tree md
Addicted to ArboristSite
Why is it I get the feeling Guido is headed for the state pen??? :greenchainsaw:
Guido's Last Hurrah: Part I
- Thread starter Mapleman
- Start date
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Blakesmaster
Addicted to ArboristSite
Shhhhhhh. You don't want him to stop do you? Man, I've been looking forward to this saga all day.
Because he is, like so many others,...a tree climber. For some, that is synonymous with "headed for the pen".
It's just one facet of our personalities. Collectively, we are willing to accept more risk than most people. For some, that includes the risks involved with breaking the law.
oldirty
Addicted to ArboristSite
treemandan
Tree Freak
There are just as many screw ups in other fields so put that away.
Mapleman
ArboristSite Operative
PART VII
Sitting bow-legged on his Harley, and with his reddish-brown Fu Manchu mustache, squinting eyes, and black bandana wrapped around his forehead, Guido looked like a modern-day Attila the Hun going to war. And if that weren’t enough, the bar of his 084 rising up behind him put an exclamation point on it.
Geena didn’t look like anyone I would like to mess with either. She wore a T-shirt that read: The Hell with your Mountains, Show me your Busch
You had to stare at the word “Mountains” to make out all the letters, and Geena took great amusement in watching people eye her breasts. Her smile was similar to Guido’s—just a little curling at the corners of her upper lip as if to say if she had enough time at the end of the day, she’d come back to kick your ass.
Both of them wore unbuttoned, cutoff jean jackets, boot-cut Wranglers, and black paratrooper boots. Geena wore a silver necklace with a two-inch black shark’s tooth and the words “Bite Me” dangling from it. Looking at the both of them as they rode away that January day, I was glad I wasn’t a Douglas fir.
From what I heard later, Guido had lined up a series of takedowns: a 130-foot Digger pine up at the PG&E plant in Geyersville; a couple of gnarly blue gums at a yuppie winery in Glen Ellen; and a diseased 120-foot redwood that overhung some 12kvs in Sausalito. It was a rare sunny January day, so he and Geena decided to ride up to Geyersville, near the Mendocino line, and work south. How Guido got a contract with PG&E I’ll never know. The engineers there were so anal, they wouldn’t let you ride the headache ball so you could get a high crotch-in. When I worked the Geyers, the crane operator and I would wait for the engineers to drive off before I clipped into the ball. But I always had the sneaky feeling they were just over the next hill spying on us.
Anyway, things started out pretty auspiciously for the road trip. Guido was already in a pissed-off mood for having to climb the Digger a second time. It sat on a thirty-foot rise and leaned out at a 20 degree angle toward a three-foot pressurized steam pipe located downhill about 60 feet away. The crane, a big construction rig, was extended out one hundred feet, plus the operator had added a thirty-foot jib. Despite parking just a few feet behind the pipeline, the operator still couldn’t reach the tops of the leaders Guido had left from the day before when he had topped out all the brush and limbs from the four leader tree.
Guido rigged the biggest leader as high as he could. From what the operator told me when I talked to him some years later, he had the crane fully extended, and there were only a few feet of cable showing between the ball and the end of the jib. Guido repelled down to a crotch where he would have good footing to make his cuts. The wood at this point--about 65 feet up--was over thirty inches across. Before he could start his 056, the crane operated honked, then yelled he thought it was too much weight and that Guido should cut the piece higher. There was already twenty feet of stick above the point where the sling had been set, but the wood diameter tapered off quickly.
Guido left his perch and spiked up another six feet or so. The pick looked to be about thirty-five feet, with an average wood diameter below the sling almost twice the size as what was above. The operator and Guido had agreed that the crane would break the piece off after Guido had made a step cut--cutting two-thirds through on his top cut, then making a second cut two or three inches lower and half way through from the opposite direction of the top cut. As he finished his bottom cut and flicked off the 056, Guido looked down at the crane, shook his head, and held out a clinched right fist.
The cut looked good, but something was wrong. He clipped the 056 into a ladder snap, down climbed to the crotch where he had originally intended to make the cut, and squatted. Then he pointed his open right hand to the right and made a pinching motion with the index finger and thumb of his left hand. The boom moved slightly to the right and the stick broke off smoothly. As the operator glided the piece farther to the right, it became obvious the pick was top heavy. Geena was yelling, “What the f--k,” as the piece rotated four feet above Guido’s head and smacked the boom, rattling cables and nerves.
Sitting bow-legged on his Harley, and with his reddish-brown Fu Manchu mustache, squinting eyes, and black bandana wrapped around his forehead, Guido looked like a modern-day Attila the Hun going to war. And if that weren’t enough, the bar of his 084 rising up behind him put an exclamation point on it.
Geena didn’t look like anyone I would like to mess with either. She wore a T-shirt that read: The Hell with your Mountains, Show me your Busch
You had to stare at the word “Mountains” to make out all the letters, and Geena took great amusement in watching people eye her breasts. Her smile was similar to Guido’s—just a little curling at the corners of her upper lip as if to say if she had enough time at the end of the day, she’d come back to kick your ass.
Both of them wore unbuttoned, cutoff jean jackets, boot-cut Wranglers, and black paratrooper boots. Geena wore a silver necklace with a two-inch black shark’s tooth and the words “Bite Me” dangling from it. Looking at the both of them as they rode away that January day, I was glad I wasn’t a Douglas fir.
From what I heard later, Guido had lined up a series of takedowns: a 130-foot Digger pine up at the PG&E plant in Geyersville; a couple of gnarly blue gums at a yuppie winery in Glen Ellen; and a diseased 120-foot redwood that overhung some 12kvs in Sausalito. It was a rare sunny January day, so he and Geena decided to ride up to Geyersville, near the Mendocino line, and work south. How Guido got a contract with PG&E I’ll never know. The engineers there were so anal, they wouldn’t let you ride the headache ball so you could get a high crotch-in. When I worked the Geyers, the crane operator and I would wait for the engineers to drive off before I clipped into the ball. But I always had the sneaky feeling they were just over the next hill spying on us.
Anyway, things started out pretty auspiciously for the road trip. Guido was already in a pissed-off mood for having to climb the Digger a second time. It sat on a thirty-foot rise and leaned out at a 20 degree angle toward a three-foot pressurized steam pipe located downhill about 60 feet away. The crane, a big construction rig, was extended out one hundred feet, plus the operator had added a thirty-foot jib. Despite parking just a few feet behind the pipeline, the operator still couldn’t reach the tops of the leaders Guido had left from the day before when he had topped out all the brush and limbs from the four leader tree.
Guido rigged the biggest leader as high as he could. From what the operator told me when I talked to him some years later, he had the crane fully extended, and there were only a few feet of cable showing between the ball and the end of the jib. Guido repelled down to a crotch where he would have good footing to make his cuts. The wood at this point--about 65 feet up--was over thirty inches across. Before he could start his 056, the crane operated honked, then yelled he thought it was too much weight and that Guido should cut the piece higher. There was already twenty feet of stick above the point where the sling had been set, but the wood diameter tapered off quickly.
Guido left his perch and spiked up another six feet or so. The pick looked to be about thirty-five feet, with an average wood diameter below the sling almost twice the size as what was above. The operator and Guido had agreed that the crane would break the piece off after Guido had made a step cut--cutting two-thirds through on his top cut, then making a second cut two or three inches lower and half way through from the opposite direction of the top cut. As he finished his bottom cut and flicked off the 056, Guido looked down at the crane, shook his head, and held out a clinched right fist.
The cut looked good, but something was wrong. He clipped the 056 into a ladder snap, down climbed to the crotch where he had originally intended to make the cut, and squatted. Then he pointed his open right hand to the right and made a pinching motion with the index finger and thumb of his left hand. The boom moved slightly to the right and the stick broke off smoothly. As the operator glided the piece farther to the right, it became obvious the pick was top heavy. Geena was yelling, “What the f--k,” as the piece rotated four feet above Guido’s head and smacked the boom, rattling cables and nerves.
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Nonsense. There are way more screw-ups among the ranks of tree climbers than say...Librarians. or Actuaries, or accountants, or...the list goes on and on.
Now if you compare us to roofers, or other high risk blue-collar industries: sure, they are just as screwed up as we are. If you think I am mistaken, they you either don't know much about the rest of the job market, or you are closing your eyes to the qualities of some of your peers in this industry.
:jester:
Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot. You are without peer, so that really doesn't apply, does it?
Mapleman
ArboristSite Operative
PART VIII
How many people really love their work? I mean really love it…the kind of love where you sometimes fall asleep at night thinking of the moves you’ll be making in a big tree the next day or jumping out of bed in the AM right into your climbing boots ready to hammer it.
I mean how good does it get to swing and dance around in trees all day: getting a full body work out; breathing fresh air; seeing views from a tall perch that maybe nobody has seen from that angle before and maybe never will again (especially when the tree is coming down); staying loose as a goose; and smelling so much like fir, pine, or euc that at the end of the work day when you’re having a beer at the local pub, a woman says, “You smell so gooood, just like a tree.” And the kicker is--we actually get paid good money to do it. It’s the closest to being a pro athlete most of us will ever get.
I was thinking about all of this as I entered the Taco House after a really drudge of a day where I had to actually do some ground work, dragging brush and lugging wood up a muddy slope to a chipper truck after I finished taking down a good size Doug fir. We were short two men on the crew that day and I didn’t mind pitching in. My boss knew where my true talents lay and I was clearing $120/day at the time (1982), so I wasn’t unduly concerned that he’d have me dragging brush on a regular basis instead of his $5/hr. ground guys.
I had slipped off my Wescos and changed my shirt, but my work pants were caked with mud. I was glad the owner of the Taco House was an ex-climber and usually had a couple of inches of saw dust covering the hardwood floors.
I saddled up to the bar and ordered a Guinness Extra Stout. A geek in a suit sat next to me, nursing his Long Island Ice Tea. His brief case leaned against his stool and he had his jacket opened just enough so you could see the label on the jacket’s lining. He looked to be in his late 20s, and as he nodded his head and gave me a cocky smile, he told me he was a junior accountant and worked for one of the big insurance firms over on Montgomery Street, pulling down $1600 a month. He said all of this while giving me the once over, from my doo rag down my muddy trousers to my ragged hiking boots I sometimes wore while climbing small trees or doing ground work. I let him ramble on about how he had an expense count and about the new Porsche he was test driving tomorrow. Just sat there drinking my Guinness and listening. I had done a half dozen side jobs up in Inverness on Tomales Bay over the past couple of weekends and had just cashed my checks before coming to the Taco House.
I could tell Mr. Long Island Ice Tea, sitting there in his Brooks Brothers pin stripe suit and locking attaché case, was uncomfortable in a working man’s bar with all the logging paraphernalia hanging on the walls and tree guys shooting pool, but he wasn’t the kind to admit it. Rather he came off like he could handle a big saw if he wanted, but low paid grunt work was for the lower classes, and it was guys like him who drove the economy and provided guys like me the opportunities to work. When he was finished with his oratory and stood to leave, I offered to pay his tab. He seemed surprised, and before he could say anything, I pulled out a wad of thirty 100 dollar bills, peeled one off, and laid it on the bar.
Guido was making the big bucks too…more on that in Part IX.
How many people really love their work? I mean really love it…the kind of love where you sometimes fall asleep at night thinking of the moves you’ll be making in a big tree the next day or jumping out of bed in the AM right into your climbing boots ready to hammer it.
I mean how good does it get to swing and dance around in trees all day: getting a full body work out; breathing fresh air; seeing views from a tall perch that maybe nobody has seen from that angle before and maybe never will again (especially when the tree is coming down); staying loose as a goose; and smelling so much like fir, pine, or euc that at the end of the work day when you’re having a beer at the local pub, a woman says, “You smell so gooood, just like a tree.” And the kicker is--we actually get paid good money to do it. It’s the closest to being a pro athlete most of us will ever get.
I was thinking about all of this as I entered the Taco House after a really drudge of a day where I had to actually do some ground work, dragging brush and lugging wood up a muddy slope to a chipper truck after I finished taking down a good size Doug fir. We were short two men on the crew that day and I didn’t mind pitching in. My boss knew where my true talents lay and I was clearing $120/day at the time (1982), so I wasn’t unduly concerned that he’d have me dragging brush on a regular basis instead of his $5/hr. ground guys.
I had slipped off my Wescos and changed my shirt, but my work pants were caked with mud. I was glad the owner of the Taco House was an ex-climber and usually had a couple of inches of saw dust covering the hardwood floors.
I saddled up to the bar and ordered a Guinness Extra Stout. A geek in a suit sat next to me, nursing his Long Island Ice Tea. His brief case leaned against his stool and he had his jacket opened just enough so you could see the label on the jacket’s lining. He looked to be in his late 20s, and as he nodded his head and gave me a cocky smile, he told me he was a junior accountant and worked for one of the big insurance firms over on Montgomery Street, pulling down $1600 a month. He said all of this while giving me the once over, from my doo rag down my muddy trousers to my ragged hiking boots I sometimes wore while climbing small trees or doing ground work. I let him ramble on about how he had an expense count and about the new Porsche he was test driving tomorrow. Just sat there drinking my Guinness and listening. I had done a half dozen side jobs up in Inverness on Tomales Bay over the past couple of weekends and had just cashed my checks before coming to the Taco House.
I could tell Mr. Long Island Ice Tea, sitting there in his Brooks Brothers pin stripe suit and locking attaché case, was uncomfortable in a working man’s bar with all the logging paraphernalia hanging on the walls and tree guys shooting pool, but he wasn’t the kind to admit it. Rather he came off like he could handle a big saw if he wanted, but low paid grunt work was for the lower classes, and it was guys like him who drove the economy and provided guys like me the opportunities to work. When he was finished with his oratory and stood to leave, I offered to pay his tab. He seemed surprised, and before he could say anything, I pulled out a wad of thirty 100 dollar bills, peeled one off, and laid it on the bar.
Guido was making the big bucks too…more on that in Part IX.
OUTSTANDING !!!
I still log on every 2 hours. (when I can) to get an up date on Guido. This is more addicting than cocaine. And by the way I book alot of people in jail, I've met about a dozen climbers in a 13+ year career. Hundreds of landscapers, and thousands of preppies with drug habits.:monkey:
LT...
I still log on every 2 hours. (when I can) to get an up date on Guido. This is more addicting than cocaine. And by the way I book alot of people in jail, I've met about a dozen climbers in a 13+ year career. Hundreds of landscapers, and thousands of preppies with drug habits.:monkey:
LT...
arbor pro
Addicted to ArboristSite
there are 6 'main' tree companies in my town. 2 of the owners have been in jail within the last year for drug and alcohol charges and 1 has been 'taken into custody' several times over the past few years for acting like a nutjob in public (suicidal and clearly missing a few cards in his deck). He's been bankrupt twice already but someone keeps loaning him money to get back into business.
There was a seventh tree company owner who drowned last year while fishing on the river. It took responders several months to find his body so not much left to do an autopsy on.
Is it any wonder why the tree care industry has the 'not so great' reputation that it does with business owners like these?
There was a seventh tree company owner who drowned last year while fishing on the river. It took responders several months to find his body so not much left to do an autopsy on.
Is it any wonder why the tree care industry has the 'not so great' reputation that it does with business owners like these?
treemandan
Tree Freak
luv dem hunert dollar beils
Mapleman
ArboristSite Operative
PART IX
There are plenty of guys who use big saws on the ground. There are plenty of guys who climb with a small chain or hand saw and those who recreational climb. There are even a few guys who can look at a big tree in a tight place and divine a way to take it down, safely and profitably. But there are not many guys who can devise such a plan to take a big tree down, then take a big saw into that big tree and execute the plan, relying on nerve, instinct, experience, and quick reflexes to adjust that plan if the unexpected should occur. Guido fit into the last category.
Watching a ton and a half of Digger pine spin a few feet over your head, then kiss the boom of a 100 ton crane and rattle its cables (including the cable attached to the aforementioned ton and a half of pine) would certainly raise the hair on most people’s necks. The only thing that had scared Guido is that his heart had not skipped a beat. He certainly didn’t get that from his father, a hot-headed Italian. He got it from his maternal grandfather Dmitri, a Russian who had survived a Siberian prison camp during the 1930s. It was Dmitri who had taught Guido to tie knots and had fashioned a crude set of climbing spikes in his workshop for Guido when he was a boy. And Dmitri also taught Guido to live fearless and large.
Once the cables stopped shaking and the piece of Digger had settled into a vertical position, the crane operator glided the pine log to a landing site, laying the piece across two old utility poles. Geena was the one who was really unhinged by the whole affair, slapping her thighs with her open palms after shaking her head at Guido. But then she unclipped the wire sling from the ball, pulled the sling back through one of its loops, re-clipped it to the headache ball, and halved the piece of Digger with two quick 038 cuts, all the while talking to herself. Guido puckered his lips and tossed the borrowed hardhat into a brush pile before clipping into an old 150-foot three strand and burning his way to the ground. He figured he’d take an early lunch and settle things down a bit…
There are plenty of guys who use big saws on the ground. There are plenty of guys who climb with a small chain or hand saw and those who recreational climb. There are even a few guys who can look at a big tree in a tight place and divine a way to take it down, safely and profitably. But there are not many guys who can devise such a plan to take a big tree down, then take a big saw into that big tree and execute the plan, relying on nerve, instinct, experience, and quick reflexes to adjust that plan if the unexpected should occur. Guido fit into the last category.
Watching a ton and a half of Digger pine spin a few feet over your head, then kiss the boom of a 100 ton crane and rattle its cables (including the cable attached to the aforementioned ton and a half of pine) would certainly raise the hair on most people’s necks. The only thing that had scared Guido is that his heart had not skipped a beat. He certainly didn’t get that from his father, a hot-headed Italian. He got it from his maternal grandfather Dmitri, a Russian who had survived a Siberian prison camp during the 1930s. It was Dmitri who had taught Guido to tie knots and had fashioned a crude set of climbing spikes in his workshop for Guido when he was a boy. And Dmitri also taught Guido to live fearless and large.
Once the cables stopped shaking and the piece of Digger had settled into a vertical position, the crane operator glided the pine log to a landing site, laying the piece across two old utility poles. Geena was the one who was really unhinged by the whole affair, slapping her thighs with her open palms after shaking her head at Guido. But then she unclipped the wire sling from the ball, pulled the sling back through one of its loops, re-clipped it to the headache ball, and halved the piece of Digger with two quick 038 cuts, all the while talking to herself. Guido puckered his lips and tossed the borrowed hardhat into a brush pile before clipping into an old 150-foot three strand and burning his way to the ground. He figured he’d take an early lunch and settle things down a bit…
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We must be getting close to the end, 'cause mapleman is posting these segments in smaller pieces now.
Mapleman
ArboristSite Operative
"We must be getting close to the end, 'cause mapleman is posting these segments in smaller pieces now."
No bro, I'm having way too much fun. I write this stuff on the fly between doing other stuff. I've been at home with the flu the last 5 days though, so there might be a longer time lag between posts when I start spending more time outside...
No bro, I'm having way too much fun. I write this stuff on the fly between doing other stuff. I've been at home with the flu the last 5 days though, so there might be a longer time lag between posts when I start spending more time outside...
Mapleman
ArboristSite Operative
PART X
“When you know she’s no high climber
then you find your only friend,
In a room with your two timer
and you’re sure you’re near the end.
Then you love a little wild one
and she brings you only sorrow,
All the time you know she’s smiling
you’ll be on your knees tomorrow.”
We all have our Achilles heel, some chink in our otherwise impenetrable armor capable of bringing us down despite our prowess, skill, knowledge, and perseverance. For some it’s ego or anger. For others, gambling or drink. For Guido it was women and drugs, specifically, Short Skirt Sue and cocaine. Short Skirt Sue only dated tree climbers, and she had dated a lot of them over the years. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
Guido had unclipped from his line and walked down the rise toward the landing. Geena stood there, hands on hips, reading the riot act to the crane operator. The poor guy couldn’t get a word in edgewise until Guido stepped between them.
“So what’s the deal, Fred, if you had let me cut it where I first set up it wouldn’t have been top heavy,” Guido said, with no trace of anger. “There’s no way that extra twelve hundred pounds or whatever was gonna strain that 100 tonner. Your boom couldn’t have been more than ten degrees off vertical.”
The operator glanced again at Geena before speaking.
“Look, with the extra weight and length of the jib, and being fully extended already, I wanted to go conservative with the first pick. I’m sorry. I’m just glad you got yourself out of the way before I broke it off. Listen, we’ll get this bastard down then the drinks are on me, okay?”
“Listen Fred, you could have killed him,” Geena screamed, elbowing Guido aside.
“Stay out of this, Geena,” Guido yelled back. “Go stack some of that brush from yesterday. Billy’s gonna be here with the chipper in a couple of hours.”
“Friggin’ women,” Guido said after Geena had left. “It’s cool. I could have went up and took out ten feet from the top to make sure it was bottom heavy. Your jib didn’t get smacked that bad. No harm, no foul. But let’s stay on the same page from here on out. I gotta keep the peace with the squaw.”
“No problems, Guido” Fred replied, tapping him on the shoulder.
The rest of the job proceeded like the proverbial “piece of cake.” By the time the operator had stowed the jib and packed away the outrigger pads, all the brush had been chipped and a logger was loading the last of the wood with his knuckle loader. Guido had bid the job at $5400. Minus crane time, chipping, knuckle loader, and a $100 he flipped to Fred, Guido and Geena netted $2850 for fourteen hours work. While Guido broke the saws down and wiped away excess oil and wood grim, Geena coiled ropes and packed gear in the Harleys’ saddlebags. One would have thought Geena was feeling pretty good with how the remainder of the job had proceeded, and with the resultant payday, but she was dealing with her own Achilles heel…jealousy.
“When you know she’s no high climber
then you find your only friend,
In a room with your two timer
and you’re sure you’re near the end.
Then you love a little wild one
and she brings you only sorrow,
All the time you know she’s smiling
you’ll be on your knees tomorrow.”
We all have our Achilles heel, some chink in our otherwise impenetrable armor capable of bringing us down despite our prowess, skill, knowledge, and perseverance. For some it’s ego or anger. For others, gambling or drink. For Guido it was women and drugs, specifically, Short Skirt Sue and cocaine. Short Skirt Sue only dated tree climbers, and she had dated a lot of them over the years. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
Guido had unclipped from his line and walked down the rise toward the landing. Geena stood there, hands on hips, reading the riot act to the crane operator. The poor guy couldn’t get a word in edgewise until Guido stepped between them.
“So what’s the deal, Fred, if you had let me cut it where I first set up it wouldn’t have been top heavy,” Guido said, with no trace of anger. “There’s no way that extra twelve hundred pounds or whatever was gonna strain that 100 tonner. Your boom couldn’t have been more than ten degrees off vertical.”
The operator glanced again at Geena before speaking.
“Look, with the extra weight and length of the jib, and being fully extended already, I wanted to go conservative with the first pick. I’m sorry. I’m just glad you got yourself out of the way before I broke it off. Listen, we’ll get this bastard down then the drinks are on me, okay?”
“Listen Fred, you could have killed him,” Geena screamed, elbowing Guido aside.
“Stay out of this, Geena,” Guido yelled back. “Go stack some of that brush from yesterday. Billy’s gonna be here with the chipper in a couple of hours.”
“Friggin’ women,” Guido said after Geena had left. “It’s cool. I could have went up and took out ten feet from the top to make sure it was bottom heavy. Your jib didn’t get smacked that bad. No harm, no foul. But let’s stay on the same page from here on out. I gotta keep the peace with the squaw.”
“No problems, Guido” Fred replied, tapping him on the shoulder.
The rest of the job proceeded like the proverbial “piece of cake.” By the time the operator had stowed the jib and packed away the outrigger pads, all the brush had been chipped and a logger was loading the last of the wood with his knuckle loader. Guido had bid the job at $5400. Minus crane time, chipping, knuckle loader, and a $100 he flipped to Fred, Guido and Geena netted $2850 for fourteen hours work. While Guido broke the saws down and wiped away excess oil and wood grim, Geena coiled ropes and packed gear in the Harleys’ saddlebags. One would have thought Geena was feeling pretty good with how the remainder of the job had proceeded, and with the resultant payday, but she was dealing with her own Achilles heel…jealousy.
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tree md
Addicted to ArboristSite
Good stuff!Mapleman
ArboristSite Operative
"Great stuff. One warning thought - unless I'm mistaken, anything posted on this site becomes property of Arboristsite. Right?
So, get an agreement with whoever runs the show here. Your stuff is too good to be just giving it away... Put it in a book format, a little more plot, and I'd betcha the tree catalogs would jump all over it. Best of luck & keep it comin'."
ALL BE ADVISED:
Should anyone in any way pilfer any material from "Guido's Last Hurrah" they will have to deal with Geena, and then if they're still standing, her lawyer! Enough said...
So, get an agreement with whoever runs the show here. Your stuff is too good to be just giving it away... Put it in a book format, a little more plot, and I'd betcha the tree catalogs would jump all over it. Best of luck & keep it comin'."
ALL BE ADVISED:
Should anyone in any way pilfer any material from "Guido's Last Hurrah" they will have to deal with Geena, and then if they're still standing, her lawyer! Enough said...
Mapleman
ArboristSite Operative
Happyjack,
Yup, writing strictly off the cuff, bro. But I've been telling these stories for years. I'm just filling in what's already in my head by doing what writers do, letting a little imagination run wild.
Guido was a legend where I did tree work in Marin County. You know how guys tell stories at saw shops, right? Kind of like fishermen at the bar...
Yup, writing strictly off the cuff, bro. But I've been telling these stories for years. I'm just filling in what's already in my head by doing what writers do, letting a little imagination run wild.
Guido was a legend where I did tree work in Marin County. You know how guys tell stories at saw shops, right? Kind of like fishermen at the bar...
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