thankfulness for stone
Since it is Thanksgiving tomorrow, it feels like time to reflect on family and our uncanny similarities. For a variety of reasons, the women in my family have a fondness and some might call it "obsession" with stone. I recently came across a lovely article in House & Garden magazine, titled "Skillful Salvage" featuring the amazing stonework of Lew French that made me a bit nostalgic.
I can remember as a little girl my grandmother used to point out these little stone houses we would pass on weekend drives through winding country roads. She always had this glimmer in her eye and a yearning to someday have a little stone cottage of her own, complete with a beautiful and overflowing garden of luscious roses, peonies and irises.
My mother's fondness leans far more towards obsession. I'm not really sure when or how it began, but one day she started "collecting" stones for her rock garden. One by one, she would bring them home and add to her pile. Soon, the rocks were more of an attraction than the flowers that surrounded them. The collection started to grow as she started making requests for people to bring her back a rock from their travels. I once brought her a stone I found in a creek bed driving through the Berkshires. Unfortunately, it never made it to the collection because believe it or not someone stole it off my front step. I guess it was a nicer rock than even I realized. She has since moved on to boulder size monoliths, and she likes to insist that I hop out of the car and grab these monsters when we drive past a freshly plowed potato field. I'd do it too, if I didn't think I would end up with a hernia.
Finally, my own interest is more archeological and architectural in nature. When I was a little girl my grandfather gave me two lumps that I at first thought were just rocks, but he explained to me that they were once pieces of wood that had petrified. These are still two of my most prized possessions, to this day; and there began my own connection with stone. Ever since, I have been moved by the longevity and historical relevance of stone itself. Where has it been, how old is it, who or what has touched it and was it something else before it became what it is today? One of the things I loved when I lived in New England was the plentitude of stone walls that are just everywhere. Some were built to mark the boundaries of property lines and some for modern day curb appeal, but all were and are built by hand with skillful thoughtfulness that isn't easily matched. To me stone is not cold. It is something warm and familiar, and it makes me think that nature's own architecture is quite frankly tops in my book.
I hope everyone has the opportunity to take the time this Thanksgiving to celebrate and be thankful for their own families.
I can remember as a little girl my grandmother used to point out these little stone houses we would pass on weekend drives through winding country roads. She always had this glimmer in her eye and a yearning to someday have a little stone cottage of her own, complete with a beautiful and overflowing garden of luscious roses, peonies and irises.
My mother's fondness leans far more towards obsession. I'm not really sure when or how it began, but one day she started "collecting" stones for her rock garden. One by one, she would bring them home and add to her pile. Soon, the rocks were more of an attraction than the flowers that surrounded them. The collection started to grow as she started making requests for people to bring her back a rock from their travels. I once brought her a stone I found in a creek bed driving through the Berkshires. Unfortunately, it never made it to the collection because believe it or not someone stole it off my front step. I guess it was a nicer rock than even I realized. She has since moved on to boulder size monoliths, and she likes to insist that I hop out of the car and grab these monsters when we drive past a freshly plowed potato field. I'd do it too, if I didn't think I would end up with a hernia.
Finally, my own interest is more archeological and architectural in nature. When I was a little girl my grandfather gave me two lumps that I at first thought were just rocks, but he explained to me that they were once pieces of wood that had petrified. These are still two of my most prized possessions, to this day; and there began my own connection with stone. Ever since, I have been moved by the longevity and historical relevance of stone itself. Where has it been, how old is it, who or what has touched it and was it something else before it became what it is today? One of the things I loved when I lived in New England was the plentitude of stone walls that are just everywhere. Some were built to mark the boundaries of property lines and some for modern day curb appeal, but all were and are built by hand with skillful thoughtfulness that isn't easily matched. To me stone is not cold. It is something warm and familiar, and it makes me think that nature's own architecture is quite frankly tops in my book.
I hope everyone has the opportunity to take the time this Thanksgiving to celebrate and be thankful for their own families.
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