FABLE Poem: Stacy Jones Was Made of Stone, by Cole Wojciechowski-Hardman

Stacy Jones was made of stone.
And, of course, she didn’t know.
Her father lived in Dogwood Holler
in a trailer, all alone.

He worked down at the Cutter Mill
slicing rocks and turning drills
and pennies pay is what he earned
for all his strength and skill.

He couldn’t complain, all the same.
He knew how to mind his place.
He kept to himself and kept to work,
and he knew the rocks by name,

so you could say he was getting by.
He had what he needed to survive,
a bit of land and food and drink,
but he could never lie,

and if you asked him what he missed
he’d say a baby he could kiss
and hug and love until he died—
yes, then he’d be blessed.

You see, he had a little problem,
no girl could ever really love him
since he was worth less than the dirt,
and he could not support them.

So one night when he worked real late
he grabbed his hammer, chisel, and blade
and hammered at the rock ‘til dawn
down by the quarry lake.

Maybe it was the way the moon
sparkled like the sun at noon
dancing on the little waves
the lake made as it swooned,

or maybe that the stone he carved
was cut right from the quarry’s heart
and longed to move and sing and live
and so her stone lips parted.

The first cry tiny Stacy sighed
was like the crack of rocks on ice,
and you could tell by how he yelled
that her father was surprised.

But, oh! He loved his daughter so
from that first dusty breath, you know,
he was hers and she was his—
his little speckled doe.

And best of all, she didn’t need
taking care of like you’d think
she grew and grew just like a plant
and she didn’t sleep or eat.

Only in the darkest nights,
she’d get real stiff like statues might
and birds would settle on her arms,
tired from their flying.

That’s when her dad would share his dreams
that someday she’d do better than him
and find someone that she could love
who’d give her everything.

Well, all the years went by so fast
like heated sand that turns to glass,
and suddenly his girl was grown
and walking all alone.

She was on her way to school
when a neighbor boy she knew
strut a stomp right up to her
and called Stacy a fool.

After all, how could she go
walking by herself alone—
how could she not know she was
the prettiest girl in the world?

Satisfied with his confession
the boy made her hand his possession
and led her down the windswept road
making an impression.

“Stacy Jones,” he said, “you hear.
My father’s got more cash than deer
in all the hills in Donaldson woods
or crystals in chandeliers.”

“He owns the quarry up a ways
where your dad’s worked all his days
and I will give it all to you,
if you’ll say you feel the same.”

“So—some of us are going swimming
in the quarry hole this evening—
won’t you come along with me?
I’d do anything.”

When Stacy blushed it looked just like
A sunrise on the mountain heights
and never was a single “No”
formed in her crystal mind.

After all, yes, she recalled,
wasn’t she determined to fall
like a stone right down a hill
for one who’d give her all?

It was her father’s deepest wish,
or so she shyly reminisced,
that she would marry stone to gold
with a polished kiss,

and nighttime swimming sounded fun!
Her dad had never let her run
off a ledge into a lake—
not a single one!

So Stacy Jones, who didn’t know,
promised this boy that she would go
to the lake with him that night
and kissed his cheek just so.

Now, Stacy had gone with her father to see
the quarry and the lake where he,
like the boy said, worked his days,
and so she easily

made her way in the darkest hour
when the moon hid like a flower
underneath a growth of clouds—
Stacy was no coward.

She found the boy just where he said
she should show her pretty head
at the lovers’ meeting time
in a tree beside the bend

of the ancient gravel quarry road,
laid before they both were born
like a sacred fate they shared
down which they now strolled.

Stacy loved how the boy played
with her fingers as they strayed
deeper into the foreboding forest
at an excited pace—

stealing kisses—it was true,
wasn’t that what lovers do?—
and so they passed beneath the trees
tousled by the breeze.

Suddenly the forest opened.
She saw the fire and smelled the smoke,
and a group of friends around the logs
waved the couple over.

When Stacy and the boy walked up
a girl beside her nearly jumped
to share a bottle they were drinking,
and Stacy took a gulp.

The burning amber cut a canyon
down her throat, and her companions
laughed at how she coughed and coughed
like an iron canon.

And this is how the night was passed,
with barking sips and roaring laughs
and arms on shoulders and cheeks on cheeks,
while bullfrogs sang their best.

They spent some time beside the fire
and the bottle tipped their spirits higher,
until one boy had swallowed all
the courage he required.

He rose up like a tongue of flame
and yelling out his girlfriend’s name,
he charged toward the nearest cliff,
stripping all the way

and leapt just like a flailing fish
into the water, dark as pitch,
and screamed about the cold so much
the others weren’t as quick.

But as the fire turned to ash,
one by one, each person splashed
into the quarry’s chilly jaws,
and Stacy was the last.

Oh! Poor Stacy didn’t know
as she pulled a sock off her stone toes,
how unnaturally cold and deep
a quarry hole can go.

The other folks were yelling for her,
and the boy she kissed was swimming closer,
telling her to jump right in,
and Stacy Jones shivered.

She stood there at the edge of the cliff
looking like an saint in bliss
about to make that fateful leap
into the abyss—

her skin was smooth as polished marble,
in the dark, both eyes sparkled,
and when the moon lit up her face,
her smile was a marvel—

and when she jumped, the swimmers paused,
to watch that lovely meteor fall,
a star that turned the night to day
and made them gasp, because

that light had quickly disappeared
beneath the water’s dark veneer,
and Stacy Jones, who didn’t know,
took the boy with her.

It was a sad night and a sadder day.
What could all those young folks say?
Their friend was pulled down by his girl,
and they couldn’t do a thing.

But a rich man’s son had left the earth,
and damn it all, wasn’t it worth,
turning our world upside down,
to ease that rich man’s hurt?

They must’ve tried to drain that lake
as many times as it would take
but even though the lake stayed filled,
they drained the rich man’s bank.

And so the lake was sold and sold
until the town forgot who owned
the lake and rocks the people mined
so close to Stacy’s home.

Still, sometimes down in Dogwood Holler,
when the moon is getting darker,
Stacy’s dad, who’s very old,
goes fishing in the cold.

He takes a pole out to the lake,
but he leaves behind the bait—
instead he tosses empty hooks
loaded down with weight.

He sits there in the dark until,
if he’s patient, he can feel
his daughter tug the other side
of his old rusted reel,

and in this way she lets him know
how much she still loves him so,
and how one day she’ll make it out,
so he won’t be alone,

and every time her father casts
a hook into that looking glass
he offers God what coins he owns
to help him bring her back

coughing to that gravel shore
where they can start off like before—
a family carved right from the earth
that no one would call poor