By Winthrop

Nothing says New England quite like the miles of stone walls that criss cross fields and woods and line the roads of almost every town and hamlet in the region. These centuries old testimonials to the commitment to the land our forebears made are unmistakable with their patina of age and verdigris of lichen bestowed by exposure to countless seasons that mock the attempts by modern wall builders to match their timeless beauty with pallid stones fresh from the earth.

Many the observer wonders why these walls meander up and down woodlands ignorant of the fact that at one time forests were clear cut to the horizon by the original owners who hoped to till the soil once the lumber was sold off. Stumps were pulled up and the ubiquitous glacially deposited rocks were hauled and stacked to form borders or delineate pastures. The poor and scanty topsoil proved no match for the rich and loamy prairies to the west as they opened up and attracted aspiring farmers. Untended fields gradually reverted to woodland with the intricate tracery of the walls seemingly impossibly weaving through them.

While there is no denying the artistry and craft of a talented mason in creating a symmetrically perfect structure with geometrically even plane surfaces, the rustic stone wall with its haphazard design and meandering course possesses an unmatched charm that evokes time out of mind. Blessed with such a wall in my own back yard, I often find it a source of meditation as I consider its builder’s struggle with the land that I now occupy in relative peace and comfort. As I consider the brute strength and hundreds of man-hours expended, I wonder if it was a solo effort by the farmer or if he was aided by wife and children or maybe hired help. I wonder also what other challenges he faced; possibly fighting for our independence or staring down drought and pestilence.

Robert Frost famously observed that “Something there is that does not love a wall,” and cites examples of frost heaves toppling stones and hunters making room for their dogs to roam. He speaks of his neighbor with whom he is mending these walls, who maintains, “Good fences make good neighbors,” but does not offer any reason other than this is what his father said.

Over fifty years ago, with my next-door neighbor, we restored an old stone wall that lined the street in front of our spanking brand-new houses. The work was backbreaking, and my neighbor egged me on long after I was ready to quit. In mending a wall there is a joining of spirit with our ancestors connecting us over the years in a common effort to maintain an artifact that says, “I was here, I did this!” long after we are gone. Occasionally I find myself driving by that property from which I am long departed, and say, “I was there, I did that!”