The Clock on the Wall
I don’t know how I’ll look back on this time on North Haven.
It certainly wasn’t an island vacation. I caught the 5:30 p.m. ferry from Rockland on Saturday and arrived on-island a little over an hour later. I got up the next morning, started working, and didn’t stop until the following Saturday at 5 p.m. That’s how it felt anyway. I made breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day and watched a forgettable show before falling asleep each night. Otherwise, it was me and what started out as a daunting pile of stone.
It wasn’t the size of the wall that was overwhelming. It was the time I had allotted myself to build it. It’s difficult to navigate ferry reservations to this small island in Penobscot Bay. It was a miracle I got the spots I did. There was no extending my stay.
Constraints are useful. The ticking clock clarified my thinking. When you're building a stone wall, there are a million decisions to make—maybe more. On this build, there was no time to overthink the placement of each stone. To be honest, the work was better for it. Forced to trust my instincts, the wall had a better flow.
I finished the wall on the last night. If I'd had one more day, I probably would have finished it then. Isn’t there a law about work expanding to fill the time allowed? Seems pretty accurate.
It wasn’t exactly a fun trip, not in the summer-on-a-Maine-island sense, but it was meaningful. I worked hard. I accomplished my goal. I think I’ll look back on it as a rewarding trip because of that.
Where the Money Goes
“Why is stonework so expensive?”
I’ve been asked that countless times. And it’s true: stonework is expensive.
My stock answer is that stones are heavy and hard to move. But that’s not the full picture.
There are a lot of parts of the process that aren’t obvious to outsiders.
Do you know all the costs involved in bringing your own projects to life?
Do your clients?
I just put together pricing for what at first seemed like a fairly simple job, until I broke it down into all its parts:
Time spent sourcing the right stones from various suppliers and quarries
Purchasing the stones
Transporting them to the job site on a trailer pulled by a big, fuel-hungry truck
Unloading them with my excavator
Hauling the excavator over an hour to the site, even before the stones arrive
Filling the excavator with diesel
Digging four-foot-deep holes
Forming footings using 2x4s and plywood
Buying at least 90 bags of 80-pound concrete
Driving the concrete to the site, unloading it, mixing and pouring it into the footing frames
Inserting steel rebar into the wet concrete for strength
Hiring a boom truck, essentially a mobile crane, to lift the stones into place for at least two days
Lifting each large stone and hovering it over the footings
Taking careful measurements
Cutting the bottom of each stone flat using gas-powered saws with diamond-coated blades
Drilling one hole into the footing and one into the bottom of the stone
Inserting a steel pin into the stone and fixing it with epoxy
Filling the footing hole with epoxy as well
Lifting the stone again and lowering it into place, hoping the pin locks in cleanly
Repeating this process with the second standing stone
Fitting a third stone across the top of the two uprights to form a crosspiece, using the same process
Setting up two sets of staging to work at that height
Installing a fourth stone on top of the crosspiece
Cleaning up
Returning all the equipment
Commuting one and a half hours each way, every day
That’s the physical part. There’s also time invested in emails, phone calls, meetings, managing subcontractors, estimates, and invoices. In other words, all the things it takes to run a business.
On top of all that, I need to make a profit. Not just to keep the business going, but to live a good life.
So yes, the numbers can look high. But there’s a reason. Behind every finished project is a long chain of effort most people never see.
I guess in a way, it really does come down to stones being heavy and hard to move.
Price is a Filter
I wish it didn’t come down to money.
Money isn’t why I do this work.
But it’s naive to pretend it doesn’t matter.
Stone is expensive. The work is hard.
My time, like yours, is finite.
It takes money to keep the wheels turning.
Money becomes a filter.
It helps decide which projects move forward and which ones don’t.
Who I get to work with. What I get to build.
There have been many potential clients I’m sure I would’ve loved working with, but I’ve had to say no when budgets and the reality of costs don’t line up.
The truth is, my work, like yours, isn’t for everyone.
Nor should it be.
I still feel weird about that.
It’s for a small pool of people who meet a few key criteria:
They love stone.
They’re good to work with.
They have the resources to bring a project to life.
And somehow, they have to have found me.
Price narrows the field.
It’s a necessary filter.
Stonecutter’s Almanac: Memorial Day
5/26/25 — Memorial Day
The sun is out
after days of clouds and rain.
Birds are singing
a tune I can’t hum.
A breeze from the south,
straight out to sea from my perspective,
pushes waves rhythmically into this granite cove.
Across the water,
tailings from an old quarry line the shore.
A perfectly level line traces the height of high tide—
bleached salt-and-pepper granite above,
as dark as the spruce forest below.
The stone I’m working today came from a different quarry,
around the corner by boat,
or a short drive down the road.
I try not to hit the weathered faces with the chisels.
I don’t want the whiteness of fresh granite
to break the spell of timelessness.
I’m trying to create the illusion that these stones have always been here,
retaining space for this fire pit—
as if my hands have never touched them,
as if I was never here.
I’m too tired today
to give much thought to the men who handled these stones before me,
all those years ago.
They gave no thought of me.
But it’s easier to think of the past than the future.
No is Italian for No
Well, that didn’t go as planned.
I thought when I went to look at this new job I’d change the client’s mind about the best way to approach the work, and leave with a new project penciled into my calendar.
Neither of those things happened.
To recap, the project had a lot going for it: A charmingly crotchety elderly Sicilian gentleman. A big stone wall that needed to be rebuilt. And a fifteen minute commute from my house.
That short commute almost blinded me to the reality of the situation.
Yes, I do stonework. But this wall is outside the typical scope of projects I take on. Concrete and mortar require a different skill set, one that doesn't excite me. I drive all over the state for the right project. I wanted that short commute so badly I tried to convince myself it was a good fit.
But it's not. I'm not the right person for this job.
Luckily, I wrote the 3Ps for moments like this.
The client, the project, and I all deserve the right match. So today, I’ll make the call and say no.
Wet and Wild
I’ve been making good progress on my current project. It’s extremely physical work. The excavator is parked on the other side of the house, blocked by the septic field. So it’s been days and days of digging with a shovel and carrying the spoils back up the hill in five-gallon buckets. Dragging flagstones down to the fire pit one at a time on a dolly. Carrying wallstones in by hand. Moving boulders inch by inch with chains and come-alongs.
I’ve been at it for three weeks. I want to keep the momentum going, but not badly enough to work through yesterday’s May Nor’easter.
I took a rain day.
If you accept it, if you don’t fight it, a rain day can be a glorious thing.
Yes, I lost a day of progress. And a day of income. But I gained a day of rest for my body. A day of coffee, stretching, and a slow breakfast. A day of writing. A day of estimates, emails, scheduling, and stone sourcing that will lead to more income down the road.
A rain day, well spent.
Stonecutter’s Almanac: May Nor’easter
5|22|25
The wind shifted.
This little cove is protected, but I can see whitecaps further out to sea.
Weather was the talk at the gas station and the hardware store this morning.
“A Nor’easter on Memorial Day Weekend?”
“I heard they might get snow up north.”
The tops of spruce trees are swaying.
Birds are chattering.
Low clouds blow fast from left to right across my field of vision.
A bank of gray clouds on the horizon moves slowly in.
Electricians fine-tune a chandelier.
Carpenters hang doors.
New furniture is being unloaded.
I scratched my neck and found a tick.
Now I feel them everywhere.
I hit old granite with a chisel, again and again, changing its shape to fit the wall.
Some of the dirt this wall will retain just collapsed.
I’ll have to dig it out after lunch.
The wind and rain will be here tonight.
No work tomorrow.
3Ps in Action: The Italian Voicemail
My dad always wished he was Italian. So much so, he wanted to name me Giuseppe before they settled on Joe. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t help but be drawn to the voicemail I got yesterday from an older Italian gentleman. Based on his voice, I’d guess early 80s. He’s looking to have a stone wall rebuilt.
It sounds like a promising opportunity.
Client: charming.
Project: a stone wall fifteen minutes from my house. After a string of long-distance job sites, that feels heaven sent.
Price: TBD. If that aligns, it’s a go.
Well, almost. There’s one sticking point.
He already has a wall on the property. It’s falling down. And when I rebuild it, he’s very adamant that I use as much mortar as humanly possible.
I get it. It’s a common misconception. If I weren’t trained in the art and craft of dry stone walling, and I saw a wall that was failing, I’d probably think the same thing. Isn’t mortar what holds all the rocks together?
I didn’t protest on the phone. I just listened.
But when I meet him tomorrow, I’m going to do my best to explain why a properly built dry-laid wall is often the strongest, most lasting solution.
And then we’ll see if he’s willing to trust me with the work.
3Ps in Action: Falling Too Fast
We just met.
I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself, but I think I’m in love.
It’s not a huge project, but it scratches my itch. It’s creative. It’s unique. It’s challenging.
The clients are obsessed with stone. They've visited all the local suppliers I use. We’re even competing for the same unique pieces of granite on a few online marketplaces. It's always a good sign when the clients love stone.
It feels like the perfect fit.
But I need to be careful.
I’ve fallen too fast and been hurt before.
If you know anything about the 3Ps, you’ll notice something is missing: Price.
The people and the project are aligned, but we haven’t talked money yet.
Even if I love the people.
Even if I love the work.
The price has to align too.
Fingers crossed.
Logjam
I made the leap. The water was cold, but invigorating.
I didn’t know how to start this project, so I started as simply as I could. I dug a hole. I carried the dirt uphill in five-gallon buckets. One in each hand. It took all day.
It got the blood moving. And my brain too.
Not in an analytical way. I wasn’t solving problems. Just working. Moving. Doing.
I'd been overthinking how to get started with this project, how to make all the logistical components rhyme. Somewhere in the rhythm of physical labor, my mind cleared.
It’s not that I don’t plan. I do. Especially on a site like this—tight access, sloped terrain, overlapping phases. You need a plan.
But when I’m stuck, it’s rarely because I didn’t plan enough.
Shovel. Bucket. Haul. Repeat.
That’s what broke the logjam.
It sounds counterintuitive, but sometimes the best way to figure it out is to stop trying to figure it out.
The In-Between
There’s something seductive about the in-between.
One project is almost done. I could drag it out forever if I let myself. Adjust a boulder. Tweak the curve of the walkway. Adjust that boulder again. I took some creative risks with this one. As long as I don’t call it finished, I don’t have to find out if they were successful.
The next project is ready. I keep putting off the first move. I tell myself I’m thinking. Planning. And I am. But really, I’m stalling.
When we were kids, my friend Nick’s parents put in a swimming pool. One year, we decided to jump in on the first day they pulled off the cover. I think the thermometer read somewhere in the forties. I circled round and round the pool, trying to psyche myself up to be the first one in. I dragged it out as long as I could—and then I jumped.
I’ll make the leap from the sunny deck of the current project into the invigorating, slightly shocking waters of the next one soon. But I’m going to take a couple more laps first.
Rick
Rick knew everyone on the street, but no one really knew Rick.
Part Buddha, part busybody. Retired, observant, curious. He inserted himself into the affairs of his neighbors but remained mysteriously aloof.
When I worked on a giant stone labyrinth in Tennessee for six weeks, I brought back a few small rocks for him. Tiny pieces of the Smoky Mountains. A small gift, a way to connect. A way to bring something of the larger world to my seventy-something-year-old neighbor at the end of the block.
Rick didn’t drive. He walked into town most days for groceries, a croissant, and to make his slow rounds through his neighbors’ gardens. Up and down the street, he knew what was blooming and what had withered , often before the gardeners themselves. On warm days, he sat on a weathered wooden bench by his front door, sipping tea. If it was too hot or too cold to be on his perch, the music inside his little house drifted out to the sidewalk. Could be 60’s rock. Could be Mozart. He didn’t watch TV. He didn’t have a smartphone.
He lived a very local life.
When I spent five weeks working in Wyoming, I brought him back a few chunks of fossil-filled limestone. Sea creatures pressed into stone by an ancient sea. Rick placed them next to the Tennessee rocks in an artful little arrangement in his garden. A simple gift, with an ulterior motive. I wasn’t just being neighborly, I was trying to give something I thought Rick didn’t have: connection to the bigger world.
In the aftermath of Rick’s death last month, mourning with neighbors and listening to stories at his memorial service, I realized I’d had it all wrong.
Rick didn’t need my trinkets to connect with the world. He lived a full, rich life right here on McLellan Street. Small in scale, sure. But deep. Grounded. Vibrant with connection.
How many of us can say that?
How many of us truly live where we are?
Flash Dance
I don't know if I'll get this project.
I bid it high. High enough to do my best work. High enough to give some of the finite space in my schedule to it. High enough to make a real profit.
I got an email that lightly questioned my pricing and mentioned they were inviting another mason to quote the job. I felt that flash of reaction we all get, a mix of anger and fear and god knows what else, but it passed quickly. Wouldn’t I get more than one quote on a major project I was paying for? Should I really be offended? Defensive? Hurt?
Am I too fragile to be questioned?
We get to choose how we respond in these situations. I’m not always successful, but I try to remember, it’s not personal.
I answered calmly and directly. I stood by my price. I even recommended the other mason they’re considering because he is excellent, probably better than me in a lot of ways. And I meant it. They would be lucky to have him.
There's plenty of work for everyone. If this project doesn’t work out for me, I'll take it as a blessing. Something better will come along. It always does.
A Little Selfish
I said no to three projects yesterday.
It's not that I couldn't do them.
I could have. I could have made the time. I could have done the work.
I just didn’t want to.
Not because they weren’t good projects. They just weren’t good projects for me.
What if You Need the Money
You’ve probably heard the advice from Derek Sivers:
“If you’re not saying HELL YEAH! to something, say no.”
It’s everywhere. And for good reason. It’s clean. It’s clear. It’s helped shape my own 3Ps framework. If you’ve got too much on your plate, this kind of clarity can be a lifesaver.
But.
What if you need the money?
What if it’s not your dream project, but the mortgage is due?
What if the client gives you a weird vibe, but your finances aren't aligned with your ideals right now?
What if it’s underpriced… but still better than nothing?
It’s okay to say yes when you need the money.
It doesn’t make you a failure. It doesn’t mean you’re betraying your values.
It means you’re surviving.
But do it with your eyes open.
Know why you’re saying yes.
Own it.
Show up like a pro.
Do great work.
And then, as soon as you can, come back to your deeper goals.
Come back to the kind of work you really want to be doing.
Come back to the kind of clients who see you.
Come back to your price point. Your standards. Your art.
Because the danger isn’t saying yes when you're broke.
The danger is getting stuck there.
Getting used to that low-level panic.
Letting it define you.
The 3Ps aren’t about pretending money doesn’t matter.
They’re about building a life where all three—People, Project, Price—line up.
Where you're not just surviving, but doing your best work for the right reasons.
So if you need to say yes today, say yes.
Just don’t lose sight of the Hell Yes you’re working toward.
Something I Thought I Wanted
A huge shop.
A fleet of trucks.
All the machines, with all the attachments, and trailers to pull them.
A big crew.
Big.
Big time.
For a long time, I tried to convince myself that’s what I wanted.
Isn’t that what success looks like?
Don’t you have to be big to prove you’ve made it?
Don’t you have to be the biggest to be the best?
Don’t you have to be the best to be successful?
I don’t think I ever really wanted it.
Maybe for a minute.
But deep down, I think I always knew that road wasn’t mine.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to build something big,
with dreaming in scale, with growing a company.
I admire it. I really do.
Just because we have different dreams doesn’t mean I can’t root for yours.
Maintenance
After my grandfather died, my dad ended up with his hand tools. They sat in a black metal toolbox in the basement. Neatly arranged. A little worn. Waiting.
Eventually, they found their way to me. And I ruined them.
I got cement on some and never cleaned them off. Others sat damp too long and rusted out. I think most of them got thrown away.
I look back now with shame. I let down my lineage. I wish I could go back and take better care of those things.
But I can't. And I still haven’t fully learned the lesson.
There are two stone hammers waiting for new handles on the counter by our front door. I’ve walked past them a dozen times a day for the last three months. Still, there they sit.
My chisels are dull and the heads are mushroomed beyond saving. The registration is overdue on the one-ton. The excavator needs a service.
I get so caught up in the work itself, I neglect the things that support the work. They’re just as important. I know that.
But trade-offs have to be made, right? There are only so many hours in a day.
And... I’m rationalizing. I know I am.
It’s a flaw. One I’m well aware of. I don’t know where it comes from. Or maybe I do, but I haven’t wanted to look too closely.
I know when I close this laptop I should re-handle those hammers. I should sharpen the chisels. I should schedule the service.
But not today.
On Being Seen
I can post a photo of a finished project on Instagram without thinking twice. A perfectly fit joint, a pile of waiting-to-be-laid-stone, the shape of a curved wall. That kind of sharing feels safe.
But sharing something deeper? A line from a blog post? A reflection on the hopes and dreams and fears and disappointments that go with the work? That feels riskier.
Here on SassoStones, with its more reflective tone and space for nuance, there's room to get into deeper waters.
But sharing it with a bigger audience? On social media? It feels like being seen.
Why is that so scary for some of us?
I know what I would say to someone going through the same thing (I’m sure I’m not alone in this). Vulnerability builds connection. Sharing your real voice is how the right people tend to find you.
But advice is easier to give than to follow.
There’s still a moment, right before I hit post, where my finger hovers. And I wonder if I should just stick to the stone.
Resistance is Always There
Steven Pressfield describes Resistance as an invisible force that shows up whenever we try to do something bold, creative, or meaningful. It’s the thing that whispers excuses, delays action, feeds self-doubt, and keeps us from starting—or finishing—the work that matters most.
Ever since I read and reread his books, I can’t help but notice all the ways Resistance shows up in my own life. It rears it’s head anytime I try to do something that feels important. It’s there when I overthink, avoid, delay, distract, scroll, tidy, tweak, or suddenly convince myself that now isn’t the right time.
I feel it as much with my stonework as I do with my writing.
At this particular moment, it’s showing up like this: I have an idea I want to pitch to a former client, completely unsolicited, for an artistic stone installation on their property. I’m afraid they’ll say no, so I’m dragging my feet.
Resistance often shows up in layers. I’m also afraid the idea won’t be any good. I tell myself I can’t draw well enough to explain it to my graphic designer. And even if we nail the design and they say yes, can I even build this thing? Am I good enough? Do I even know what I’m doing? And if, by some miracle, all of that works out, will I charge enough to make it worthwhile?
Probably better not to even start.
That’s how Resistance kills your best ideas. Not with a single loud “no,” but with a steady, quiet chorus of “maybe not.” Especially the ideas that require something bold. Something that asks us to grow. To change.
I have a book I’m working on. Actually, let me rephrase that. I have an idea for a book. I haven’t started working on it yet. I’m not ready. I need to gather more information. I need to write more blog posts first. Build a bigger audience. Someday I’ll be ready to begin. Someday. Just… not today.
Pressfield is right. Resistance is insidious. And ever-present.
But there is a cure.
It’s showing up, day after day, and doing the work. It’s sitting down and doing a shitty sketch of that wall. It’s writing an unreadable first draft of the first chapter of that book. It’s starting instead of getting ready to start.
If this resonates, I recommend reading (or rereading) Steven Pressfield’s books. They’ve helped me recoginze Resistance when it shows up, and reminded me that it can be beat, but only through action:
They’re short, sharp, and worth keeping close. I find myself coming back to them again and again.
Heads up: These are affiliate links. If you buy something, I might earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. It helps support the writing, and I only recommend things I believe in.
3Ps in Action: FOMO
-a series where I work through the decision-making process on real projects-
I know I should say no to this project.
But knowing you should do something and actually doing it are two very different things.
I’m hesitant to say no because I’m afraid.
Afraid that if I say no, I’ll lose my status as their go-to guy.
Afraid I’ll disappoint the people involved—people I like.
Afraid I’ll miss out on future opportunities.
When I stop and write those fears down, they seem silly.
And they are. But they’re also real.
Just because they’re real doesn’t mean I have to obey them.
Saying no can feel risky.
It takes faith that something better aligned will come along.
It takes letting go. Letting go of people-pleasing. Letting go of wanting to save the day. Letting go of FOMO.
If, or rather, when I say no to this project, the world won’t stop spinning.
They’ll find someone else. Hopefully someone better suited for the work.
The people involved won’t lose sleep over it.
We tend to exaggerate the weight of our own decisions.
In most cases, no one really cares. It’s not a big deal.
I might miss out on future work. I might not.
There’s no way to know.
What I do know is this: this project isn’t something I’m excited about, or even particularly good at.
It’s foolish to think that by saying yes to something only tangentially related to the work I want to be doing, they’ll think of me for something truly aligned later on.
People can’t read your mind.
They can’t see your secret heart.
You have to show them.