We are building a stone wall along the back of our yard, using found stones. Not the unneighborly wall of Frost’s poem -- we are walling nothing in, or out -- but a low line visually separating our landscaping from the meadow and saplings of the property to our north. We have read that such a wall will attract critters to the yard: Snakes will sense the heat of the sun-soaked stones; rodents will discover the possibilities for caching provisions. Perhaps a coyote will patrol for prey. Besides, it will look nice.
We had always wanted a home bordering a spot of local wilderness. So when we bought our house and its acre plot, it was for the long backyard abutting county forest preserve. Set aside for permanent protection, the preserve would never become a subdivision. We wanted our yard to be an extension of that protected public land. But at first, it was mostly lawn. We gradually replaced turf with native plants, reducing the lawn to pathways and a modest central patch. That work completed, our attention returned to our northern border, and the notion of a stone wall took form.
So these days I find myself drawn to stones, in the way that I am drawn to the rest of the natural world. At the same time, I am drawn back into my childhood, reliving the pleasure of finding secret spots for harvesting my specimens. In those days, I collected small stones, chosen for their beauty or their potential to reveal their mineral identity under scrutiny of my testing kit. Today we search for bigger stones for a different reason, but the feelings are the same.
My penchant for secluded collecting remains. I am most content and at ease when we are sheltered from the likelihood of being observed. We skip the construction sites with their newly dug rocks piled beside earthmovers. Likewise, we pass up the tantalizing stones strewn along busy roadways. A favorite spot is a dense thicket adjoining a trail we had walked often before noticing the nearby treasure. The stones that were dropped there over a century ago, when the adjacent fields were cleared for farming, have long since settled in and been surrounded by scraggly growth.
As the two of us go about our work, I concentrate on the search and discovery, and let the hauling and loading wait. Often the rocks are partially buried, so I don’t know immediately what I’m excavating. I claw away at a promising one, only to find that it’s impossibly big or impossibly entrenched. The flat stones, being especially useful, are highly valued. A red one is good, too, just for its rarity. My joy at discovering a particularly pleasing stone startles me: digging it out and presenting it, I’m as proud as if it were my own creation. We sometimes must force ourselves to stop, to not pick up another single stone. The weight in the car would be too much.
Home, then, with our fresh load of stones. There is pleasure in the close work of construction. We are learning to see where a rounded stone is needed, or where only a sharply angled one will do. We feel the satisfaction of chinking them together when we know we've got it right. The stones hold each other in place, binding fast as surely as if they’d been glued. There is satisfaction, too, in viewing the day’s work from a distance. Looking down from my study window, I see a ribbon of stones winding from the shed, between the hammock trees, and on toward the river. They glow brightly in the low evening light or smolder in the shadows. Our stone wall is coming along.
Copyright 2009. Sherry Stratton. All rights reserved.