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I was introduced to stone walling through the weekend activities of my father, an engineer, who did weekend stone work as ‘therapy.’ My job was to move the stone from the truck to wherever he was currently working. This was hot, heavy, dirty work which thrilled me not even a little. From my pile of rocks, he would work on his latest wall project as time was available. Not golf, not hunting, not biking or birdwatching, but wall building. For the record, I thought he was nuts at the time . . . yet, here I am.
Stark Weather Stone is my commitment to the time-honored craft of dry stone walling, employing proven techniques tested over several thousand years. My experiences as a professional musician and a registered architect inform all the stone work that I do. Gravity, friction, craft, and beauty walk hand in hand.
Interested in baseball, architecture, literature and music growing up, my undergraduate degree was in Music Performance with a minor in American Literature. I was fortunate to spend a few years as a Principal Horn player in three orchestras, building satisfying performances. Yet, this performance construction was very ephemeral . . . ‘You should have heard us last Friday; we were incredible!’
Seeking more permanent ‘performances,’ I attended the University of Pennsylvania, earning a Master of Architecture degree and subsequent professional registration. For several years I was a Director of Design for firms specializing in facilities for Colleges and Universities and worked on projects in 15 states. In addition, we provided design services for several K-12 International schools located in 21 countries and five continents. Buildings are permanent, but there are an awful lot of people involved in the course of a project.
The Stark Weather Stone
When I was young, my father and I spent a week together every summer in a Minnesota lake cabin. Coming from the parched plains of North Dakota, Minnesota seemed exotic: trees, lakes, streams, and hills! The direct drive was about five hours, but we always added considerably more time by stopping to check on work in progress (my father owned an engineering company) or to visit a site where there was a potential bid for work.
The trip to the lake was a direct line to the southwest, but one year we began by driving east and then north, arriving in a tiny, remote, prairie settlement known as Starkweather. It was a miserably hot, windy (noisy), dusty day and that dust inevitably found its way into your nose, mouth and eyes. I did not see another soul the entire time we were there. My ten-year-old mind was enjoying playing with the name of this stark hamlet . . . Stark Weather indeed. And if the weather is this stark in July, just imagine how stark it must be in February.
Following my father back to our car, I noticed a particularly singular stone in some tall grass. It was nearly round, about the size of a softball, and nearly white. I picked it up, quietly placed it under my seat, and we proceeded to the lake . . . finally!
My father did stone work on the weekends and friends had developed a habit of anonymously giving him wrapped stones as gifts. For the following Christmas, I wrapped my stone and placed it under our tree. He never did know that the stone was from me, and it finally was placed in a prominent position on a fireplace wall. An anonymous gift that would, to me, always be the Stark Weather Stone.