In my travels around Maine there are a few things I always seem to come across, one of those are granite blocks. Sometimes these blocks are in obvious places, such as the fountain of a harbor dock or the U.S. Customs House In Portland’s Old Port. Sometimes these blocks appear out of no where in a cemetery on a back road.

What stories these blocks of granite could tell. Born in the quarries along the coast, such as the one on Hurricane Island, or from the smaller, less known quarries, such as quarries of the Peabody-Fitch Woods in the foothills of Western Maine.

The stories continue as these blocks were moved, horse drawn carriages, boats and railroads, no big trucks with a built on crane. Than the might of man who knew the power of leverage with hand tools, placing those blocks of stone in their final resting place.

The next time you see one of these blocks of granite, take a moment to consider the journey from a quarry somewhere to the place you are standing in. It is a piece of history, a story of a time long ago, watching time march on.