out trick-or-treating?

I dropped the ridiculously expensive costume back into the bag and stood up.

“You want to be a scarecrow?” I asked. He nodded.

“Well,” I said, “Let’s see what we can find.”

I pulled a pair of too-small denim overalls out of the giveaway bag and a faded cotton turtleneck, in a soft gold color, out of his drawer. I plugged in the glue gun, snipped a handful of raffia that was leftover from a craft project, and dug out the green felt hat he had worn the year before when he and his sister went out as Peter Pan and Tinkerbell.

In a matter of minutes I had glued a fringe of raffia onto the frayed hem of the overalls and the cuffs of his turtleneck. I tied a red bandana around his neck, slipped a pair of soft woven gloves onto his hands, flipped down the brim of the felt cap and painted a black triangle on his nose. Then I turned him around to face the mirror.

He liked what he saw.

We put the scarecrow costume on the chair in his room, and he got into his pajamas. He was still smiling at me when I kissed him and turned off the light.

The next morning as we scuffed through the fallen leaves in the front yard on our way to the costume parade at his pre-school, I asked him to pose for a photograph.

He dropped the plastic pumpkin he carried, stretched out his arms the way all real scarecrows do, and smiled.

The deluxe cowboy costume was returned to the store.

The little scarecrow is grown now, tall and slim. And the homemade costume is tucked away in a box in the closet, too precious to discard. But each time I see the black-and-white photograph I made that day, I think about the lesson in it; about how simple, really simple, it is to make a child happy. And how good that feels.