It was a simple butterfly Christmas tree ornament, crudely but fondly created in the thirties by a Grade 9 boy in a shops' class at a country school in Manitoba. Red, blue and gold pieces of cellophane were delicately held together by a piece of copper wire. Tiny emerald beads were scattered sporadically along the wire and at each end of the two antennae. These beads sparkled with a mystic aura in the light shed by the flames of the candles on our Christmas tree.

I loved this butterfly. It was my first treasured keepsake, given to me on Christmas day in 1937 by Twin, my nickname for Paul who, on February 14th was born fifteen minutes sooner than I on the farm one-half mile from my home.

As we grew our mothers compared notes of our progress at quilting bees, pie socials, and church gatherings. From the very first day we walked together to and from school, Twin was more than a brother to me. There was an inexplicable bond that strengthened as we shared both the happy and sad times.

When Twin was seventeen, war broke out. He lied about his age and enlisted in the army. Two years later he was killed in action. I was devastated! All I had left was the cherished butterfly and many happy memories.

About ten years later, in December, I returned home for a visit. Mother was ready to leave for Mrs. Kucy's 90th birthday party. I couldn't go empty-handed, so I rummaged through my trunk of collectibles. In a very weak moment I rashly decided to use the butterfly for my gift.

At the opening of presents, the ladies "oohed and aahed" at the pretty ornament. Mrs. Kucy was delighted. Too late! What had I done?

For years I anguished over my loss. In recurring nightmares, I'd dream of almost regaining my coveted treasure only to wake up, emotionally drained.

Now, at the age of 79, I am living in Winnipeg. I have an eleven-year-old grandson, David, to whom I give a unique Christmas tree ornament every year. Because I dislike shopping, I asked my neighbor, an avid shopper, to look for something different in a tree ornament. A week before Christmas upon returning from a garage sale, she stopped by and handed me a small paper bag. She said, "If you don't want it, I'll keep it myself."

I opened the bag and burst into tears. There it was! My butterfly!

"Thank you, God!"

---