And, on the third day, the traveling tomato returned to earth.

After two days atop our maple tree – and in a couple of different spots — gravity won out. As Day 3
dawned, the tomato, still red and ripe, sat quietly on the ground.

I took photos of the traveling tomato on all three days of its trip from garden to maple, then back down
to the lawn. It is, I believe, evidence that this really happened.

What I don’t know is how it happened. That remains a mystery which, to be honest, is something of a
welcome diversion during this bizarre summer.

Let’s face it – the news ain’t great. First, there’s the strangest presidential election I’ve ever seen. Then
there are the White Sox, who are having another dreadful year. It’s been way too hot lately. For good
measure, you can throw in the administration saga at Homewood-Flossmoor High School. Plus, last
month, I got walloped by a summer flu bug that took away two weeks of my life.

In short, I’d like to think about the tomato in the tree as much as possible.

It started on Monday. We were sitting outside at lunchtime and my wife Patty pointed to the maple.

“I think there’s a tomato in the tree,” she said.

There it was, about seven feet off the ground, in a crotch between the trunk and a large branch. A good-
sized tomato, mostly unscathed but with a small piece missing – a bite mark? – on its back.

One more thing. The tomato was in a nearly perfectly stable position. It was not going anywhere as long
as the tree did not fall over.

Let me stop here and give you a few details about our yard. The maple is our sole remaining large shade
tree. We lost our beloved ash three years ago and replaced it with a number of smaller trees in the
backyard. We also lost our parkway maple when it blew over a few years ago.

Our patio faces the maple, which also is the home of a rope swing. The rope is attached to a smaller
branch that is slightly higher than where the tomato was located.

We have a very small garden with a couple of tomato plants, some basil and other herbs. This summer,
the tomatoes are flourishing like we’ve never seen before.

So we assumed that it was one of our tomatoes. However, it’s bigger and riper than most of our
tomatoes. We don’t know for sure if it’s one of ours.

Which leads to the “whodunit?” part of the mystery.

In our yard, squirrels are always the prime suspects. We have a lot of squirrels – on any given day, we’ll
see a dozen or more – and they are a constant presence in the life of the yard. These days, we are in a state of rapprochement with the squirrels. Peace was declared at the conclusion of the Great Backyard
Feeder War, which ended after we put up a truly squirrel-proof bird feeder four years ago. Now they
have access to bird seed that falls onto the ground from the feeder but are stymied whenever they try
to climb the pole to the various seed platforms.

We know that the squirrels, filled with unbounded energy and capable of great acrobatic feats, could
have pilfered the tomato and taken it across the yard, and up the maple. I’d like to think that one of the
young squirrels fell in love with something so big and beautiful, and had to have it.

But I need to return to the story.

On Day 2, the tomato was nowhere to be seen. It was gone from the crotch of the maple and we figured
we’d never see it again. Late in the afternoon, though, Patty looked outside our bedroom window and
called me over.

“There it is again,” she said.

The tomato had been moved further skyward. Now, it was at the top of the rope for the swing.

Specifically, it was in the middle of one of the knots at the top of the branch that holds the rope. Again,
it was in a brilliantly stable position.

Suddenly, I wondered if we were dealing with a squirrel with an engineering degree.

You already know the rest of the story. On Day 3, the tomato returned to earth.

I went outside to take another photo, this time of the tomato in a far-less exalted state.

A squirrel was hopping toward the tomato. There was, as best as I could tell, longing in its eyes. When it
saw me, and my camera, it bounded, perhaps heartbroken, toward the back of the yard.