The Tomato Plant Christmas Tree

By Aralee Scothern

The Christmas I remember best occurred in 1978. I had just returned home from an LDS mission to North Carolina. One month before my return, my father had died of prostate cancer. When I learned my father was near death, I had to make a tremendous decision whether to go home or stay and finish my mission. After much prayer and contemplation, I decided to stay and fulfill my obligations in the mission field.

During the third week of December I returned home. Christmas didn't look too promising that year. Finally, my mother unenthusiastically said, "I suppose we should go out and pick out a nice Christmas tree and decorate it. I'm not too much in the spirit this year." It was then that the viney tomato plant wrapped around a floor-to-ceiling pole in the middle of the living room picture window caught my eye. This tomato plant was my dad's pride and joy. He had seen it advertised in a magazine and had sent for it. He thought the idea of having tomatoes on an indoor tomato plant in the middle of the winter would be sensational. He always boasted and bragged about his fresh tomatoes, which he served up to the taster's delight.

The tomato plant became a real family novelty. It was tall and stringy, and everyone made fun of it. But faithfully, the hardy plant would deliver up a handful of tasty tomatoes every winter season, and my father would faithfully slice and proudly serve them for special occasions such as Christmas dinner. If nothing else, the tomato plant was a conversation piece for anyone who entered the front door, and my dad was eager to share his tomato plant experiences. I think the plant actually knew my father loved it. He watered and fertilized it year-round for its meager little crop.

So, as I looked at the tomato plant, a plan came into my mind. "Mother, I think we should decorate the tomato plant in honor of Dad and use it as our Christmas tree this year."

To my surprise, my mother agreed. She unpacked all the old heirloom Christmas tree ornaments, lights and silver tinsel, and she and I happily and carefully decorated the tomato plant. She even painstakingly hung each string of tinsel, string by string, just like she did on previous Christmas trees. When we were finished, the tomato plant stood proudly decorated to the hilt. It was a sight no one could forget. To say it was unusual was an understatement.

Everyone who passed our house and looked in the window stared and even laughed; anyone who stepped inside our front door asked about the weird-looking Christmas tree. During the course of the next week, the tomato Christmas tree brought Dad back into our lives. Each person who dropped by commented about the tomato plant, and a full conversation was indulged in about Dad and his beloved plant. Everyone shared a memory of Dad.

"Do you remember how he always remembered everyone's first name?" one person asked.

"Remember when he played the city Santa Claus?" asked one of my sisters.

Or how about the time he found the dent in the "Green Dragon" Oldsmobile and threw a fit when no one would admit who was at fault?

He thought one of the kids on a bike had done it, but I was the one who had hid the secret for years.

"Do you recall when he was in that airplane crash?" another inquired.

"No, but I remember how he loved his dog Spot."

"I just remember the time he got a Utah Power and Light truck and climbed up and rescued a scared cat from a pole," said someone else.

"Or remember how he loved the county fair?"

"What a conversationalist he was. He could carry on a conversation with anybody at any place."

"He knew everyone in the valley and could tell you where they lived."

"He could scale and trim a tree in a flash."

"Remember how he could dance? He loved to dance."

"How about all the trips to Lava? He liked to swim."

"And how many softball games did he watch? He was at the park every summer night."

"He loved storms. That meant he could go to work and get overtime at the expense of Utah Power and Light."

"That sure is a stupid-looking Christmas tree, but I bet your dad would love it. I would like to hear what he would say about it. I am sure he would have an opinion we could all laugh about."

Everybody who passed through the front door shared a memory of Dad. My family's hearts were softened, and our emotions healed as we enjoyed a happy, peaceful, memorable Christmas, eating fresh tomatoes and laughing over Dad and his strange-looking Christmas tree.