Crafting Wisdom in Stone Embracing Life's Lessons with Glenn Luse

A Journey of Mentorship and Masonry

In the grand saga of my existence, I've had the sheer fortune of crossing paths with a number of mentors who've left a lasting mark on my journey. It's funny, really, how you can look back and realize the profound discrepancy in the commitment levels of educators.

Back in the day, I strolled into this masonry Lab at the Pennsylvania College of Technology, even though I was on a completely different trajectory, studying the ins and outs of business and construction equipment. Now, I wasn't exactly a masonry aficionado, but that didn't deter me. I was limited to just hanging around a few classes, yet I decided to soak in whatever I could. But there was this one instructor, Glenn Luse, who took it up a notch. He wasn't settling for me being a fly on the wall; he insisted I pay close attention.

Glenn, he hailed from this lineage of masons that spanned generations, a real heritage thing. Fast forward a bit, and life threw me a wonderful opportunity that led me back to my old stomping grounds.

So, there I was, knee-deep in a mortarless stone loop project, shrouded by landscape students and Glenn's mason apprentices

We were crafting this thing I called "Tribute to Knowledge," a nod to my mother who was all about the teaching gig.

As we busted our tails working together, Glenn dropped some wisdom on me. He predicted that somewhere around the age of 40, I'd get a kick out of crafting stones and passing them to others, watching those pieces fit like a glove. Those words of his, they echoed a decade or more later while I chiseled away on stones out in Adams County, each clang of hammer meeting chisel singing a tune of years gone by.

You know what? He was onto something. The sands of time were shifting, and I was right there in the flow.

My respect for Luse, well, it's still intact. Not too long ago, he threw down an offer for me to jump in on some projects at his place. Caught my attention, for sure. Years of hard graft had taken their toll on his body, but he had these unfinished works all around his Williamsport home. It reminded me of tales about seasoned masons on castle and cathedral jobs, overseeing and instructing even when their own bodies were, shall we say, past their prime. Picture this old master dude, cane in hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he spun yarns about gigs from days gone by. And it hit me, that's my future right there. One day, that fall off the scaffolding might just come back to haunt me. Those broken fingers, the hip that's got a bone to pick with me, the countless pounds I've hoisted – they'll all demand their due. But I've cast my lot, nailed my fate to the rigging, and borrowing a page from Admiral Farragut's playbook, I'm crying, "Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!"

This is our gig, you see. I've crossed paths with my fair share of masons, but Luse, he's living and breathing the philosophy of the wise artisan like he's the poster child for it. It's not just about building fancy things or the siren call of Mike Rowe's make money banter. It's the full spectrum of wisdom and life, all bundled up. Whenever we gather around, me, Glenn, and the rest of the crew, there's this camaraderie that's hard to put into words. We're delving into the deep stuff, diving into theology and lessons that life has dished out.

There's this unspoken connection, a shared thread that binds us. Glenn shared this tale about working on some stonework at a church. And he looked at me, eyes twinkling like he was reliving it, and said, "This, this is what I was put on this Earth to do." And you know what? I got it. Right down to my bones, I got it.

It's the passing of tools, it's the passing of knowledge and as in stone, all things can have a use. But it's our thing. Ages after we're gone, after the Ikea chair hit the dumpster, long past the fads remodeling or that cool shag carpet has been regulated to the compost bin, our structures will speak for us. The timber framed barns, the stone houses, the slate roofs and copper gutters on the church, all say, “we were here and we shall not grow old”.