Monday, September 3, 2018

STONE HUT ( 13 ) ~





Helen Nearing



47


Something unique happened years after the first edition of On Stone was published and the book was floating along the edges of going out of print. A friend was in Maine and had access to some of the private library of author and homesteader Helen Nearing. This was on the coast of Maine, where Helen had gone after leaving years of homesteading in Vermont with her pioneer husband, the social and political activist Scott Nearing. Both Helen and Scott Nearing were stone builders. When On Stone appeared, I sent Helen Nearing a copy and in typical barter trade-off, she sent me back her book Our Home Made of Stone. Scott Nearing had now been dead almost ten years. She inscribed the book to me and also thanked me for the copy of On Stone. I had no idea until twenty years later, how extensively she read my book when my friend found Helen’s copy and sat himself down with the book and went through every page, jotting down by hand all of Helen’s notes and underlining she made in the book. About this book you are holding. The first forty chapters. Here are her notes.



“Dear BobI ran into HN’s (Helen Nearing) copy of “On Stone” and she underlined things — so for your archives”:

page 5 — “Otherwise, the hut is laid dry, the way I liked to work with stone.”

page 14 — “The big ones you tip the wheelbarrow on its side …to move,  carefully.”

page 18 —  

a) “A stonemason gets enjoyment looking at stonework, it’s in the blood.”
b) “stone for the right stone to fit that crack.”

c) “From looking for the stone…selecting another.”

page 18 — “After awhile it becomes a coordination…like nothing could.”

page 22 — “I was sitting in the car and he was about to follow …into the house that summer.”

page 26 — “Dirty yellow russets still grow on those trees.”

page 27 — “Since I’m not a purist and needed stone…I had to harvest stone.”

page 40 — “The hut is now a personality…and it will return the favor.”

page 50 — “…instead of a part-time labor of six months.”

pages 51-53 — HN has underlined THE ENTIRE PAGES from: “Books. …It keeps the appetite whet.”

page 56 — Helen’s “ ! ” next to: “light blue windows” (Scott Nearing and Helen Nearing used blue between the rafters in both stone houses, I’ve tracked this to Ernest Flagg’s Stone Houses, ed.)

page 57 — “In the woods I was taking from walls other men built.”





page 60 — 

a) “a third of that time was spent in the woods finding the stone to build.”

b) “loads of flat, wonderful stone, with at least two good faces on the stone.”

c) “It was boring to look at.”

d) “surprise of a flat stone, with even one good face, and save that for a corner stone in the hut, or a stone pad under the windows.”

page 61 — “the stone was spread on the ground…and basic stone being the largest pile.”

page 63 — 

a) “Maybe it is the work, but stonemasons seem an independent bunch. Most, like myself, work alone.”

b) “There is much picking up of stone…Work runs smooth.”

c) “I searched the places out and continued to return for longer looks, enjoying new detail in the work at every visit.”

page 64 — 

a) Helen’s “?” next to: “I won’t tell you where this happened.”

b) “Stone talking to stone.”

page 65 —

a) “I can wear gloves loading stone onto the Willys and then unloading, but often I have to feel the stone I am working with and gloves get in the way.”

b) “I used that broken stone and know right where it is in the hut, buried between the outer and inner walls.”

page 65 — “almost enough for one day”

page 69 — 

a) “The stone floor would be a special hunt of locating the best large stone, and very flat.”

b) “I would wait awhile for new stone to roll down…piling them on the shore.”

page 70 — “Flipping the stone down the hill to the Willys parked close to the hill…— they were rare enough.”

page 72 — “A chalkline”

page 80 — 

a) “More stone was quarried in France during this time than all of ancient Egypt.”

b) (Bob on Knut Hamsun) — “Knut Hamsun writes about the same thing in his own life…He wrote that it gave him the opportunity for his mind to think — write in his head  while becoming one with his hand.” (HN wrote “SN” next to this. Something she commonly did when a sentence illuminated Scott Nearing’s character, ed.)

page 81 — 

a) “If I go with stone, it will have to be padded with mortar…I don’t want to worry about a high stone tipping away and beaning them.”

b) “I decide on using stone and packing mortar behind the stone…then use the stone left over from the sidewalls piled away in one corner of the site.”

page 82 — “Eight years later has them looking out of stone.”

page 83  — “…laying stone against the boards from the outside.”

page 86 — “What he saw was a structure built for the ground, out of the ground. Naturally he understood.”

page 88 — “I waved to Scott who didn’t have to use the Willys. The tree gave us a cord-and-a-half of firewood…There is a photograph of Susan, with Carson in her lap, sitting up on it.”

page 89 — “…cut firewood for the following winter, order garden seeds, shovel lots of snow.”

page 94 — 

a) “It is now late September…Mortar the edges.”

b) “…I wheelbarrowed the two yards of gravel…as a pad for the stone.”

c) “I feel pretty secure. When the pond is dry you can see where the ledge pops up…  —  the old timers knew when to stop digging.”

pages 94-95 — 

a) “I spread and tamp the gravel inside the hut…level with my eye.”

b) “Every stone has a use.”

c) “butter it around all the edges”


page 96 — “battening whatever scrap lumber I had horizontally to the interior”

page 98 —

a) “A ladder had to be built to reach from the stone floor to the loft. I went into the wood lot…saved from the roof job and rounded the edges.”

b) “There would be no lock on the door.”

page 99 — “I hadn’t planned it that way.”

page 101 — “Susan terms ‘junk jobs’…digging an underground electric line…Like Carson I was willing to look only a few feet around me and enjoy it.”

page 102 — “Save the hardwood for the house. One other job was to flash the rear corners of the roof where it met ledge.”

page 102 — “Sweeping the stone floor was my gift to the hut at each visit. It was an exercise between us.”

page 107 —

a) “I wanted to hold my fork that way but my father wouldn’t let me. The soda bread mixed with egg yolk on the plate.”

b) “He bought a bicycle and like his Belfast days…all through the Berkshire Hills.”

pages 110-111 — “My father liquidated his lumber business in 1985. Given another three years…distinguishing a 10-common nail from a 12-common nail.”

page 112 — “I tucked a book in my lunchpail and when others broke for lunch I would listen to the chatter, eat, and read.”

page 116 — 

a) “The town of Carmel, California…the granite from the coastline to build his home.”

b) “made the Jeffers home…The house and tower are rock, not pretty,”

pages 116-117— 

a) “The Jeffers house is squa …Better known as Hawk Tower,”

b) “landscape where he carved out the life poem.”

c) “You need to have the ocean in your ears…the poems, the life were true.”




page 123 — “Firewood was cut with a bowsaw and all three bowsaws were kept sharp, clean, hung on a nail out of the weather.”

pages-123-124 — 

a) “Susan taught herself gardening and weaving. I taught myself treework and stonework.”

b) Helen’s “!” next to:  “a pair of chain saws and bowsaw.”

c) “I have never worked along aside a better worker than Susan, she has few complaints…and sometimes helping me lift a stone that weighs more than both of us.” (I think HN sees some of herself in this portrait, ed.)

d) “What is important to me is that we have done it together.”


Bob & Susan Arnold at
Saratoga Battleground, NY.
1990s
photo by Carson



some photographs by Susan, Carson & Bob Arnold


Stone Hut
a builder's notebook
Bob Arnold
1988, 2013






Saturday, September 1, 2018

TARA BERGIN ~





Composition for the Left Hand



Last night I met a trophy hunter

who admired my slender fingers —

he held my left hand up to the light

and praised the pretty white skin

on my palm and let me flare my fingers

out like the antlers of a stag — he took my wrist

and I didn't insist on a phone number —

I gave him mine,

even knowing what his game was.

I played it and all the time I knew

he'd want to claim some trophy or some prize.

He was a trophy hunter —

believe me, he had guns

in a glass cabinet like the one

my grandmother kept her champagne glasses in

(such rich families I've been involved in)

and he cleaned them regularly

with a long thin pipe

and a soft oily rag —

he was a paying hunter, you see,

the best in the company,

and he really didn't want me at all.

He only wanted some kind of trophy,

something pale and palmate

that he could hang on his wall

after the whole ugly thing was over.




————————

Tara Bergin
This is Yarrow
Carcanet Press 2013








Friday, August 31, 2018

MORRIS HIRSHFIELD ~





Beach Girl




Stage Girls with Angels




Girl with Pigeons




Garden Stand and Birds





Woman




Inseparable Friends




Tiger









Thursday, August 30, 2018

HOUSE OF TRUMP (AND THE OTHER GUY) ~





Here's the blueprint, read me

——————————————















PATRICK J SULLIVAN ~





The fourth dimension





A-hunting he would go






The first law of nature











Wednesday, August 29, 2018

REMEMBERING SAM CORNISH ~








Years ago now, I believe it was Sam Cornish
who I spoke to for a few moments
in a book warehouse in Newton, MA.
We somehow recognized one another
from a past life.

[ BA ]







JANET SOBEL ~













































Tuesday, August 28, 2018

CHICAGO ~







A song for all the FRNs (Fucking Railroad Nuts) of the world —
Waits takes us out of Chicago, body & soul, by train
and with David Hidalgo over his right shoulder
we must be heading west



TODAY ~






t w o ~

g e t h e r




—————————




44 years




Monday, August 27, 2018

STONE HUT ( 12 ) ~




A stone tower I like somewhere in the White Mountains, N.H.

43


One day, after being my dentist for thirty years, he said to me, “You need a crown, and I need a stone wall rebuilt at my house, can we work something out together?” I had always heard of this professional-barter set up from a few other friends. 

I had a poet friend who exchanged her books with her dentist for what he could do for her. I felt it made the most sense in the world for people who had very little money, but they knew a craft or had a talent to share where money could disappear. It’s a refreshing moment. I immediately felt this when I said, “Sure, we can work something out…what do you need for stone work?” And he told me. And afterwards when I had the crown work done because it took two or three sessions, while I was at the same time laying stone up at his house, I noticed how relaxed the dentist was at preparing the crown work in the same office where he was normally efficient and professional. He now seemed more at ease, one might say maybe too at ease, talking with his wife on the phone while shaping my crown when he got that first fit all wrong. Which only put a chuckle in my head since that’s how I worked on his stone wall — picking up one stone and knowing it wasn’t quite right and trying it anyway and then tossing the stone to the ground and trying another — that beautiful trial and error.


I even had a younger stone loving friend, Greg Joly, stop by one day while I was at work, way off in the countryside, up near one of the apple orchards where this dentist had a house tucked into the brow of a hill with towering shade trees and a comfortable home, and this friend worked with me while we visited for some hours and the stone wall I was mending, rebuilding, lengthening from scratch, built up steam. The dentist was home that day and he invited us both in for tea, and we sat in the man’s den where he had been housecleaning while his wife was off at her job as a school teacher. This dentist was now working only three days a week and was open to new pleasures: like helping out a stone builder and his dental crown, inviting into his house that worker and a complete stranger who’s just dropped by to be with the worker — a break in the day and why not have the two guys in. All the stonework got finished. The last time I saw the dentist at his office, I was there for a third session having the crown filed down into proper shape. Little tweaks and shavings. He wanted to make sure it was just right. He then asked me, “Are we all squared away between the stone wall and my work on the crown?” I thought for a second how the stone wall had reached from the furthest part of his yard up to his house and how I had pretty much run out of stone, even using what I could pull from an old foundation the dentist had on his property that he said was okay to go after. With my tongue I felt the crown and its smoothness. I smiled and said, “We are.”


Bob at work on the house chimney top, Mexican tiles in their temp frame


44


When I look at my stone tool pail of over forty-five years it’s barely changed at all — black metal old can holding stone chisels, star chisels, many-size trowels, pointing tools, hand brushes, measuring tape, old gloves. That’s it. Wait! don’t forget the two or three stone hammers. I keep my sledgehammers and pry bars and crowbars off to one side. Now two wheelbarrows. One handcart. That’s the extent of my hardware. I’ve been able to do what I had to do. The old Willys Jeep that pulled out most of the stone for the stone hut is now on the opposite corner of the yard from the hut, balancing that end with the hut like bookends, and it’s rusted into place while sinking into the ground. The tires are all rotted and flat. The back oak bed of planks is shot and collapsed. The frame is still painted the silver I painted it but it won’t ever work again. The cab doors both open with a yelp. The windows are shocked. The double-paned windshield is vintage and classic, and the floor of the cab that I rebuilt as a young man is tough as ever. The hood lifts to the engine and the works, a flathead six, but nothing’s turning over. It’s no longer a jeep. It’s structure, a monument, a companion, old glory. 



A sawmill I liked once upon a time in Newfoundland

45


I like to take my bicycle and bicycle around, and I like to take my bicycle when Susan takes her bicycle with me. I like this just as much as sitting in a rocking chair on a porch in the evening, or on the step stoop and listening to the day close up. Watch it and feel it. It’s all happening. And when we’re bicycling around I like to find other folks in their rocking chairs doing exactly what I also love to do. I can see they do, too, except there aren’t as many as there once were. A dying breed.

When I was a little boy, no more than five or six, there were two sisters who lived next door to my family, and one of them had hair that reached to the ground. I saw that hair reach to the ground one summer day when she was outside and had just washed her hair and she came outside to comb it and dry it, and it’s still the longest hair I have ever seen on anyone. I had already been strolling over in the evening to be with our wonderful neighbors who I had no idea, then, would later remind me of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, but that’s who they were. They had two grand rockers on their wide berth front porch that covered the entire front of the house, and the interior of the house was always with that old lady mauve and lace and shadows and cuckoo clock. I could often be found on the porch rocking with my friends, my feet never close to touching the floor, and they seemed to love whatever it was that came out of my mouth sharing with them the tiny exploits of my day. Where they got the third rocking chair I’ll never know but they got one, and it was for me or some other visitor. In a five year old’s mind it was my chair. 

I see houses that remind me of this house when I bicycle small towns in Vermont and Massachusetts with Susan. We lift our two bikes onto the back of the car or into the old pickup truck and just go. Old Deerfield is a wonderful place for this sort of thing. And usually where one sees someone rocking on a porch, most often always an elder, one also sees a tidy house. A house with trees and flowers and gardens. And around those flowers and gardens and leading many times to their place, it is stone. Walkways, borders, stone walls, pinnacles, totems, breaks to the eye, but it’s stone. The free stuff that can be found at a cost of knowing how to move its weight where someone wants it. The ones rocking and watching and listening know well just how to place the stone. They’ve had good practice.



Carson and Bob building an addition onto the house;
the new rafters are staggered working off the old original
house beams


46


There are two things about stonework — at least two things — but the two essential ones are your physical back and injury to it, and money. 

Now in my early 60s my back has had a lifetime of being grumpy, often shot to hell, one or two months in a row out of commission completely. A lot of the problem was not taking care of myself and just working all the time because I was of a young age and vigor where I could go on forever. Believe it or not, I still have the vigor and stamina and work many long days, but the body listens, as I say, and payback is hell, as someone has certainly already told you. I began yoga exercises far too late, but I did begin ten years ago and it has facilitated remarkably. I’m also steering away from stonework and jobs that make no sense for one man and his wheelbarrow to attempt, which doesn’t mean I’m not fearless — I am — but I’m hopefully not stupid. I’ll still move large rock out of the woodlot with a handcart or wheelbarrow, but instead of hauling all day and driving myself down, I’ll move two dozen large stones and tell the pile, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And I do. 

Money will help you now make these decisions. If you’ve made enough, you can do just enough. Because I come from two families with completely opposite histories and incomes: one was the big Irish friendly bunch from Belfast, Ireland; and the other was the New England business players, all in the lumber business, and the earlier family members were roughshod loggers and sawyers, but the later twentieth century members were money-driven building contractors or lumber suppliers, overseen by a lumber magnet, my grandfather, who worked the woods as a boy, but I only knew him in a long black coat with two different looking Cadillacs; and I guess he picked which one to drive depending on how he was feeling. One pure white, the other tail-finned, olive green.

Someone would make a big mistake if they thought I had anything to do with this supposed money bonanza, when in fact I had left home at eighteen and struck out for the Vermont woods wishing to make my living at the building trade. I didn’t see a dime from this family. Only recently I found out our grandfather had in fact left a sizeable financial trust to each of his grandchildren, equal amounts, that my father managed to usurp from one child after another, through poor financial management  and schemes. Some more removed grandchildren he ran this trust by were privy to his shenanigans, and I believe they got their share, but his own children were robbed. This doesn’t mean our father was a bad man, or an evil man, he was simply a businessman and businessmen often get into binds and fixes they can’t fix. They get cursed. I can only imagine what my two younger brothers did about their situation — our older sister died too young — while I’ve been in the Vermont woods getting a bad back, loving a long marriage, raising a child, building as well a bookshop and publishing business tiny as a fruit stand and just as sweet. It took believing in a dream, each other, gaining a step at a time at each opportunity, and learning to not push against the river, or the stone. They shape themselves, they shape one another. If at the age of sixty you told me what the kid, called “me,” at age twenty planned to do, I’d have to ask, “Is he nuts?” But good luck to him.


An old flat stone seat I built long ago that slipped off and I
liked how it looked and re-built stone around it




all photographs by Susan Arnold


Stone Hut
a builder's notebook
Bob Arnold
1988, 2013