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There are few sunny days in winter on Vancouver Island. There are many deserted beaches framed by old and weathered logs that have fallen off barges or come loose from huge booms of logs being transported to the mainland. One such beach on the eastern side of the island , facing the mainland is made of rounded stones, logs and a narrow trail leading to neighbouring farm land. The logs and roots of dead trees form into fantastical shapes that in the dead of winter catch the sea spirit and come to life.

All these could appear in misty days and they could be a little frightening to a small tree who had somehow coaxed real, green life out of a not quite-dead log.

He was growing slowly, drawing life from the wood below his roots. When people made driftwood sculptures he rather liked it but he longed for them to come and pay him a little attention too. Some of the other plants were decorated in their own way. The rose bush was particularly vain of her crimson rose hips and she shook her twigs with a toss of superiority that made the little fir tree feel humble.

One of the rare sunny days fell on Winter Solstice. An old woman came walking along the trail. She was leading a little boy by the hand and she carried a bag over her arm. She stopped to rest on a huge log close to the little tree. The little boy noticed him and whispered something in his Granny’s ear. How surprised the little tree was to see her jump up!

“Yes, that’s just right! You’ve found the very tree! He will be our wild Christmas tree!”

To the little tree’s amazement, the old lady pulled some red balls out of her bag. They were shiny and, really, they rivalled the rose bush’s decorations! He stood very still as the old lady and the little boy hung the red balls onto his branches./image

“There we are, Joseph, duty done for this year! The little tree looks very happy, wouldn’t you say?”

The little boy nodded and, without a word, the two of them walked off along the trail towards the farm beyond.

The seal-log slowly turned and nodded. The old bird-log squawked her approval. The spider-log scuttled off, in awe of the little tree’s beauty. Even the rose bush had to admit that his ornaments were “almost” as pretty as hers. Every creature on the beach was happy that one of them had been remembered in the bleak mid-winter.

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