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?

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.