Frank Opperman: The best planerman you’ve never heard of
Stonecutters are a different breed. Over a long career, I’ve known some colorful ones. I suppose each one of them has left some kind of mark on me, but some have carved themselves more deeply. I’m thinking today of one man especially—Frank Opperman.
I recently came across a picture of Frank that was taken by a National Geographic photographer. The magazine was doing a piece on our work at the National Cathedral. I can’t remember the year, but it was in the 70’s. The photo of Frank was not printed in the magazine, but it’s my favorite photo of him. I’d known Frank long before that, though—he was a planerman at Phelps Stone Mill when I was an apprentice there. He was always kind to me while I was learning and went out of his way to help me. I hope I’ve done the same for young stonecutters along the way.
A planerman’s job is to shape the stone before it goes to finish cutting, and Frank could do amazing things on that machine. He was probably the best planerman I ever knew. When I took over the stone works and converted it into the Cathedral Stone Company, Frank was my first employee.
Frank wasn’t a big man, maybe 5’ 8” in boots, but he was stocky and powerful—and you didn’t want to get him mad if you knew what was good for you.
He was at the shop every morning by 6AM—and he didn’t drive. I’d arrive, and he’d be sitting in the shop, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes—without fail. Except for three weeks a year, Frank never drank. He was sober as a judge for 49 weeks.
We were a small, non-union shop, so we all did a bit of everything. In a union shop, Frank wouldn’t have been allowed to trim stone, operate the crane or run the saw, like he is in the photo. He was a decent stonecutter, in fact. He didn’t do the most complicated stuff, but he could hold his own.
One early winter day, a man from the neighborhood wandered into the shop. He’d clearly had too much to drink. He was out of work and the holidays were coming. He told me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t leaving the shop without a job. This was a big man, and I had work to do. I told him we didn’t need help--which we didn’t, and that he’d have to leave—which he didn’t. I tried to reason with him, but all he’d say was “I ain’t leaving without a job.” Frank was in a different part of the shop—about 75 yards away, running the planer. I finally lost my patience and told him I’d call the cops, he said: “I don’t care. I ain’t going.”
We had a phone booth in the shop—it was the only way to hear yourself talk sometimes. I went into the booth to make the guy think I was really going to call the cops. That just made him madder. We were face to face through the window, when all of a sudden he jerked up six inches into the air. Frank had him from behind. He picked him up like he weighed no more than a kitten, carried him across the shop floor and escorted him out of the bay doors. All this time, this man who was a head taller was pleading with Frank not to hurt him. He didn’t by the way, but he could have.
Frank was a fighter from the time he was a kid. His mother made him crochet, and little Frank had to practice before he could go out to play. The other kids teased him, and Frank didn’t like that. He grew into the kind of man who practiced fighting and got very good at it. Once I saw a guy try to call him out in a “let’s settle this right here” kind of confrontation. Frank shook his head. “Carlo,” he said, “you don’t wanna do that.” He did it calmly, without any trace of swagger. Frank knew what he was capable of. Like I said, he could hold his own.
He was also the most stubborn man I ever knew. We had a coffee station and it got messy with different bags, hot chocolate envelopes, soup mixes, etc. Frank built a hopper out of a cardboard box, affixed it to the wall and arranged all the items the way he liked them. After a while, it started to bow. As a surprise, one of the guys rebuilt the hopper to Frank’s exact specifications but out of Formica covered plywood. The guy came in early, screwed it onto the wall and replace it exactly the way Frank had left it the night before. I thought it was a nice gesture. When Frank got in that morning, he went straight to the new hopper, took it off the wall and put his cardboard creation back up. “It was just fine like it was,” he said.
Frank was with me to the end of his life. He was only 58 when an aneurysm took him. I lost a friend, a protector, and a go-to guy I could trust with almost anything. He was so important to the company, I almost lost it all when Frank passed.
I’m glad to have this picture of him and to have you know something about this man who helped build and repair some of our nation’s most iconic buildings.
Dennis Rude, Stonecutter & Owner of Cathedral Stone Products
