Alma Brought A Real Bench Order To My Work Bay

"This one has an order number you can call about," Alma said.

She set the drawing beside my stencil table. Her son came in behind her with a folder.

They had chosen a stock granite bench from the yard outside Claremore. The price was $4,600, with a $2,300 deposit paid straight to the yard. A separate foundation quote from the cemetery was $650.

They wanted me to cut June's name and the butterfly. My written quote was $240, due after they approved the finished engraving.

"Read it," Alma told me.

I checked the size, surface finish, and lettering area. Then I called the yard while she sat beside me. With her permission, the clerk confirmed the payment and the bench held under her order number.

I wrote down the clerk's name and the date.

"That's what should have happened before," Alma said.

"Yes."

She studied a row of river rocks on my shelf.

"What are those for?"

"Letters I haven't learned yet."

"You do all this and you're still learning letters?"

I handed her the first narrow R.

"Look inside the loop."

She tilted it toward the light.

"It's pinched."

I gave her another with a wider loop.

"This one has room," she said.

"That's what I was working on."

She held both for a while before putting them down.

We spent forty minutes on June's name. Alma wanted a simple upright style. Her son wanted a small butterfly, not the large one Wesley had put in the center of his sales drawing.

"She liked things you had to notice," he said.

I made the wings smaller.

They signed the final paper proof only after taking it outside to see it in daylight. I kept a copy and handed them the original. Nobody had to trust a screen that only one person controlled.

The bench arrived in August. The yard sent its delivery record, and Bernadette checked the foundation before it was set. I engraved it after placement so the lettering faced the walk exactly as Alma wanted.

That morning, I parked my truck beside the service lane and put wheel chocks behind the tires. My own name was painted on the door now: Omar Feliciano, Stone Lettering.

The letters were plain. You could read the phone number from the walk.

When I finished June's bench, I shut down the compressor before calling Alma over. She ran a finger near the letters without touching the fresh paint in their cuts.

"Will the butterfly hold up?"

"The cut will. The dark fill may need freshening over the years. I'll write down how to care for it."

She sat down slowly.

Her son stood at the end of the bench. Bernadette waited near the walk, far enough away to give them their first few minutes.

Alma looked up at me.

"You can send the bill."

I gave her the care sheet and invoice in the same envelope. Her son paid the $240 after they checked the work against their proof.

Then I packed the hose in wide loops so it would not kink.

At the cemetery office, Bernadette asked if I had time for coffee.

"Ten minutes," I said.

"Then sit for ten minutes."

I did.

She had the good R rock on her desk. I had given it to her after the last refund cleared. It held down a stack of blank approval forms beside a small jar of pens.

"Still practicing?" she asked.

"Lowercase next."

She smiled into her cup.

Business returned in pieces. Mrs. Sloan referred a neighbor. Two restored cemetery accounts became regular work again. Noel used another engraver for his brother's marker, and I sent that engraver the measurements Noel asked me to share.

By September, my schedule held $6,480 in completed and booked work. After the quiet months, I could set money aside for the dust hood again. I bought it before buying a new sign. Keeping stone dust out of my lungs mattered more than putting larger letters on the door.

Nine refunds had cleared. The partnership was closed. My truck title, paid receipts, and the final court papers rested together in the locked tray.

I had also kept the bill for Ruth's work. The amount was paid, and I liked seeing the zero.

Wesley's permission to work at Redbud Rest remained withdrawn. By autumn, he had served his jail term and begun probation. I learned that through the case notice, filed it, and went back to my schedule.

There was nothing left that required a call between us.

One cool evening in October, I put a fresh river rock on my bench and drew a small letter in chalk. The bay door stood open to the air.

Near sunset, a new work order arrived by email: a garden stone, one name, no rush. I set the printout beneath an old practice rock, where the last light rested inside its narrow R.