THE STONE MASON

THE STONE MASON

The yard was a veritable English garden complete with stone pathways separating the garden's various sections, neatly defining each area in splendor. The lush green lawns peeked out from under fragrant heritage roses, some were more than one hundred years old. The roses grew in abundance, as did the peonies, dahlias, and hollyhocks.

 Dr. and Mrs. Olsen had been working on their garden since they had moved into the stately home six years ago. This summer’s project was an ambitious one, but necessary according to Mrs. Olsen’s directive. No English garden was complete without a dry stack stone wall offering its traditional ambiance to the already picturesque setting. Dr. Olsen was more than willing to oblige his bride of many years, no matter what the cost.

  Hector, the gardener, slash, handyman, slash, Jack-of-all-trades was accustomed to Mrs. Olsen’s dictates, and sometimes idiosyncratic requests and was therefore not surprised at his next commission. He was a little less than enthusiastic about the project than usual. He was getting on in life, fifty-seven years old as of last Wednesday, and each day he felt his body declining to do what he asked of it.  His back often ached, and his knees felt weak when he carried heavy objects. Then there were the other usual effects of aging. His arthritis was worse, though he refused to submit to the nagging pains. He wasn’t a complainer though, he had laboured his entire life and had the aches and scars to prove it too. Manual labour was a way of life for him and his people, there were generations of the Gonzalez family that had built, constructed, fetched, carried, and worked the land their entire lives, until another Gonzalez finally dug them a well-executed hole and laid them six feet under.

  Hector gave considerable thought to this project; he had built many a stone fence in the past, and at one point he had been a master mason, but that was when he was a well-muscled younger man. More strategy was needed to compensate for the lack of strength and the years that had crept up on him so slowly. Tending the extensive gardens on the Olsen’s property was becoming barely manageable but this new project would test his mettle. But Hector was a clever man in his own way, he knew the tricks of the trade and had access to wheelbarrows, hand carts, and makeshift ramps that were stored in the Olsen’s large shed.

Hector set out to work early one sunny morning armed with his tools,  stakes,  plum line, and levels. The stone fence wasn’t going to be especially high or wide but it would be fairly long. As most traditional dry stone walls were originally livestock fences they were taller than the wall that the Olsen’s required. This stone fence was primarily for decorative purposes. Harold knew from years of crafting stone walls that the base was the key element to the project. The stones had been delivered and sat on a myriad of wooden skids at the end of the Olsen’s accessory driveway.

He tediously prepared the ground, first digging up the grass between the plum lines with a blunt-nosed shovel and making sure the ground was level, then adding gravel and sand from the huge piles beside the skids.  He used a heavy tamper to pack the ground. Finally, the preparation work was done and he turned to the stacks of stone and shook his head in resignation. He grabbed his cart and headed towards the piled stone. There is no accounting for the oddities and idiosyncrasies of the rich and famous he thought. The lavish amount the Olsens spent annually on their garden alone would have sheltered, fed, and clothed his family for many months.

 Dr. Olsen had ordered too much stone, Hector’s practiced eye knew this and he thought about how he could use the extra stone in his own backyard and how maybe he could load some in the back of his old pickup truck and leave a little early each day. But Hector quickly dismissed this thought, he was an honest man who gave an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.

 He gave a hearty sigh and picked up his weathered cantine with his favourite tea in it. The  Mexican Yerba mate tea was still hot. Its slightly bitter taste was strong but his people had drunk this traditional tea for generations. Perhaps not from a cantine, traditionally it was drunk through a special straw called a bombilla from a gourd, but his way got the job done.  He knew the strong caffeine in it gave him increased energy, as the tea had a stimulating effect to help him get the job done. It also had the other benefits of lowering his blood sugar and cholesterol. His was often a demanding job, but he would not stoop to drinking spirits on his job of building the stone wall. The Yerba mate would do just fine.

      He set to work using the larger stones to build his base, knowing that stability in the fence was crucial so that the integrity of the fence would not be compromised. He buried a half course deep in the ground to give his wall a long and lasting future. Stone fences tended to sway with the seasons and the ground would freeze and thaw repeatedly over the years. Burying stone into the ground secured the wall and gave it stability. The base was always the most time-consuming part of the job. The stones were heavier, to give a good solid base for the other stones which would rest on top of them. Hector started to sweat profusely even though he used the hand cart to shift the stones from the skids to the location that he was working on. He used ramps to ease the stones into place on the higher levels; pushing the stones was only a little easier than lifting them into position.

His arm muscles had been strong from years of hard labour. He was proud of his “guns” as he called them. Prouder still that his wife Maria always took pleasure in his strength.  But age had taken a toll on his body and today his arms shook with his efforts. By mid-afternoon his back was aching and his knees felt like they were on fire every time he squatted to lay a stone. He kept at it though, he had to. His grandson Hector Gonzales, the third, was finishing high school this year. His grandson had brains, not like him, and not like his useless father, God rest his soul. Hector Jr. could make something of himself. He was quick and sure, smart as a whip, he could run circles around his grandfather when it came to numbers, science, or technology. He would make something of himself.  He could be anything he wanted to be, but he wanted to be a doctor. A doctor! Just imagine! Imagine one of the Gonzales family becoming a doctor. Hector was so proud and so he picked up the next stone and with a shuffling step placed it in line. He ignored his bruised and bloody knuckles. Each stone he placed was another day that Hector Junior could go to university. The next stone was one for the expensive medical books and medical equipment that Junior would need. The list went on just as the day wore on.

It was mid-morning on the next day that Hector heard a shout, and turning he saw Hector Jr. riding his bike along the accessory road.

“What are you doing here Junior? He asked, thinking of the long ride Hector Junior must have had to get to the Olson’s property.

“I came to see your stone wall,” he said surveying the work site. “It looks great Abuelo, you are doing a fantastic job, and the gardens look beautiful too. Muy hermoso. Bonito.”

It warmed Hector's heart when his grandson spoke Mexican Spanish to him. It touched him that his grandson complimented his garden and told him how beautiful it was. Maybe it wasn’t exactly his garden, but he was the one putting all the effort into the place so it felt like his. He loved it when he heard  the pride in Junior’s voice when he called him Abuelo … Grandfather.”

“Why are you not in school?” Hector stretched his back, rolling his shoulders back feeling the muscles tense and release. He picked up his canteen and took advantage of the short break in his work. The tea was only slightly warm but at least it was wet.

“It is a half day today. There is a P.A. meeting for the teachers in the afternoon so I came to help you, Papa. You looked so tired last night, and you almost fell asleep during dinner. I figured you could use an extra pair of hands.”

Hector picked up his grandson's soft hands and held them in his own calloused hands. “You have strong hands like your Abuelo, but as a future surgeon you are going to need strong hands that do not have calluses and cuts and scars, you must keep your hands safe.”

Junior smiled and reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of work gloves. “I knew you’d say that. That’s why I brought these.”  He slipped the gloves on and lifted a stone into place with ease.”

Hector closed his eyes and with a lump in his throat, he turned away slightly from his grandson as a single tear ran down his dusty cheek.