The author’s volunteer “treeemato” has survived beyond all expectations. Photo by Dave Lumia

I love a great tree. 

I’ve been captivated by the PRT’s various monthly chronicles of Santa Cruz County’s great trees. 

I was enthralled by the magnificent welcoming cottonwood trees in Lochiel that served as the backdrop for the De La Ossa annual family gathering (to which I was invited to help document for this newspaper). 

But as much as I aspire to sit in the splendor of a giant shade tree on my home turf, I can’t grow one. 

I’ve planted, watered and fertilized five trees over the past two and a half years and been rewarded with nothing that even reaches my chin. 

The three Arizona Ash—recommended by grassland plant guru Jim Koweek as a “good choice for a fast-growing shade tree”—have been repeatedly strafed and stripped of any greenery by our nomadic deer and invading hordes of grasshoppers, standing no taller or wider and a lot more sickly than when planted. 

The lone oak lasted less than a year, buckled beyond salvation by a windstorm. 

Then there’s the Santa Rosa plum, which the proprietor said would be bearing fruit within a year. 

And so it has. Though not of the plum variety. 

The treeemato, which grew despite multiple scalpings by wildlife, produced hundreds of tomatoes. Photo by Dave Lumia

The tree itself is no longer visible, but it does serve a surprisingly delightful purpose—as support pillar for the sprawlingest tomato shrub (to call it a plant would not do it justice) I’ve ever seen. 

The bush/shrub is a marvel of Mother Nature. Not planted, but sprung as a volunteer from the compost that has been added to the tree well. It has not only survived multiple scalpings by the local wildlife, but come back stronger each time. And it has even given birth to two little babies that have poked their way up through the surrounding gravel. 

As winter nears, we’re harvesting a half-dozen or so of the sweetest mini tomatoes each day, with literally hundreds more waiting to ripen. 

I realize that by writing this ode there’s a good chance that I’m dooming this natural wonder to its demise —either by critters or the weather or plain old fate—but it deserves to be recognized for the simple joy it has brought. 

My tomato tending practices are surely violating every best practice known to man, but if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Mother Nature works in mysterious ways. More often than not, it’s best to just go with the flow.