I met Jim Stone in the horse barn at Torwood Stables in the spring of 1983, where he handed down his position of caretaker to me. The job provided a farm house to live in, with free utilities as an incentive. At that time, Jim had been renovating an old house on his family’s farm to make it livable for his wife and children. 

While working at Torwood, my wife, Nancy, would often do the chores which allowed me to do small jobs on the side in hopes of going into business for myself. After two years there, new management fired me and gave my job to a relative. My wife, one-year-old daughter, Ruth, and I had little money and nowhere to go. 

Jim told us we could move into an old trailer located in a hilltop meadow on his property. If I paid for a new hot water heater, he would install it and my blossoming family could live there rent-free. We did so for over a year, during which time I picked up small jobs and helped Jim with improvements to his property. We worked well together and became good friends.

We started a business called Gardenscapes, and jobs magically appeared. We did some fine projects together, and built a stellar reputation. It was, physically, very demanding work, and after a few years, Jim, who was ten years older than me, in his mid-forties, decided to return to his former occupation as a mental health care provider.

Looking back, I realized Jim Stone had been my mental health care provider, or guardian angel—whatever you want to call it—since we met.

I had many more labor-intensive years ahead of me before I changed professions, too.

Jim retired and set up shop building and refurbishing wooden canoes, until he and his wife, Debbie, moved to California to be near their daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. When I heard of his passing in 2017, I isolated myself in my art room, closed the door, sat at my desk, and sobbed uncontrollably for a long while.

Thank you, James Calvin Stone. Thank you for everything.