The Arborist

When I was younger, one of my friends commented that my dad was like superman. My friend made this comment, because for the last 30 plus years my dad has worked two jobs to support his eleven children. During the day he is a mild mannered computer analyst (or something) and on Saturday he transforms into "The Arborist."

On many occasions I would go to work with my dad on Saturday or at night, when there was enough light (and sometimes when there wasn't). My dad even had a uniform. He wore his green shirt with his company logo and blue jeans. Before we left the house he would lace up his work boots, put on his hat, and tell my to hurry up. He never wore gloves, which is probably one of the reasons his hands are so meaty. In the summer he would have to bring an extra shirt to change into, because he would sweat so much.

Saturdays working with my dad were ritualistic. He would drag me out of bed, I would sleep in his truck on the way to the lot where he kept his equipment, but I would wake up momentarily to get breakfast at 7-11. Once we got to the lot, I would put oil and gas in the saws in addition to collecting and organizing the other equipment (rakes, shovels, ropes, etc.). By 7:30 we were on the road to the first job. My dad would arrange the jobs and do estimates during the week after work, so Saturdays were full of tree jobs.

When we got to the job I would get out all the tools and saws while my dad inspected the trees to evaluate the best way to dismantle them. I could almost hear his engineer's brain working out the best way to take the tree apart. He would then climb up the tree like a monkey on caffeine.(As another one of my friends pointed out after mistakenly challenging my dad to a tree climbing race. My dad was at the top of the tree before my friend made it to the third branch.) He would climb to the top of the tree, tie the rope to a branch, and then repel down to the first branch. He would then skin the tree removing all the branches. Often he would have to do a little magic to get the branches to fall where he wanted them to, because we were often working in some one's backyard and he would have to avoid hitting the house or other objects. He would do amazing things with just a rope and cutting the branch a certain way. Often he would do a "jump cut" - that was where he would cut the branch in such a way that it would jump away from the tree and land right where he wanted it to.

Other companies were so impressed with his skills they would recommend him for a job that was "impossible." He would often get work because his company was respected in the community and he got many of his customers by word of mouth. Customers would often comment on how my dad, grandpa, and other family members were good men. I would then have to sit and listen to story after story about them.

My dad also got attention for his skills because he was like an acrobat in the trees. Often the entire neighborhood would come out to watch my dad work. I remember one time he was taking down four trees in someones backyard. Usually after climbing a tree and cutting all the branches off, he would then tie a rope at the top of the trunk and climb down. We would cut the tree at the base, which would direct it where to fall. That was my favorite part - watching the trunk fall to the ground. After he skinned one of the trees in the backyard, he didn't want to climb all the way down and re-climb another tree, so he threw his rope in the next tree and swung over to it. The crowd was amazed. Then after the last tree was done, he did his patented move where he would lower himself out of the tree by his rope, but he would do it so fast and suddenly it seemed like he was falling. This always gave the onlookers a fright.

The tree business is very dangerous, and although I was usually not in danger being a grunt (my jobs were to drag the branches to the chipper when they hit the ground, load the wood on the truck, and clean up the small debris on the ground) I worried for my dad. I remember one time he was climbing and cut a huge branch off a tree and something went wrong and it hit him in the head. He climbed out of the tree with blood dripping down his face, and then calmly got cleaned up and went to the hospital.

My dad was a good boss and treated me fairly. He would buy me breakfast and lunch, which was a big bonus considering we rarely went out to eat. Although the pay was nice and the food was good, the real reason I went to work with my dad was to spend time with him, He was so busy and the best way to spend time with him was to go to work. Sometimes we would have a half hour drive between jobs to talk and we always talked at lunch. It was during these times that my dad and grandpa were able to teach me the important lessons in life - like how to correctly pour salt and pepper on a pizza.

I didn't realize the guys my dad worked with were such a rough bunch, because he was the boss and told them they couldn't curse or talk about inappropriate things around his kids, so for the most part they kept it PG.

When I was a teenager, I had a new found respect for my dad and how much he worked and it also explained why we got pizza every Saturday. Saturday was pizza night in our house. We always got 2 large plain pies from Brother's. My dad didn't do this because he thought it would be a nice treat. He did it because when he got home from working he would be too exhausted to deal with any other kind of meal. After dinner, he would collapse on the couch for the next couple of hours before bed. I know how that exhaustion feels, because I would work half as hard as he did, and would be just as exhausted sitting on the couch. Many Saturdays nights we would both just sit there and stare at the tv, after we got all the saw dust and dirt out of our eyes, ears, and noses. Although, most peoples best memories aren't of working mine are. I often think of those Saturdays with my dad and would give anything to work one of those days again, but maybe not the ones where we had to work in the snow, extreme heat, or the emergency removals during a storm.