The southern wall took longer than planned.
From the main terrace, there is little to suggest why. The stone rises only to the height of a man’s waist, enough to mark the edge of the entrance and give someone a place to rest their hands while looking toward the creek.
From below, it is another matter.
The plateau falls sharply along the southern edge.
To establish the terrace, I needed a retaining wall substantial enough to hold back the ground behind it, with a foundation set well below what anyone standing above would ever see.
I laid out the first run in early autumn.
By the third day, I knew I had placed it wrong.
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The ground was less dependable than I had judged. Water had been working its way through the slope for years, carrying away the smaller material and leaving pockets beneath the stone.
I could have continued.
There was enough firm ground to persuade myself that the wall would stand, at least for a while.
But I had seen what happens when a retaining wall begins to move. The first signs are small. A joint opens. A course settles.
By the time the movement becomes obvious, the repair is considerably larger than the mistake that caused it.
So I pulled up the stones I had already set.
A day’s work returned to a pile beside the path.
I remember standing there with the level in my hand, looking at the empty line where the wall had been.
There was no one to blame.
I had chosen the location. I had measured the ground.
And I had been wrong.
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The second attempt required a deeper footing, a better route for the water, and more stone than I had planned to use.
Some days I worked alone. On others, I needed help moving the larger blocks into place.
There were mornings when the progress was almost impossible to see, and evenings when the tools went back into the truck without another course completed.
I learned to measure the work differently. Not by how much wall I could see at the end of the day.
But by how much of it I trusted to stay where I had put it.
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I have had to begin again elsewhere, too.
A decision made with incomplete information. An obligation that demanded more than my calendar allowed. A circumstance that refused to improve simply because I had waited long enough.
There were occasions when I pushed harder than I should have, and others when I waited for someone to tell me what to do, though the decision had already become mine.
I do not remember enjoying those times.
I do remember coming through them with a different understanding of what I could carry, what I needed help carrying, and what should never have been built in the first place.
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The southern wall has stood through several winters now.
Rain finds its way through the drainage behind it. The stone settles very little. From the terrace, the finished courses appear almost unremarkable.
That pleases me.
Earlier this morning, I rested my hands along the top and looked down toward the creek.
There is a section near the eastern end where the mortar is slightly darker. It marks the place where I began again.
I have considered cleaning it.
I won’t.
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This letter is now part of the Conservatory — those who find one often need another.