10/90, flashlight

Diane was a child in the 50s. Most of the stories she shares about her youth involve dancing in socks, eating burgers, loving JFK--iconic moments, black-and-white pictures that I can understand.

One day, she reached farther back, took me to a Christmas when she was still a little girl, the youngest of three, except for this Christmas. This year, there would be a younger brother.


The boy lived at an orphanage in their home town. I imagine the place similar to the scenes from Cider House Rules, because unlike her other memories I have nothing to match this to. I wondered, as she was telling me this, if these places still exist. The scenes of orphanages I imagine are perpetually in the mid-1900s, sometimes as close to the present as Penny in Disney's The Rescuers.


The boy, Diane's father told her, would be staying for them through the Christmas holiday. He would have a family this year, this season. They bought gifts for the boy, and her father rejoiced in having a Little Man to share a love of cars with, to romp around with and tousle. When it came time for presents, the family sat together, softened in the multicolored glow of the Christmas tree.

Of all his gifts, the boy was struck by the unparalleled possibility of his new flashlight: the one bright spot showing exactly what the boy found most important, most interesting, most meaningful in that instant. He focused the world's attention with his ray of light, manipulated and controlled how the world was seen.


While I was home for Christmas this year, my family watched A Dog Named Christmas. A boy encourages folks in his town to take a dog home from the shelter for the holidays--ease the work of the shelter's limited resources, make the dogs' winter a bit brighter. I was torn by the potential psychological damage. How would children respond when the dog was taken away? How do you make a dog understand that they are not being abandoned?


I wondered these things while listening to Diane's story. How does a little boy ease himself back into life without a family of laughing sisters, sitting at one table for dinner, forced to share his toy cars and flashlight with no one save his stand-in father?

Diane does not know where the little boy is today. They didn't stay in touch much, after their holiday together, save one visit to the orphanage.

When the boy returned with his bags of new toys to bring some kind of joy to his surroundings, he and the other boys who'd been fostered for the holiday surrendered their toys. Because not all of the children went and not all of the children received equal gifts, their treasures joined the common wealth. Each boy picked their one toy, the one possession to keep only for themselves.

Diane walked into the visit with her family; saw the children playing with toys she'd helped pick out for one boy; saw the boy that had joined their family for those few days, still holding his flashlight.