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And then one evening Father got the bill. His single expletive was unforgettable: "Pirates!" Never thereafter would he call tree surgeons anything else, and "tree pirates" the whole breed remained for me for years to come. When the hurricane of 1938 flattened dozens of trees and disfigured scores more in an acreage I then owned on Long Island, our one grounds man definitely needed professional help to clean up the shambles. With Father's epithet of long ago still in mind, I dealt warily with the tree service we engaged. This was my first experience as a client. I must say that the treatment both I and the trees got was as reasonable as it was expert. In five days a crew of nimble buckaroos brought order out of a chaos that had looked hopeless. Besides clearing the wreckage they shaped up and salvaged many partial casualties: took off torn limbs and hangers, pruned damaged tops back into balance, smoothed over angry wounds with their chisels and tree paint. My bill was considerable but, I felt, well earned by the skills applied. I gained a new respect for the "pirates" and thereafter, wherever I saw a crew of them at work, took new interest in watching them. My own entrance into tree service as a proprietor was fortuitous. One day soon after World War II, having left weekly journalism in the big city for the less hectic life of a free-lance writer in rural upstate New York, I boarded a train at Albany and took a table seat in the club car. With me I had a manuscript just back from the typist which I wanted to check while I lunched. Into the seat opposite dropped a chunky, rosily handsome chap of about my age. We smiled and nodded, and I went on correcting copy. "That looks like a movie script," ventured my vis-à-vis. "Well, it is," I conceded, without looking up. |
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