The Great Plains
Earl Gravy spent the afternoon with an arborist group in Los Angeles.
We arrived at a small, suburban house in Toluca Lake. The men were surveying the backyard, the homeowners and their dog in the kitchen, busying themselves. We chatted with the workmen a while, watched them gear up, throw colored ropes up into the tree.
Finally the couple who owned the house came outside, their hands sticky with lemon juice from the fruits they'd been squeezing. The smaller woman served us the lemonade and her girlfriend teared up as the walnut tree was demolished.
We promised to make her something--a coaster, a key fob--from the tree trunk we hauled away. Slowly, we are carving a mountain. Slowly, we are planing it down to dust.