The mystery began on a crisp morning in October 2000. My husband, Ron, stepped to the porch and (as he did every morning before scooping The Columbian off the step), sucked in the chilly air and scanned the green landscape now splashed with fiery reds, yellows and oranges. Soon, costumed kids would trek down streets in search of treats.
Then Ron’s eyes landed on the spindly tree nearest the curb. He blinked, wondering if he was still in dreamland.
A few months earlier, not long after moving to Salmon Creek, we’d been gifted with seven scraggly, bare-root apple trees. Since our backyard is small and heavily shaded by a thick canopy of leaves, Ron planted the trees along the front border separating our yard from the neighbor’s. To keep future fruit off her well-kept lawn, Ron lopped away all front and back branches, leaving the trees as flat as spiny pancakes on gray rounded sticks. Only a few leafless twigs poked out of skeletal limbs.
Now, ignoring the newspaper on the step, Ron strode across the grass to investigate. Astonishingly, attached to a slender branch of the apple tree nearest the curb was a dimpled orange. The fruit, encircled with black pipe cleaners, hung like a pumpkin-colored ornament. With the delight of a child, he ran to get me.
New to the neighborhood, we were charmed by this touch of humanity. To think that a neighbor had taken pity on our poor bedraggled tree and tried to make it look less sad brought us great cheer. The humor of an orange in an apple tree made us smile every time we looked at it, and the orange stayed until it finally shriveled away.
That Christmas, a big, red bow appeared at the top of the tree. Over the following weeks, months and years, assorted doodads mysteriously materialized. One Christmas, sparkly white garland was draped across winter-bare branches. Another December, a strand of silvery icicles wound around the tree. Glittery glass ornaments, assorted Santas and tiny pine cones decorated the limbs as if the leafless tree were a noble fir destined to be a holiday showstopper in a living room window.
Other months, unusual items appeared: a glass fireman with red hands on a silver hose, a red plastic heart swinging on green wire in the summer breeze, a beautifully painted wooden parrot swaying on satiny ribbon. Stuffed animals including a fuzzy blue bear and a white elephant weathered the warm sun. A bouquet of spring-pink plastic flowers hugged a branch. One summer, a homegrown pickling cucumber humbly hung.
Who is the person who pursues these novelties for our piteous apple tree? I’ve decided she is female. An older woman with time to shop and scheme. But I could be wrong.
Six years ago, the mystery deepened. It was nearly Christmas again when Ron stood on the porch and scanned the scene. Something large attached to the tree caught his eye, and he dashed across the lawn to check it out. Inside a plastic-wrapped parcel was a box of European chocolates and a greeting card signed, “The Tree Elves.”
We reciprocated with a gift also wrapped in rain-resistant plastic, and I included dog biscuits, guessing she must be an early morning dog walker. After several days, the gift disappeared, and at Easter she left another gift and a note affirming that she had two dogs.
The gift exchange continued. Sometimes in spring she left notes that she would be in Poland for six months. Then at Christmas, we would get bags of delicious chocolates.
On Valentine’s Day three years ago, we found a gift bag full of “love” items: chip-clips in the shape of big red lips, heart-sprinkled notepaper, American chocolates in red foil and more. Our mysterious tree elf had changed it up a bit!
That summer, my daughter and I stood in the driveway when a woman walking her dog strolled by. She stopped to chat: “Can I tell you something?”
Somehow I knew. I blurted out, “You are our tree elf!” She laughed and admitted it. But when I asked about the years of chocolates, she looked blank — and I realized with amazement that we had more than one tree elf!
For years, the gift exchange went smoothly, but occasionally some candy or a gift basket was stolen. I wondered if perhaps we should end the gift exchange. But Ron, not willing to let the tradition die, attached a plastic-wrapped bag to the tree this past Christmas with the words “Tree Elves” clearly visible. No problem since.
We hope our tree elf (or elves) will read this story and reveal her identity to us. She has brought us more than 14 years of joy and whimsy, and we want to thank and hug her for all the great discoveries. We would love to solve the intriguing mystery of our apple tree elves.
Everybody has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Email is the best way to send materials so we don’t have to retype your words or borrow original photos. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.
