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?

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.