.jpg)
.jpg)
Every town has its characters, the people everyone knows, even if they don't know them personally.
Growing up in Tenino, Keith Phillips was one of those people.
If you cared at all about local history, sooner or later you learned about the white-haired stone carver working somewhere around town. I knew his work long before I knew him.
Like many kids who grew up here, I spent countless hours wandering through the Tenino Depot Museum, fascinated by photographs of quarry workers, old stone buildings, rusted tools and stories of the immigrants who transformed a quiet prairie into what became known as the Sandstone Capital of the West and the "Stone City."
I've always loved history, not because I enjoy memorizing dates, but because I've always wondered why a place became what it is. Who founded it? Why here? Why did they stay? What dreams did they have?
For Tenino, the answer was almost always sandstone.
The men who arrived here in the late 1800s weren't simply quarry workers. Many were master craftsmen who brought centuries of European stonecutting traditions with them. Scottish, English and Italian artisans stepped off trains and discovered something extraordinary beneath their feet.
Before long, Tenino sandstone was finding its way into churches, schools, courthouses, libraries, railroad stations and public buildings throughout the American West.
Then, almost as quickly as it rose, the industry disappeared. Concrete replaced stone, the quarries closed, the craftsmen grew old, and within a generation nearly all of that knowledge was gone.
Almost.
Keith Phillips became the bridge. His apprenticeship traces directly back through Lorenz "Larry" Scheel to Andrew Wilson and ultimately to the Scottish master stonecutters who built Tenino's reputation more than a century ago. In many ways, Keith isn't simply a stone carver. He's a living artifact, a direct connection to the people who built our city.
When I became mayor, I made it a habit to wander. I'd drive roads I'd never driven before, looking for forgotten places that deserved another chance.
One afternoon I found myself bouncing down a dusty road I had somehow never explored. After crossing a small makeshift bridge, I suddenly found myself standing beneath an enormous sandstone wall rising nearly one hundred feet into the air. At its base sat a weathered little shed. Out walked a man wearing a dusty white shirt, tie, apron, and bowler hat.
"Well hello, Mr. Mayor," he said.
I laughed.
"So this is where they're hiding you."
Keith smiled and invited me inside.
He spent the next couple of hours showing me the quarry, explaining the tools, the stone, the history and the generations of craftsmen whose knowledge had nearly disappeared. At one point, he picked up a chisel and shared something I've never forgotten.
"When you're cutting stone," he said, "you always cut toward the center, where it's strongest."
At the time, he was talking about sandstone.
Over the years, I've come to realize he was also talking about communities. If you want something to endure, you don't chip away at the edges. You invest in the center, the traditions, the people and the values that give a place its strength.
Without realizing it, Keith had spent his entire life doing exactly that.
Then he quietly mentioned something he'd always wanted to do. He wanted to create a community of stone carvers, a place where apprentices could learn, visitors could watch the craft, and Tenino wouldn't simply remember its sandstone history.
It would continue making it.
The way Keith described it struck me. It wasn't really a proposal. It sounded more like someone talking about a dream they had already convinced themselves was never going to happen.
Keith is an extraordinary artist. Administration, fundraising, networking and organizational development were never the parts that interested him. Fortunately, those are things I enjoy.
I remember telling him something like, "We're not going to let that happen."
And then we got to work.
Sometimes communities don't need new ideas. They simply need the right people to come together at the right moment.
We started introducing Keith to organizations that could help build the foundation his dream needed. Partnerships with the Arbutus Folk School and the P.A.R.C. Foundation gave the idea an organizational home while Keith continued doing what only Keith could do, teach.
Meanwhile, whenever the city undertook revitalization projects, we looked for opportunities to include stone.
Sandstone bollards welcomed visitors to Olympia Street. Park entrances received hand-carved features. A granite and sandstone retaining wall became part of our Gold Star Memorial. Businesses began commissioning their own pieces, historic homes incorporated carved sandstone, and, without really planning it, the city began speaking stone again.
Here's something very few people know. Many of those carvings quietly tell stories. Throughout Tenino you'll find symbols, patterns, historical references and hidden meanings tucked into the stonework. Some commemorate local history, some honor individuals, and others quietly celebrate the people and events that shaped our community.
Think of it as Tenino's own little Da Vinci Code.
Most people walk right past them without realizing they're surrounded by stories carved into stone. Perhaps that's fitting.
History doesn't always announce itself.
Sometimes it whispers.
As Keith began teaching, something unexpected happened. People didn't just want to take a weekend class. They wanted to stay, apprentice and spend years learning the craft.
People like Ed Salerno, Dan Miller, Bill Lenker, Tony Cutler, Myrna Orsini and others found something much bigger than a hobby.
They found a calling.
In 2023, the Tenino Stone Carvers Guild was born. What had once sounded like an impossible dream had become an institution.
Today, visitors can watch stone being carved just as it was generations ago. Students learn techniques that nearly vanished, and children discover that history isn't something locked inside museums. It's something they can hold in their hands.
Recently, Keith announced his soft retirement after completing what he described as his final major commission, the memorial honoring everyone's friend and one of Washington's great public servants, Ralph Munro.
It feels strangely fitting.
One steward of Washington history creating the memorial for another.
Even in retirement, Keith's legacy continues to grow. One of his hand-carved Tenino sandstone apples was selected for inclusion in the United States Congressional 250th Anniversary Time Capsule, where it will remain until the year 2276 as part of our nation's 500th anniversary celebration.
The Thurston County Board of County Commissioners has also recognized Keith and the Guild for their extraordinary contributions to preserving Washington's cultural heritage. He has also been nominated for the Washington State Historic Preservation Officer's Career Achievement Award, an honor that seems remarkably appropriate for someone who has spent more than forty years ensuring one of Washington's oldest crafts would never disappear.
Historic preservation usually focuses on saving buildings.
But buildings don't preserve themselves.
Someone has to know how they were built and understand the tools, techniques, materials, and patience required to shape them.
Keith didn't just preserve sandstone.
He preserved the knowledge required to shape it.
Years from now, people will admire carvings throughout Tenino without knowing who made them. Students yet unborn will learn to hold a mallet and chisel because someone before them believed the craft was worth saving. Visitors will wander into The Shed, hear the steady tap of steel against stone, and assume the tradition has always been there.
Maybe that's the greatest compliment of all.
The best preservation work becomes so woven into the fabric of a community that future generations can't imagine life without it.
Keith once told me that when you're cutting stone, you always cut toward the center, where it's strongest.
Looking back, I realize that's exactly what he spent his life doing. He wasn't just carving sandstone. He was carving toward the center of Tenino itself, protecting the history, the craftsmanship, and the identity that have always made this little town different.
That little dream Keith shared with me in a dusty shed beside an old quarry?
It didn't pass him by after all.
It's still being carved.
•••
Wayne Fournier is a firefighter, Thurston County commissioner and former mayor who has spent more than three decades working in public safety. His column appears in The Chronicle twice each month.
