On the Forgotten Art of Building a Stone Wall

Earlier this fall I built a stone wall, something I’d learned to do ages ago. It’s at my house in Milford, PA, a three-foot height extension of an existing retaining wall to level the back yard for a fence so Styles can roam his domain. Dry laid, no mortar. The side facing the street perfectly flat, the inside jagged because it was to be back-filled with dirt. Stones laid strategically one over two, two over one, each one “pinned” with small stones wedged in to secure and level them to support the next course on top. One course at a time, methodically, submitting to the alignment strings to keep the courses level.

The wall in progress.

It was a Henry David Thoreau-like experience. Outside in nature, smelling dirt and wet moss. Feeling at one with each stone as I laid it in place on top of and alongside its brothers and sisters. Conscious of not much else but my wall. At work in the mist first thing in the morning, stripping off my coat as the sun warmed up the day, putting it back on as the cool of late afternoon set in. Not quitting until my fingers numbed with cold in the blue-gray fall dusk.

For those three days of communing with the stones, I shut out all the clutter and racing motion my brain was consuming itself with. Stress from tasks I was convinced I needed to complete gone haywire on an infinite loop. Pressuring me and hurtling me forward because I was running from something I couldn’t escape: Manette passed away early this year after being locked in a three year deathmatch with cancer.

After my dazed walk through the burial arrangements, wake, funeral, interment, repast and countless tears, hugs and condolences, I was convinced that standing still and allowing myself to be dragged into despair was pathological. And so I pushed myself forward, orchestrating visits from family and friends to go through Manette’s belongings—shoes, clothing, jewelry, mementos, photographs—then ferrying to Goodwill with boxes of sweaters, dresses, shirts, pants and more shoes that no one had spoken for; boxing items for disposal on the biweekly household rubbish collection days at the New Jersey house; making lists of repairs and odds and ends to prepare the NJ house for sale, because it didn’t make any sense to be there anymore, and because every room was inhabited by a ghost—the same ghost; making plans and more plans of what to do to the Milford house to make it a full-time home—new split system air conditioners/heat pumps, a natural gas-fired generator with an ATC switch, a truly usable kitchen range and a non-weekend-house-sized refrigerator, and the fence for Styles.

The wall complete with fence.

Oh, that fence. Spending from May to November on it, getting shot down by the Architectural Review Board (my house is in the historic district) because aluminum fences didn’t exist in the 1840s, and then researching a period-conforming design, going back before the ARB for approval with a half-inch thick presentation packet showing my over-the-top knowledge of wrought iron and steel hoop-and-picket fence design, ordering the fence custom-made, grading and filling the yard prior to installation and coordinating on-site with the installer.

All of it on and on until it drove me even crazier than if I’d stood still and allowed despair to consume me.

I emerged from those three days of Zen-like focus building the wall able to step back and reflect on my situation in perspective. And it was the beginning of a shift.

I realized I wasn’t doing as well as I thought—I wasn’t doing well at all. In pushing—no, lurching—forward with my life I was blocking out the necessary grieving process. And after so many months of it I had reached a point that I didn’t recognize myself. Too much arguing with checkout people, too much honking and swearing at other drivers, too little sleep, too little exercise, too much alcohol, too little empathy, too much and too little of what wasn’t and was healing for me.

Focusing on the wall helped me focus on the reality of my situation, slowing me down so I could take it in. One step at a time, each in its own time, just like one rock at a time. One over two, two over one. Catching up with myself by slow-walking backward into what I’d been running away from. Experiencing the emotions I pushed away, seeing clearly the tragedy in my life as an event I must accept, learn and grow from to become whole again.

Grief is a non-linear process. It’s a roller coaster and I realize there is no way to avoid taking that ride. And I’m thankful that in a moment of clarity I reached out to the head of the bereavement programs at the hospital where Manette passed away. She recommended a seminar just before Thanksgiving about coping with the holidays. I’ve since been seeing her for one-on-one counseling and I’m doing much better.

Deciding to seek bereavement counseling was pivotal, but it wouldn’t have been possible but for my re-experiencing the forgotten art of building a stone wall. Since then I’ve found joy in the NJ house again, at peace with my memories of Manny in each of those familiar rooms. I’m losing weight, getting back in shape, visiting friends, smiling at the checkout people at Whole Foods, tipping the guys who pump my gas again. I’ve even picked up the skeleton of the novel I struggled with over the three years Manette and I both threw ourselves into trying to restore her health. I’m going to finish it, going to keep keeping on, however long it takes me to breathe into them bones a life I can be proud of. I’m slow-walking forward, one step, one stone at a time.

Manette Loudon (1960–2018)

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