Mill Stones
The end of a project is fertile ground for self-reflection. A natural time to ask myself what I learned that I can carry into the next one.
Writing here twice a week makes that reflection less a closing ceremony and more of a daily routine. That comes with risks. The constant search for problems to dissect and turn into content can leave you believing you are only making mistakes.
Why did I do that? What was I thinking? How did I fuck that up?
These questions must be examined if we are to grow. But the danger is in completely ignoring what's going well. Refusing to celebrate the wins means missing the lessons that can be found there..
But, lean too far in that direction and you risk losing the self-awareness that leads to growth.
The better way, as is usually the case, is somewhere in between. Learn from what could have gone better while also acknowledging what's working.
It's all grist for the mill.
Daydream Believer
Wow. That was the hardest “no” I’ve ever had to give.
A world-renowned landscape architecture firm
A stunning design on a stunning property
Trajectory-altering profit
On paper, it was the dream project.
The one that would let my ego say, I’ve made it.
But all those temptations made it harder to see the truth: I wasn’t the right person for the job.
If it’s a dream project, make sure it’s your dream.
The Cost of Entry
Ah, the blank page.
Some writers' worst nightmare.
Wait...did I just call myself a writer?
With only a children's book draft and a year of blogging to hang my hat on?
I know I'm a stoneworker. Not because of accolades or recognition. There haven't been many. External validation doesn't make you a stoneworker, or a florist, or a runner, or a teacher, or a drunk. I'm a stoneworker because most days, I'm picking up stones and placing them next to each other. The cost of entry into the field is doing the work.
I'm not a Pulitzer winner.
I'm not a bestseller.
I'm not even a published.
But I show up most days and face the blank page.
All that said, I do feel weird calling myself a writer.
Stones and Bones
Most of what we know of the past comes down to us through stones and bones.
That’s what survives the passing of deep time.
Today, we build with stone and say it will last forever.
But someday, the seas will rise.
The ocean will swallow this wall.
The stones will continue their slow, ancient journey.
This brief interaction with humans won’t even be a blip in their memory.
One Year
I'm not good with dates. If I hadn't started this blog on a major holiday, it's doubtful I'd remember that today, Labor Day, is the one year anniversary.
It's another beautiful Monday. All the more poignant because we're invited to reflect on summer's fleeting beauty. Here I am, sitting in the sun again, sitting in the shade again, back and forth between the two like a dog that can't make up its mind.
I started this blog with two goals in mind: to redevelop a writing habit and put that writing out into the world.
Almost nobody reads these little posts. But I've followed through with writing them twice a week, every Monday and Thursday. I've hit send one hundred and four times. Through that lens, it's a huge success.
Through this writing practice, which, really, is a thinking practice, I've processed many of the issues I'm dealing with in my stonework. Chief among them is choosing the right projects. I created a filter I call the 3Ps that I think can be useful for anyone who gets to choose their work. Through the act of sharing it, I’ve gotten better at saying no to projects that aren't a good fit. And, I’ve more clearly defined what a good fit is.
I plan to keep writing about this.
The practice of writing here unlocked something that allowed me to write about losing Sasso. That writing turned into something unexpected and bittersweet: a children's book. I hope to bring a finished version of this into the world soon.
Here's to another one hundred and four.
The Spark
I felt good when I was building the fire pit in May.
Picking granite from an old quarry by the ocean.
Moving boulders with a come-along.
Building a wall.
What do I mean by good?
I felt alive.
Like I was doing what I should be doing.
Like a kid playing in the woods.
Like I was in alignment with myself.
Since then, as the project shifted to flatwork in June, that feeling has faded.
The spark is gone.
It’s production work now.
I’m not that kind of mason.
I can do the work.
And there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing all the pieces of a preordained puzzle come together.
But it doesn’t get the creative juices flowing.
The map is a little too detailed.
The territory a little too well defined.
Old Friends
We sat on the porch drinking coffee and talking about the health conditions our parents are experiencing. I guess we’re adults now.
The four of us became fast friends working at a summer camp thirty years ago. No matter how loosely we’ve stayed in touch over the years, our occasional get-togethers are the breezy kind where you fall into easy conversation like no time has passed.
Out of the four of us, only one has kids. Their British accents still surprise me and make them sound more grown up than any of the adults on the porch.
Earlier in the week the kids explored the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens. Now, they were shocked to learn that one of the old folks sitting on the porch with their mum and telling boring stories had built one of their favorite elements at the Gardens, the Fairy House Village. As they stood with their mouths agape, trying to make sense of this new information, I felt a little like a celebrity.
That project brings mixed feelings for me. It was the first big thing I designed and built. Momentous at the time, it never quite lived up to the lofty expectations I had for it. A lot of time has passed. I’d do it differently now. I’d make different choices. I hope that means I’ve grown.
All of us on that porch have grown since our Camp K days. We’re lucky to strike the balance of embracing those changes while basking in the glow of nostalgia.
Hooky
My nephew loves golf. Love might not be a strong enough word. He’s obsessed. In the best possible way.
He had a day off from his summer job at a golf course on Friday, so I played hooky and took him to play another course.
There’s a lot of walking in golf. A lot of time for conversation. We talked golf for three and a half hours. The whole drive home, he broke down his swing, determined to figure out why a new grip was causing him to slice.
I had no advice to offer. I don’t golf much, and I’m terrible when I do. But I know he’ll figure it out. He’s that consumed by it.
How lucky is he to have found something he enjoys doing, that he can’t stop thinking about, that he can do alone and with his friends. The best stoneworkers I know have that same devotion. They’re obsessed with getting better, day after day. A lifetime game.
Medium Well
It could fall apart.
If it doesn’t, and this project on the horizon comes to fruition, it will be a big one.
If I commit to it, I’ll have to make a thousand no’s.
That’s the cost of saying yes.
Order the chef salad at your favorite restaurant and you say no to everything else on the menu.
(Who am I kidding? I’m getting the cheeseburger.)
Say yes to a project and you say no to the tempting opportunities that always seem to appear after you commit.
There is a finite amount of work we can take on at once.
Every yes means no to everything else.
I could say yes to this opportunity, turn down others, and still have it fall apart.
Those lost opportunities would be gone for good.
There are no guarantees.
But you have to say yes to something anyway.
Changes
This project is winding down. So is the summer.
Because I work outside, my work, the seasons, and my memory are all entwined.
Winter was snow and cold in a windy field in the foothills of western Maine.
Spring was rainy ferry rides across Penobscot Bay.
Summer was a refreshing breeze across a cove near Clark Island.
Fall is coming, and with it a new project. I’ll remember starting it as the leaves were starting to turn color.
Time to Move On
I want to wrap this project up.
Yes, so I can start the next one. But also because it’s time.
It's time to move on.
It's time to get going.
I’ve been working on this in phases for almost two years. It’s time to finish. Time to move on.
Sasso was still alive when I started it. I have a new truck. A new logo. A new rate. A whole new business model.
It’s time to move on. Not out of angst, but out of recognition. Every project has to end before the next one can begin.
Chester Copperpot
Stonework is supposed to be about craftsmanship, artistry, and a personal connection with the materials. At least, that’s how I’ve always seen it. A creative act. But on the patio I’m installing now, I subcontracted the creativity to someone else.
I don’t feel guilty about it.
The patio is made of irregular-shaped stones, cut and scribed to fit tightly together. I hired a company to come out and scan the area, similar to how you might measure for kitchen countertops. They produced a CAD drawing showing exactly where each stone would go. The client and I reviewed the layout before a single stone was touched. Then the stones were cut to match the plan and shipped to the site with a map showing how they all fit together.
My job now is to follow the map.
When I first started stonework, I would have seen this as sacrilege. The opposite of what stonework should be. Devoid of soul. Just an assembly line. But now I see it differently.
I love the look of finished flatwork, like patios and paths, but there’s no creative spark for me. I know how to do it, but it’s not my thing. Most of the time, I turn these projects down. This one made sense for me to take on. It’s tied to other work I’ve done on the property. So I’m doing it in the most efficient way I can.
I got a different kind of kick from it. Not the creative kind that comes from the stonework I enjoy most, but the excitement that comes from searching for treasure. I felt like one of the Goonies, chasing One-Eyed Willy’s gold, hoping Chester Copperpot’s map (provided by Freshwater Stone) wouldn’t let me down.
The only band of bad guys chasing me is the start date of the next project.
Night Moves
We can't control the songs that get stuck in our heads.
The algorithm fed me a clip of "the most iconic acoustic guitar intros of all-time," and Bob Seger's Night Moves has been looping in my brain ever since. I went so far as to learn how to play it on guitar, under the pretense that I'd get bored with it, or maybe it would get bored with me and finally leave. But once Eliza told me how annoying she finds the song, I naturally wanted to play it more, sometimes appearing in her office doorway unannounced, guitar in hand, working on those night moves.
Most of the song is the repetition of a simple chord pattern. Many great songs are like that. Simple. Repeatable. Familiar. These are the characteristics of great stonework, too. My favorite work isn't fussy or ornate. It's clean. Simple. You can almost hum along with it.
There's something in us that resonates with repetition in music. It's soothing. Almost trance-like. A stone wall is the repetition of stone after stone after stone, like a series of notes. Individual, but parts of a greater whole.
All songwriters work with the same building blocks. There are only so many notes to choose from. But there's an alchemy that happens when an artist combines those chords with their own point of view, their own experience, their own soul. It becomes a song only they could have created.
With stonework, we all draw from the same materials. But every stoneworker combines them in their own way, making each finished work similar but unique.
I'm not, by the way, a big Bob Seger fan. That song's just been stuck in my head all summer. And now, hopefully, in Eliza's too.
Just Seen
I wanted to see his new machine.
I'm not a machine guy. I'm not very mechanically inclined. I never even learned, I’m about to reveal a deep, dark, painful secret here….how to drive a standard.
The first time I ever used an excavator, I rented one, assuming they would give me a demonstration and make sure I knew how to use it properly before they let me leave. I was secretly hoping they would just come to the job with me and be the operator. But before I knew it, the trailer and the machine were hooked up to my very undersized truck, and down the road I went.
When I got to the job site on that first day, within three minutes of unloading the excavator off the trailer—which was terrifying—I swung the bucket straight into the client's front door.
I've gotten better since then. Begrudgingly. More out of necessity than getting my kicks. Running an excavator has become an important part of my job, but I'll never be the guy who gets excited about horsepower or hydraulic flow rates.
So when a friend and fellow stoneworker got a new machine, I wasn’t there to geek out over it.
I came to be a witness.
It’s his biggest job since starting his business. It’s his first major equipment purchase. A leap. A risk. The kind of thing that keeps you up at night with thoughts alternating between wondering if you’ve just made a huge mistake or a huge investment in your future.
He was already operating the machine like he’d been using it for years. The wall, unsurprisingly, was looking beautiful and thoughtfully considered.
He looked like he was in his element. That’s what I came to see.
Sometimes, just being seen is all the support you need.
Time Well Spent
I won’t get paid for the work I did today. Not in money, anyway.
I helped a contractor sort out an issue from a project we did together two years ago. Neither of us wanted to be there. But neither of us wanted to avoid it either.
We showed up. We worked through it. We made it right.
Time well spent.
I’m Bored
Stonework can be boring.
There, I said it.
It’s repetitive. Exhausting. Draining.
Some days feel like they’ll never end.
Some hours last an eternity.
And I love it anyway.
Enough to carry me through the slog.
Enough to get out of bed when I don’t feel like picking up rocks all day.
I love the final product.
I love the material.
Most of all, I love the process.
Even when it sucks.
And if you don’t love the work?
If there’s no deeper meaning?
If it’s just for the money?
The hard days are even harder.
Adjustment
I think I’m a slow adjuster.
When I arrived on North Haven for a travel project, staying in a beautiful seaside cottage where I was working, it took me a few days to feel comfortable in my new surroundings and fall into my new routine. When the ferry carried me back to the mainland after nine days of wall building, it didn’t feel like I had never left. I was delighted to be home and sleep in my own bed, but it only took nine days to fall into a new rhythm for my days, and now I had to fall back into my old ways.
Wait. Falling back? Old ways? In a culture that can be obsessed with self improvement (unless that’s just my Instagram feed), that thinking leans almost heretical.
It’s good to shake things up. To go to new places. To do new things in new ways.
It’s also delightful to sit on the couch in your underwear and drink coffee on a Sunday morning with nowhere to be. And do the same neighborhood walk you’ve done a thousand times (with something over your underwear).
You don’t have to return from every trip, from every break in routine, as some new and improved you. You don’t have to burn your old ways. You can choose to step in and out of them.
Small Talk
"You staying busy?" he asked.
I don't know who he was. A familiar face on the job site, but we'd never exchanged names.
"Staying busy?" might be the most common conversation starter in construction. It's as routine as talking about the weather. Easy. Safe. Always on everyone's mind.
It's an invitation to vent, no matter how you answer.
Not busy enough? Problem.
Too busy? Also a problem.
The question opens the door to that thing we all do: comparing ourselves to everyone else.
No one really cares if you're busy.
They care how your busyness stacks up against theirs.
So-and-so is swamped. How come I'm not?
Or, At least I've got more work than that other guy. Wouldn't want to be him.
It's also a local pulse check. National headlines might be grim or wildly optimistic, but they rarely tell you what's happening in your town, on your site, in your trade. "You staying busy?" gives you real data.
The question is irresistible because it lets you brag and complain at the same time. You can boast about how in-demand you are while griping about the stress.
Out of all the times I've asked, answered, or overheard that question, I don't think I've ever heard anyone say they have just the right amount of work. It's always either feast or famine. Always swinging, sometimes violently, between too much and too little. Like we're little dinghies adrift on the wild sea of work.
And maybe we are. Market forces. Economic cycles. Some things are out of our hands.
But we’re not powerless.
We can shape our schedules. We can say no to the wrong projects so we can say yes to the right ones. We get to decide what that right work is.
Maybe the right question isn't whether we're staying busy.
Maybe it's whether we're staying selective.
How Did You Hear About Us?
It’s a smart question for businesses to ask. That’s why they want you to check a box every time you buy something online. It helps them figure out where their marketing is working and where to invest next.
There’s no marketing team here at Norton Stoneworks. There are no ad campaigns. No media blitz.
So where does the work come from? I should know that off the top of my head, but...let’s take a look back at the last ten projects I’ve done and see where they came from:
Client’s adult son found my website.
Relationship with a designer.
Relationship with a designer that started on Instagram and turned into a real-world thing.
Relationship with a fellow stoneworker.
Grew up in the same small town (relationship).
Found my website through The Stone Trust.
Relationship with an organization I’ve worked with multiple times—started with someone I knew from the town I grew up in.
Relationship with a fellow stoneworker.
Word of mouth (the result of a relationship).
Website.
To summarize: Relationships and a website.
Now that I’ve checked the box, what will I do with that information?