If I had it to do all over again, I just might have chosen a career as a stone mason. I've done a few modest projects around the house—a dry stone wall here, sets of stone steps there—but when we finally decided it was time for a blue stone patio, it was a job that was, I realized, way beyond my humble abilities. Wisely, and, I have to admit, with a twinge of regret, we called in the pros, and this week, they're practically in residence. They're a joy and an education to watch, and one of their first tasks was to scour the woods for flat stones that could be used for steps. I led them to one gem I'd long admired but couldn't have possibly moved without heavy machinery, and when they saw it, they realized it was actually two steps. They knew exactly how to split it cleanly. I marveled as they drilled it, inserted small wedges, and then proceeded to persuade it, gently but firmly, to cleave. "You have to listen to the rock," I was told. The splits grew. The rock gave the word. Soon enough, we had a pair of fine, fine steps.