as studying for an exam. In one of these, in a section concerning gravestone symbolism, Con made a discovery that caused his stomach to lurch.
“Children’s graves,” he said, his tone semi-accusing as he glanced up. “That’s what the books says the lamb carving is used for—infants mostly.”
The mason was quiet, contemplating the slab of stone in front of him. After a moment, he said, “Could be right. No way to know for sure, without the proper dates and all.”
Con was stunned, staring at the manual with a sense of regret stronger than the moment he first shattered the monument. With a sigh, his instructor placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t matter whose it was, son,” he urged gently. “Not so long as we do our best to honor them with a new marker.”
Words that weighed heavy on his conscience as he began to practice shaping the stone, soaking it down with a spray bottle to search for cracks and fissures and then taking his first tentative ping! ping! with the chisel and mallet. It was difficult with only the air-powered hammer to aid him, modern machinery and lasers being foreign objects to Sawyer’s shop. He was too eager with the mallet as well, his chisel digging deep and leaving blemishes that made his instructor shake his head with disapproval.
“Remember, you’re making art, not pounding nails,” Sawyer told him as they used a file to smooth the flaws away.
“When did you learn to carve?” he asked the older man, thinking some allowance might be made for both age and inexperience.
“About your age, I guess. My dad and granddad were both in the trade, and it just seemed natural I carry on the tradition. Looks like it’ll stop with me, though.” The carver rarely mentioned family, though it was common knowledge that he was a widower. No children were referenced, only nephews and nieces. He still wore a wedding band. His wife’s picture remained in the leather wallet he sometimes pulled bills from to send Con for supplies at the hardware store. He showed Con her headstone when they began to reset some of the repaired markers at the cemetery.
A simple dove in flight was etched into the marble, the epitaph reading, ‘ Long did she suffer in sickness on earth; now her gentle soul rises to meet the Redeemer.’
“Cancer,” he explained, one hand resting against the stone. “Harriet weren’t the kind to complain, though. Just not in her nature.” Those were his only words on the subject, undoubtedly a painful one. Instead, he talked about his boyhood in North Dakota, of his first time to carve a tombstone on his own. “Didn’t know the fella it was for,” he admitted as they packed gravel around the newly entrenched stone. “But I heard he wasn’t a Christian and felt a sadness for it. Carving the lost soul’s monument is a different matter altogether from carving the believer’s.”
Con knew nothing about the owner of the lamb stone, other than the symbolism listed in the book. Frustrating at first, the project began to consume his thoughts until he found himself sketching or making notes on it even when he wasn’t at the workshop. For someone who slept through art class, it was suddenly his chief interest, and he even stopped caring that Marcus’s group had abandoned him after that night in the cemetery.
His fingers grew slowly attuned to the craft as if he were learning to play an instrument. Chisel and mallet traced the ridges and curves in the stone like a bow running over violin strings. He felt as if the tools were an extension of himself, shaping his thoughts into reality on the blank canvas of the stone.
“Not bad, Taggart,” the carver told him, examining the lamb’s raised outline, the letters engraved boldly below.
Con thought he detected a stronger emotion beneath the concession, something akin to the pride of a teacher reviewing his pupil’s progress.
When he had polished and sealed it, they set its foundation among the other rows in the burial
“Children’s graves,” he said, his tone semi-accusing as he glanced up. “That’s what the books says the lamb carving is used for—infants mostly.”
The mason was quiet, contemplating the slab of stone in front of him. After a moment, he said, “Could be right. No way to know for sure, without the proper dates and all.”
Con was stunned, staring at the manual with a sense of regret stronger than the moment he first shattered the monument. With a sigh, his instructor placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t matter whose it was, son,” he urged gently. “Not so long as we do our best to honor them with a new marker.”
Words that weighed heavy on his conscience as he began to practice shaping the stone, soaking it down with a spray bottle to search for cracks and fissures and then taking his first tentative ping! ping! with the chisel and mallet. It was difficult with only the air-powered hammer to aid him, modern machinery and lasers being foreign objects to Sawyer’s shop. He was too eager with the mallet as well, his chisel digging deep and leaving blemishes that made his instructor shake his head with disapproval.
“Remember, you’re making art, not pounding nails,” Sawyer told him as they used a file to smooth the flaws away.
“When did you learn to carve?” he asked the older man, thinking some allowance might be made for both age and inexperience.
“About your age, I guess. My dad and granddad were both in the trade, and it just seemed natural I carry on the tradition. Looks like it’ll stop with me, though.” The carver rarely mentioned family, though it was common knowledge that he was a widower. No children were referenced, only nephews and nieces. He still wore a wedding band. His wife’s picture remained in the leather wallet he sometimes pulled bills from to send Con for supplies at the hardware store. He showed Con her headstone when they began to reset some of the repaired markers at the cemetery.
A simple dove in flight was etched into the marble, the epitaph reading, ‘ Long did she suffer in sickness on earth; now her gentle soul rises to meet the Redeemer.’
“Cancer,” he explained, one hand resting against the stone. “Harriet weren’t the kind to complain, though. Just not in her nature.” Those were his only words on the subject, undoubtedly a painful one. Instead, he talked about his boyhood in North Dakota, of his first time to carve a tombstone on his own. “Didn’t know the fella it was for,” he admitted as they packed gravel around the newly entrenched stone. “But I heard he wasn’t a Christian and felt a sadness for it. Carving the lost soul’s monument is a different matter altogether from carving the believer’s.”
Con knew nothing about the owner of the lamb stone, other than the symbolism listed in the book. Frustrating at first, the project began to consume his thoughts until he found himself sketching or making notes on it even when he wasn’t at the workshop. For someone who slept through art class, it was suddenly his chief interest, and he even stopped caring that Marcus’s group had abandoned him after that night in the cemetery.
His fingers grew slowly attuned to the craft as if he were learning to play an instrument. Chisel and mallet traced the ridges and curves in the stone like a bow running over violin strings. He felt as if the tools were an extension of himself, shaping his thoughts into reality on the blank canvas of the stone.
“Not bad, Taggart,” the carver told him, examining the lamb’s raised outline, the letters engraved boldly below.
Con thought he detected a stronger emotion beneath the concession, something akin to the pride of a teacher reviewing his pupil’s progress.
When he had polished and sealed it, they set its foundation among the other rows in the burial
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