Take a look. A good look.

Yes, it is a Christmas tree. But no, it is not glittering in its baubles-and-bows finery, standing pompously in a place of choice in the living room or the den, making the rest of the furniture move aside for the likes of its wide girth, its many branches, its brightly-wrapped bounty underneath.

Look again. I call it the Drought Tree.

It is made from a discarded Christmas tree I found in Lake Hartwell.

I’m sure, when the lake was full, the tree served its holiday purpose and was then tossed into the water to become a fish bed. But when I found it several weeks ago, it was lying on its side, stranded on the widening shoreline, drying out in the warm sun.

I looked at the tree, considered its needle-less, bleached-out branches. I pulled it up out of the muck and stood it on its stump. Despite its nakedness, the tree still had a lovely shape.

So I dragged it home. As I have dragged so many other things home from my ramblings along the shoreline of the drought-ridden lake.

These rainless days, walking the shoreline is a treasure hunt. As the water goes down, booty turns up. You name it. Shoes. Sunglasses. Wrist watches. Scissors. Beer cans. Soda cans. Underwear. Hats. Fishing lures. Swimming toys. Golf balls. Tennis balls. Dog collars. Rusty cans. Cigarette lighters. Snuff tins.

I suppose the Drought Tree appealed to me in its stark simplicity. It appealed to me in a Charlie-Brown-Christmas-tree kind of way. It appealed to me because it challenged me to make a change, to turn the discarded into the decorated, the unworthy into the “Would you look at that?,” the has-been skeleton of a discarded Frasier fir into the likeness of a treasured seasonal symbol — the Christmas tree.

I did not have a plan. I just let it happen.

A blue Mylar balloon is the star. A “Kerr Self Sealing” pickling jar is the star’s base. A flat, plastic pink raft serves as the tree’s skirt. A rotten blue ski rope, several old boat ties, a fishing string and a rubber hose provide the foundation for a string of lights. The “lights” came by way of slicing two muddy Styrofoam noodles (one pink, one green) into pieces, much like you would cut a loaf of bread.

Old fishing lures dangle from the tree’s delicate branches, as do a pair of rusty scissors, a shoe, squashed beer and soda cans, bobbers, toy cars and pesky pieces of white Styrofoam which are the result of old, deteriorating dock floats.

I do not think the Drought Tree is as beautiful or as handsome as the tall Christmas tree that stands against the picture window in my den, but I am intrigued by it.

I am reminded of where it came from – the dried-out, desolate shoreline. I am reminded of the world we live in. So often desolate, too. The news that comes at us every day. So much of it bad. War, environmental disasters, jobs lost, marriages and families failing, animals harmed, children harmed, shootings at schools, shopping malls and churches. The steady drumbeat of bad news is enough to send the most positive of us running for cover. We wonder, if only to ourselves because the thought is so darn unsettling, “What’s the point?”

If you’re willing to go there with me, the point is the Drought Tree.

The point is pulling something from the muck and making a change. Something could be anything. Something could be as simple as a smile to someone who seems sad. Something could be as complicated as ending a war. Something could be volunteering to teach a child to read; taking a critter home from a crowded animal shelter; or a meal to an elderly person who can’t leave the house.

Something could be keeping your mouth shut and your mind open. Something could be one less complaint and one more constructive idea. Something could be a change in what you’re thinking, in how you’re operating, in how you’re affecting those around you.

Something could be anything. Whatever it might be, pull it from the muck and make it happen.