The Stonecutter: How the Word Became Flesh

By Delores Haltom

Celibeth Jones wore a mans heavy denim jacket, coveralls, and a pair of scuffed brogans. Thick, gray hair straggled from beneath a tattered stocking cap. She walked briskly, resolutely, looking neither to the right nor to the left; her bushy, black eyebrows were knitted together in a permanent scowl.

Is she angry about something? Henon asked.

Oh, yeah, Otis answered.

I was hoping to have friendly neighbors. Henon stared unabashedly as the elderly woman passed the barbershop window. Celibeth glared back at him. Wow! If looks could kill, Id be dead. Shes positively intimidating.

You better be intimidated, Otis said grimly. She killed her husband.

Otis! Hezekiah threw the newspaper down on the floor.

And got away with it, Parker chimed in.

Hezekiah slammed the door on his way out of the shop.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449720131

Delores Haltom

Delores J. Haltom, seventy-two, is a world traveler who studied extensively in the Holy Land. She has been a life-long member of the Nazarene Church in Indiana, where she served as a Sunday School teacher. This is her first book.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

INTRODUCTION

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When God began to create, the earth was dark and covered with water and the dynamis—the mighty Spirit of God—brooded over the surface of the water. God spoke, the Spirit moved, and the waters below heaven were gathered into one place so that dry land could appear. The Spirit brought forth dry land from out of the midst of the waters. And God saw that it was good.

God spoke again and commanded that the expanse of the dry land be used to separate the expanse of the waters. The all-powerful Spirit moved again; volcanoes erupted in the deep and islands were formed. The Spirit pushed back the waters and gigantic plates began moving, grinding, buckling, and faulting, and continents came into being. And God saw that it was good.

Three hundred million years ago, during the cataclysmic time that people have called the Mississippian geological epoch, the Spirit of God created a particular wonder in the vast, shallow sea covering what is now known as the American Midwest. The Spirit caused the sea to teem with a variety of minute crustaceans that died, sank, and piled up on the seabed in a thick, even deposit. Then the Spirit caused the shells of these creatures to be broken, crushed, and ground by the gentle action of the currents. Compaction and cementation occurred and calcium carbonate formed. The result was limestone, Indiana limestone, 98 percent pure calcium carbonate—the supreme material for building.

That massive deposit of limestone in Indiana is fifteen miles wide and stretches over a hundred miles across the southern part of the state. It is the largest, most accessible deposit of premium building stone in the United States and one of the largest in the world. The heart of Stone Country, where quarrying is heaviest, lies in the short twenty miles between the cities of Bloomington and Bedford. This outcropping of stone was formed beneath a serene, tropical sea. Its very name, Salem, means peace.

Indiana limestone usually lies only five to twenty feet beneath the surface. It has never been up-tilted by the volcanic action the Spirit used in other locales. Salem limestone was formed by gentle tides and constant pressures in a warm sea, and lies almost horizontal, tilting less than one degree off a perfectly level plane. This means the quarry master can begin operations on level ground and can literally cut the stone on which he’s standing. It also makes the stone perfect for cutting into giant blocks for transport to building locations. The size of the blocks is limited only by handling capabilities and highway weight laws.

In past years, Salem limestone from Indiana dominated the limestone building market. No state shipped more building material across the country than Indiana. Because it is freestone, Indiana limestone has also been exported all over the world as raw material for carved pieces. Masons value stone because it has no preferential direction of splitting, so it can be cut and carved into any shape.

Nearly 80 percent of the nation’s limestone is quarried in Indiana. About 2.7 million cubic tons (1CT=16ft3) are taken from nine Indiana quarries each year. At that rate, Indiana has enough limestone to last about 600 years.

Indiana limestone was used on the Tribune Tower in Chicago, the Mellon Institute in Pittsburgh, the Indiana State Capitol in Indianapolis and twenty-seven other state capitols. The U.S. Military Academy at West Point, New York, is trimmed in thousands of feet of Indiana limestone. Nearly every college and university in the U.S. has buildings of Indiana limestone. Buildings such as the Washington Cathedral, the Pentagon, the Biltmore in Asheville, North Carolina, and the Empire State Building have made Indiana limestone legendary.

More recently, Indiana Limestone Fabricators prepared and shipped 11,000 pieces, or 93,000 square feet of stone panels to New York for the new Yankee Stadium. The limestone came from Empire Quarry in Oolitic, just a few hundred yards from where stone was quarried for the Empire State Building in 1931.

God accomplished all this by His Word. God created stone by His Word and by His Spirit. Then He used it to achieve His purposes. God spoke, the Spirit made it so, and God said it was good.

CHAPTER ONE

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Summer had been long and hot. Warm weather came early and stayed around until late November. Combines began rolling through town about three weeks earlier than usual and hunters continued coming in for haircuts and shaves until almost December.

Otis loved it. Yes sir, I’ve made a mint this year.

Sure, Otis, you’re the richest barber in town, Winston teased.

Whaddya mean? I’m the only barber in town. He stopped cutting Parker’s hair. Moving my shop out here on Main Street was the smartest thing I ever did. Rent’s higher, but I picked up a considerable amount of drop-in traffic. Adds up at the end of the day, I tell you.

I guess we’d have to go clear to Bloomington to find a richer barber, Winston crowed. The men sitting around the small room laughed with Winston.

Okay, make fun. All I’m saying is I’ve made a pot of money this year. Otis pointed his clippers toward the plate glass window in the front of the shop. And here comes more money now.

A young man swung the door open wide. His short, stocky frame filled the doorway. Any chance of getting a haircut this morning?

Come on in, stranger. Meet the richest barber in town, Winston hollered. He just wouldn’t let go of his merriment.

I’ll get to you if you’re not in any hurry, Otis said to the young man. Then he glared at Winston before he went back to cutting Parker’s hair.

Sounds good to me. The stranger stepped inside and dropped into the chair beside Winston. I just moved here a few weeks ago. Haven’t taken time to get a haircut.

You look kinda shaggy, Otis opined. Need to get your hair cut more often. Appearances make a difference, you know.

Ignore him, stranger. Rich barbers tend to be pushy, Winston said as he crossed his legs, seeking a more comfortable position on the oak chair lined up by the table of dog-eared magazines. I’m Winston C. Sommers, publisher of our little weekly newspaper. Peering at the young man through thick glasses, he held out his hand.

Glad to meet you. I’m Henon Hawkens. The stranger grabbed his hand and shook it enthusiastically. I have to ask … that C stand for Churchill?

You know it. Winston chuckled, then gestured around the room as he spoke. The rich barber is Otis Stultz and that fella getting a haircut is Parker Prescott, our former sheriff. The uncommunicative grouch in the corner is Hezekiah Withers, our genteel farmer.

Henon nodded in their direction. Glad to meet everyone, he said.

And what am I, gentlemen, chopped liver?

All eyes turned to the opposite corner of the room where a lanky young woman perched cross-legged atop a high stool. Her shaggy, red hair caught the morning sun and she looked at Henon with enormous brown eyes that held more than a hint of mischief.

Sorry, J.L., but you’ve been so quiet I kinda forgot you were there. Winston grinned as he spoke. Then, with a flourish of his hand, And this is J.L. Carter, the sharpest, brightest, wittiest editor I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. She’s a beautiful ray of sunshine. She’s—.

Too late for flattery, you’ve hurt my feelings, she interrupted. But of course, everything you said is true. She chuckled softly.

Winston turned his attention back to Henon. You must be the man who bought the old Marsten place.

Henon pointed out the window. I bought the farm up on the side of that big hill.

The old Marsten place, Winston reiterated. You certainly have your work cut out for you if you intend to live there. Place has been let go for years.

It’s pretty run down, Henon agreed amiably, but I bought it for the view. After I clear a few trees, I’ll be able to see the whole town from up there. If that big, brick mansion wasn’t situated in front of me I could see all the way down to White River.

That’s the old Hayden House. Say, you’re the only person I ever heard call six acres a farm. Where you from?

New York.

That figures. Big-city man. What’s your name again?

Henon Hawkens.

What kind of name is Henon?

Hezekiah Withers peered over the top of his newspaper.

I don’t know. I never met anyone else with the same name.

Well, I sure never heard it before. Did you, Hezekiah?

Hezekiah grunted and snapped his newspaper.

Hezekiah’s a man of few words. Likes to appear mysterious, Winston whispered theatrically.

I’ve heard the name, J.L. said thoughtfully. There was a famous French astronomer with the last name of Henon. He studied orbits, galaxies, fascinating stuff, but way beyond my grasp of physics. Seemed like he was trying to chart chaos.

Didn’t I tell you she’s sharp? Winston bragged.

How can anyone chart chaos? Parker asked.

If I try to explain I’ll only garble the information. I do recall something about a chaotic attractor….

Oh, well, that explains everything! Parker snorted.

Told you I didn’t understand it, J.L. replied defensively. Then she turned to Henon and flashed a brilliant smile. Anyway, You have a great name to live up to, Henon. If you’re anything like that Frenchman you should be an interesting addition to our town.

Henon considered the way she had deftly turned the conversation from ridicule into a compliment for him and decided that he liked J.L. Carter.

The back door of the barbershop slammed and a middle-aged man in a torn black sweatshirt and an old pair of camouflage fatigues sidled into the room. The big pockets on his pants overflowed with an odd assortment of trash retrieved from the streets. His hands were black with grime. He looked like a homeless person except his hair was freshly cut and his beard was neatly trimmed.

Hey, here’s my man! Otis called. How you doing today, Strings?

Strings kept his head down and ignored the roomful of men. He pulled a broom and metal dustpan from the closet and started sweeping wildly. His short, furious strokes sent hair clippings flying in all directions.

Whoa, Strings! You’re getting us all covered with hair. Otis grabbed the broom and demonstrated the correct way to sweep. Gently, like this. Remember how we practiced?

Strings reacted like he had been struck. He crouched over in a defensive stance and made unintelligible, mewling noises.

Now you’ve done it, Winston said. You’ve hurt his feelings.

You’re okay, Strings, Otis murmured soothingly. You’re a good man. Just take it a little easier. Okay, my good man?

Otis held the broom out and Strings sidled in his direction, but he refused to accept the broom. He ignored a gum wrapper that had fallen from one of his pockets as he stood in front of Otis rocking back and forth and staring at the ceiling.

He’s not going to make up with you, Parker warned.

Sure he is; watch this. Otis grabbed something out of Strings’ front pocket and held it aloft. McDonald’s golden arches gleamed on the wrapper.

Strings stopped cowering and went for the half-eaten hamburger. He snatched the package from Otis and crammed it deep inside his pocket again. Then he accepted the broom and dustpan and began sweeping methodically, his forehead furrowed as he concentrated on each stroke.

Very good man, Otis murmured.

You shouldn’t tease Strings like that, J.L. complained.

Strings had not shown recognition for any of the men in the room, but when he heard J.L.’s voice he looked directly at her, and for one fleeting second a gentle smile suffused his face. Then he turned back to the sweeping.

Winston saw the puzzled look on Henon’s face and tried to explain. We think Strings is autistic.

"You think he’s autistic? Hasn’t he been diagnosed?"

Naw. Otis shook his head. Strings never got much medical attention. We always knew something was wrong, but Strings’ parents were old and back then we didn’t know much about autism. Just as well, I guess. I understand there’s no treatment.

When Doc Jones was alive he tried to treat Strings, Winston offered.

That’s right, he did, Otis agreed. I had forgotten that. My memory’s not what it used to be anymore, but Doc did try to help Strings. That was a long time ago. Forty years, Winston?

There about. Doc was a saint.

Best thing ever happened to this town, said Parker. I never understood why Strings hated Doc so much. He used to go into gibbering fits every time Doc drove through town. Oh, well. Guess that shows how unreasonable the mentally disabled can be.

He’s not disabled, Otis said brusquely. Matter of fact, I did some reading up on his ailment and from what I can glean his brain functions higher than yours or mine. That’s the problem. We see this room as a whole, and he’s unable to do that. His brain sees everything in this room as a separate entity and it has to try to process all that information. Must be overwhelming.

Is Strings homeless? Henon inquired.

Otis bristled. Absolutely not! Everyone in town cares for Strings. Much as he’ll let us, that is. He won’t stay in any one place very long. Moves around a lot.

Oh?

Only from house to house, Winston explained. He never leaves town. I suppose if he lived in a big city like New York a guardian would have been appointed and he’d be locked away in some institution. Here he’s allowed to roam free and the town folk look after him. They see he’s fed and clothed and has a place to come in out of the weather when he’s a mind to. Otis here keeps a room open in back for him, but he pretty much comes and goes as he pleases.

He surely does. Hezekiah finally spoke. Why, I’ve even seen him prowling around the quarry holes at night. He must have cat eyes. I don’t know how he keeps from falling in and drowning.

Behold, the Sphinx speaks! Winston bellowed jovially. Then, in a more serious tone, Hezekiah ’coon hunts so he’s out ’till all hours of the night, too.

"Used to hunt, Hezekiah corrected. I’m too old and my eyesight’s too bad to go running through the woods at night anymore."

Strings bent over and pushed his sweepings into the metal dustpan.

Strings does all right by himself. Otis reached out to tousle Strings’ gray-streaked hair, but Strings deftly avoided his hand. He hates to be touched and he rarely communicates with anyone, but he understands more than he lets on. He seems to take to J.L., and did you notice how he responded when I called him a good man?

Otis also cuts his hair and trims his beard, Winston said. I don’t know how he does it.

Quickly as possible, Otis muttered.

Henon lifted his feet to allow Strings to sweep under his chair. How did he come to be named Strings?

Oh, that. Otis pointed to Strings trousers. See that metal can in his hip pocket? That’s full of deep-fried string potatoes. Owner of the local grocery lets him swipe a can from the shelf anytime he wants. Writes it off to charity.

That’s generous of him.

Like I said, we all look out for Strings. Just don’t never try to get that can of potatoes out of his hip pocket, ‘cause he’ll fight you for ‘em.

That’s right, Winston agreed. If you’re going to live around here, don’t ever try to take anything from Strings pockets.

Not to change the subject, but what about you? Parker asked. What kind of work did you do in New York?

I specialized in building churches mostly. I laid stone, sculpted marble statues—

Parker jerked his head up. What’s a marble sculptor from New York doing way out here in the sticks?

Hold still! Otis pushed Parker’s head back down and continued shaving the hair off the back of his neck. You retired more’n ten years ago; why do you still interrogate every new person comes to town?

Winston frowned at Henon. Big city man could get real bored in this town. Nothing much happens. I struggle to scratch up enough news to print a weekly paper.

Well, that’s just what I’m looking for— a nice, quiet place to carve limestone. All the old stone towns are here; Bloomington, Bedford, Brazil, and Stinesville. I believe this is where I need to be. Henon held his hands out, palms upturned, and the men stared at them. His fingers were deeply callused and his wrists were wide and thick. The veins in his forearms bulged. Susie had loved his hands. She had often caressed them and marveled aloud that hands so powerful could be so gentle when they touched her. Remembrance brought pain, and Henon rubbed his hands together as though he could stop the empty ache in them. I want to switch from sculpting marble to carving stone.

Oh? Otis threw him a quick glance.

Yeah. I’ve done just enough stone carving to know I love the medium. Marble is confining, but limestone frees my imagination. The most important thing for me as a carver is to be able to ‘see’ the completed work before I make that first cut, and marble dictates what I can see and how I can use a particular piece. Limestone, on the other hand, is a blank canvass. It’s totally free to accept the carver’s personality. I can dominate limestone, impose my own vision on it, if you catch my meaning.

Dominate limestone? Winston echoed. He scratched his head.

Absolutely! Henon continued enthusiastically. I’m really eager to get started. I have dozens of tools given to me by other carvers so they’re tempered right for limestone. All I need is a rifler to add texture and warmth to skin areas and I’m in business.

The men grinned at each other. No one said anything for a while. Then Otis spoke up. I don’t know why you want to switch. Marble sculptors get more respect. They’re perceived as being classier somehow.

You got that right! Parker snorted. Most sculptors think they’re gods.

"Which can’t be true, because carvers know they’re gods," Winston finished the cliché and all the men laughed except Strings and Henon. Henon passed over the bait and kept silent.

It just seems to me that carving limestone would be a comedown from sculpting marble, Otis said. You sure about making this switch?

I surely am, Henon replied softly. "Look here, I’m not exactly a greenhorn. I come from a long line of sculptors in New York. I can look at a block of stone and tell you where the cracks are and know exactly where to set my points. I intend to live in this town and carve my hopes and dreams and preserve them for future