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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-a-vis. "Well, it is," I conceded, without looking up. |
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