A Boston buyer offered to put his lanterns in $249 boutiques. This retired Vermont hearth mason said no, and is selling the last 327 himself for $59. Why he did it is the part nobody expected.

After forty-seven years building fireplaces across central Vermont, Armand Colby no longer has the hands to paint an ember. The Granite Hills Courier looked into a story that has families of senior residents talking well beyond Washington County.

Barre, Vermont. Armand Colby, seventy-six, will not be going back to the bench. In the old granite shed behind his house, which he fitted with a woodstove in 1979, steel shelves line the back wall. On them sit rows of small round lanterns with black frames, none of them taller than a hardcover book.

Switch one on and a little fire comes up behind a stack of logs. It glows low and uneven, the way a fire looks an hour after you stop feeding it. Lay your hand on the front and it is cool.

These are not ordinary night-lights. Each one is a fireplace, shrunk to fit a nightstand, built by a man who spent forty-seven years building the real thing, for a woman who was no longer allowed to have one.

Today Lorraine is gone. Armand can no longer hold a brush steady. And a buyer for a group of upscale home boutiques wants every lantern on those shelves, along with the right to have them copied in a factory and sold for $249 apiece.

What he decided to do instead has surprised everyone who knows him: sell what is left himself, directly to the people who need them. For $59.

This is how forty-seven years of hearths ends, and why one man’s decision has carried a long way past Barre.

Stone in his blood: a quarryman’s son and his first hearth

Armand Colby did not choose stone. He was born into it.

His father, Ray, cut granite at the quarries on Millstone Hill for thirty-eight years. Armand carried water to the cutting sheds from the time he was eight. He learned to hear a good block before he could spell the word.

But what held him was never the quarry. It was what people built out of it.

“My dad would knock on a block and say, listen, that’s a good one,” Armand says, one hand resting on a shelf of finished lanterns. “Then one October a farmer out in Orange hired us to build him a fireplace. I was sixteen. Dad set the first stone and handed me the trowel for the second. When we lit it that night, the whole family came in from the barn and just stood there. Nobody said a word. I figured out right then what a fireplace is for.”

That fireplace decided the rest of his life.

Over the next forty-seven years Armand built, by his own count in a spiral notebook, six hundred and twelve hearths across central Vermont: farmhouses, a church rectory, ski lodges, a summer place on Lake Elmore whose owner he still won’t name.

By the time he retired in 2013, the phone had mostly stopped ringing. In 1990, two out of every three new American houses went up with a fireplace. Last year it was about one in four. In new apartments and condominiums, it is about one in a hundred.

Lorraine: forty years in the same two chairs

Lorraine Colby was not a mason. She ran the circulation desk at the town library for thirty-one years. But the first night Armand lit the hearth he had built for their own farmhouse, in the fall of 1983, she pulled two chairs up to it and never moved them again.

“I didn’t build that fireplace for the house,” Armand says. “I built it for her. She’s the one who used it.”

Every evening, October to April, the same routine. Supper, dishes, two mugs of tea. She would sit down, pull the afghan over her knees and say the same three words: Light it, Armand.

Forty winters. She read, he did the crossword, and neither of them paid the television much attention.

Between them they spent something like eight thousand evenings in front of that hearth. Armand never once had to be asked twice.

Then, in the fall of 2023, everything changed.

A room where a candle wasn’t allowed

In October 2023, Lorraine slipped on the stone step by the back door. The hip mended. The farmhouse stairs did not get any easier. By Thanksgiving she had moved into a senior residence in Montpelier, fifteen minutes up the road.

The room was bright and clean and warm. The rules were printed on a card by the door. No candles. No open flame. No space heaters.

“She never complained about the room,” Armand says. “She complained about the evenings. She said the evenings were the television and the hallway light. Forty years she’d had a fire to look at, and now she had a smoke detector.”

So Armand did what he had done his whole life. He went out to the shed and built her a fireplace. Only this one had to fit on a nightstand, could not make a flame and could not get warm.

He split pieces of oak off their own woodpile, the wood Lorraine had watched him stack every September, and used them as the pattern for a small bundle of logs. He painted the embers into the cracks by hand, in the dull orange a fire turns once it has burned down. Behind the logs he set a light that flickers low and uneven, the way coals breathe. He made the frame round and black, like the mouth of the firebox in their living room. Seven inches tall. One touch at the bottom to turn it on.

The staff checked it twice. No flame. No heat. Nothing to knock over and nothing to catch. It was allowed.

That night Lorraine switched it on, turned off the lamp and called him. “She said, Armand, it’s lit. That was all. It’s lit.”

Within a month the woman across the hall wanted one. Then her daughter asked for another for an aunt in Rutland. By spring Armand was building them one at a time for families he had never met.

Lorraine is gone: when the shed becomes his last refuge

February 2025. Lorraine Colby passed away. They had been married fifty-one years.

“Lorraine was the reason for every fire I ever lit in that house,” Armand says. “Without her I’m a man with a trowel and no idea what to build.”

For months he did not open the shed. The bench stayed covered. Their daughter Renée, a dental hygienist in Burlington, called every evening. She offered to come over and sort things out. He told her no.

One morning in May, not sleeping, he went out to the shed at four o’clock and switched on the light. He took down a set of logs, picked up the smallest brush he owned and began painting embers, the same work he had done the winter Lorraine got her first one.

“I couldn’t have told you who they were for,” he says. “There was nobody left to give one to. I built them because the shed was the only place the house wasn’t quiet.”

For nearly a year Armand built. Every morning. Ten lanterns. Fifty. Three hundred twenty-seven. Each one finished as if Lorraine were going to switch it on, and each one a little different, because nobody paints an ember the same way twice.

Why a little fire you can’t feel still warms a room

“Forty-seven years I built fireplaces, and I’ll let you in on something,” Armand says. “Almost nobody sits by one for the heat. The furnace does the heating. People sit by a fire to look at it.”

That is where most imitations go wrong. The cheap ones put a flat orange bulb behind a plastic log, and from across the room it looks like a store display. Armand built his the way he had watched real fires burn down for half a century: the glow sits low in the cracks between the logs and moves unevenly, never on a rhythm you can count. From the sofa, or from a bed across a small room, it reads like a real fire an hour in.

Then there is the hand test. It takes about five seconds. Switch it on, let it glow as long as you like, then lay your hand flat on the front. It is cool. Cool like a stone. No flame to blow out, nothing to tip into the curtains.

Russ Tetreault spent thirty-one years with a fire department in central Vermont. “Candles start about seven thousand four hundred home fires a year in this country, and more than a third of them start in a bedroom,” he says. “December is the worst month, and Christmas Day the worst day of the year. Once you’re past sixty-five, you’re about twice as likely to be hurt in a house fire. That’s why the residences ban them. A thing like Armand’s gives people the part they miss, without the part that used to get me out of bed at two in the morning.”

“Your hands will not get you through another winter”

Spring 2026. The X-rays are read to him at a clinic in Berlin, just outside Montpelier. Both hands, the joints worn through by forty-seven years of setting stone. His grip measures twenty-nine pounds. A chart from 1998 in his file says one hundred and twelve.

“You need to put the brushes down,” the doctor tells him. “If you keep forcing those joints, you will lose what you have left.”

Renée drove over from Burlington that weekend. She had asked him before to come and live with her. This time she wasn’t asking. The farmhouse would be listed before the snow, and the shed with it.

She walked out to the shed and saw the shelves of finished lanterns, and her mother’s reading glasses, still on the bench where he had left them.

“Dad, you have to do something with all of these,” she said. “Mom would not want them sitting on a shelf in the dark.”

Armand knew she was right.

The buyer in a pressed suit, and the offer that changed everything

That same week a dark sedan came up the gravel drive. A buyer from Boston, working for a group of upscale home and lodge boutiques in ski towns out West and a few in New England, had heard about the Colby lanterns from a vendor who had seen one at the residence in Montpelier. He offered to take every lantern on the shelf, and the rights to the design along with them.

Armand asked what he intended to do with them.

Put them in the shops as they were, first. Then have them copied in a factory overseas and sold under the boutiques’ own label. In those stores, the buyer said, a piece like this would go for $249, displayed next to the cashmere throws.

Armand asked the number. Twenty-two dollars a lantern, cash, one appointment. It wasn’t an insult, and he knew it. But he did the arithmetic standing there in the gravel. Lorraine’s little fire would end up in a shop window in Aspen with somebody else’s name on it, bought by people who had a real fireplace at home and wanted a cute one for the guest room.

And the people it was built for, women in rooms like Lorraine’s where a birthday candle is against the rules, would never see one at $249.

The decision got made that evening at the kitchen table with Renée. The lanterns would not go to the buyer. They would go straight to the people who need them.

$59 lanterns: a lifetime of hearths, sized for a nightstand

The idea came from Renée. She had seen how the families at the residence found the lanterns: one daughter telling another. The plan was simple. Take the lanterns Armand had already finished, box them in the shed and send them directly to the people who want them, with nobody in between.

Not $249. Not even the $99 Renée first wrote on the price list. Armand crossed that out himself and wrote $59, a number set to cover the parts, the paint, the box and the time it takes to pack one, with no boutique markup on top of it.

Armand agreed on one condition.

“No fancy marketing,” he says. “No sale banners. I want people to know this was made for a room like Lorraine’s. And I want them to put a hand on it the day it shows up, feel that it’s cool, and understand that’s the whole point.”

What sets this lantern apart from anything sold in a store

The rest of the lantern is deliberately plain: a round black frame, a single button, nothing to assemble and nothing to set. Three hundred twenty-seven exist. There is no restock, because there is nobody left at the bench.

The shed goes with the house before the snow. This is not warehouse stock. It is what one man built in a granite shed in Barre, most of it before the sun came up.

“I don’t want anybody’s charity,” Armand says. “I want these in the rooms of people who still miss sitting by a fire. People who’ll switch it on after supper and leave the television off for a while. People who know the difference between something built for them and something built for a shop window.”

The first owners share their stories

Word moved through the residence in Montpelier first, then through the families’ friends and neighbors. The first owners started writing in.

“The first gift I ever gave her that she was allowed to keep lit”

Armand figured he would be building for women like Lorraine, in rooms like hers. What happened next caught him off guard.

Daughters buy them for mothers. Sons buy them for mothers who have moved somewhere smaller. Grandmothers buy one for their own nightstand, then a second one for a sister. The lantern turned into something people give to the person they worry about most in December.

It makes a certain sense. A fire is one of the oldest ways a family has of saying: sit down, stay a while. For someone who can’t have one anymore, this is the nearest thing, and likely the only fire they will be allowed to keep lit.

How to get one before the shelf is empty

What is on those shelves is everything Armand built in the year after Lorraine. Nobody is going back out to that bench. When the last lantern is boxed, it is finished.

The launch price is $59. That is not a promotion. It is the decision of a seventy-six-year-old man who would rather see his work on the nightstands of people who need it than in a boutique window selling for $249.

Every order is checked and packed by hand, ships within one to two days and carries a 30-day money-back guarantee. “If it doesn’t make the room feel different, send it back,” Armand says. “But nobody has sent one back to me yet. Once it’s lit on somebody’s nightstand, they don’t want to give it up.”

For anyone who misses sitting by a fire, and wants one small fire back in the room before what is left is gone.