A hand-strung popcorn garland was draped across its spindly green branches. Pinecones spread with peanut butter and rolled in birdseed alternated with brightly colored ball ornaments and more little candy canes.

I tucked a few of Horatio’s treats into the branches, threw one to Horatio.

“It’s like something out of another time,” John said. “Is there a committee in charge of decorating it?”

“Nope,” I said. “As far as I know, the decorating is all spontaneous. It’s been going on for as long as I can remember. Beginning the day after Thanksgiving, everybody just adds a little something to the tree. Or takes something, like if your dog needs a treat or you’re in the mood for a candy cane. I think what I love most is that it’s all about generosity. And leaving a little bit of holiday magic for the next person who walks by.”

“Nice way to put it.”

“Thanks. Of course, the seagulls will swoop down and fly off with that popcorn garland any minute, but people will keep replenishing everything between now and New Year’s Day.”

“What happens after that?”

I shrugged. “It goes back to being a flip-flop tree. For the rest of the year, whenever a single flip-flop drops out of somebody’s rolled-up towel, or people leave whole pairs behind, someone hangs them on this tree. By the end of the summer, it’s like a found art flip-flop sculpture that pretty much screams Life’s a Beach.”

“That’s one hard-working little tree,” John said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I like the flip-flop tree better than the other flip-flop custom, where people kick them off at the end of the boardwalk before they step down to the sand, and pick them up again when they leave the beach. One summer, my sister Carol figured out we could upgrade our flip-flops—I think we still called them thongs back then. You know, wear our crappiest pair to the beach and then casually pick up a fancier pair on the way out. My mother caught on in no time. It was all Carol’s idea, but she ratted me out anyway.”

“What happened?”

All these years later, I could almost feel myself blush. “Our mom made us write apology letters for each pair we’d stolen, in our best cursive and signing our full names and everything. Then we had to scotch tape the letters to the straps of the flip-flops and leave them at the base of the boardwalk. Plus, we had to go to Confession and put our entire allowance in the collection basket at church that week.”

“Your mother didn’t mess around,” John said.

“She sure didn’t.” I smiled. “Even my father behaved around her, at least most of the time.”

We heard the faint but perky strains of “It’s a Small World” coming from the beach parking lot.