|
To be able to write such a scenario, I would first have to learn all the techniques and vernacular of tree-skinning. Before we parted at Grand Central, the robustious Rivers had promised to see to that. I could come and live with him awhile, go out on jobs with his men, learn the whole tree game from the ground up, as high as I cared to go. On my return to Cooperstown, I learned that right there in our neighborhood was a perfectly good little tree service, highly esteemed for skill and integrity. Further inquiry brought to light a distressing fact: the owner-operator of this local concern had just met with an accident. It was his first serious mishap in thirty-five years of tree practice, and it was fatal. It would not be fair to his widow to say that she cried on my shoulder and sold me the business. More accurately, I had by this time become so fascinated by tree work that, when I found the deceased had taught his young foreman just about all he himself had learned in a long and diligent career, I decided to combine enterprise with my research. I bought the business to learn by doing, and, by doing well, perhaps make some money, or not lose too much. The young foreman would be my teacher on the spot. The obliging Rivers would come over from Albany as our consultant. My predecessor's foreman did not belong to any of the breeds recommended by Rivers. His name was Bob O'Brien and his boyish face did not bespeak rugged talents. When I learned that he had lugged heavy BARs and chauffeured Sherman tanks for General George S. Patton, I understood better how this cherub tackled the hugest trees and handled the toughest crewmen with smiling equanimity. His touch with tender young growths was as deft, as gentle, as it was commanding on big timber or a balky winch-truck. He had a true treeman's fondness for fine specimens and concern for ailing ones. Besides working under a master craftsman he had read the right books, and he continued to read more as Rivers assigned them to us. |
|||
|
