Four Flashlights in the Back Pasture

Four Flashlights

Grady had a plan for the flashlights. He had thought about it for two months.

The first flashlight, the oldest, the little one from when he was five, went on a loop of cord from the peak of the tent, pointing down.

It made a lantern and turned the whole orange tent into a glowing lump in the snow, like a jack-o-lantern.

The second flashlight was for reading. He had brought the library book, the one on codes and signals, and a paperback about a boy and a dog in Alaska.

The third flashlight was for signals. He had spent all of November learning Morse code from the library book, tapping it on the kitchen table until I begged him to stop.

Now he had a whole pasture and a dark sky to do it in.

The fourth flashlight, the newest one with the price sticker still on it, was for pointing up. That was all.

He just wanted to point it straight up into the falling snow and watch the flakes come down through the beam.

So that was how we sat for a while. I was on the log by the fire in my red hat and navy parka.

Grady was beside me in his gray hat and green coat, holding the newest flashlight pointed up into the dark, the beam full of snow.

Behind us the little orange tent sat in the firelight. Behind that, way across the pasture, the farmhouse sat with every window lit, the Christmas tree blinking in the front room.

It was the prettiest thing I had seen in years, and I had been looking at that house my whole life.

“Mom,” Grady said, after a long quiet, “this is the best Christmas ever.”

I didn’t say anything for a second, because I didn’t trust my voice. Then I said, “Yeah, bud. I think so too.”

And I put another piece of oak on the fire my father had taught me to build.

Signals

Every few minutes Grady would get up, crawl into the tent door, and flash me something with the third flashlight. Three short. Two long.

A long and two short. I didn’t know the code, so I flashed back whatever I felt like, and he laughed so hard he fell over.

“You just said ‘fish ham,'” he told me.

“I meant to,” I said. “I’m hungry.” So I got out the cooler. I had brought hot dogs and a long fork, and a bag of marshmallows, and a thermos of hot cider.

We ate hot dogs off sticks in the snow, and they were the best hot dogs either of us ever had. Fourteen degrees with only a light breeze feels warmer than people think. Grady had his hands in his coat pockets with a hand warmer in each one, and I made him change into dry socks before he got anywhere near his bag.

Around eight thirty we heard the storm door at the house, and a voice came floating out across the snow.

It was Lily, high and clear. “Why does Grady get to sleep outside?”

We couldn’t hear the answer. We heard the door close. Then, a few minutes later, it opened again, and this time it was Avery, louder. “Dad, please. Just for an hour. Please. It’s Christmas.”

Grady looked at me. “Can they come?”

“If their dad brings them,” I said. “It’s their grandpa’s pasture. They can come if they want.”