Our Story

I didn’t grow up in a woodshop.

My dad was a mechanic, so tools were around early. Just not the kind you use to flatten a slab or shape a live edge table. I learned that part the slow way. YouTube, trial and error, messing things up, fixing them, and figuring out what worked because I had to.

The first piece was a walnut cutting board in high school.

Was it great? No.

But something about it stuck.

Years later, I was building pieces for my own home when a neighbor asked me to make her a mantle. That was 2019. Same year, I found a guy on Facebook selling walnut slabs. I bought a few, brought them home, pulled the bark off, and that was the moment.

It felt like a discovery.

Like I’d found what I was supposed to be doing.

By October of 2019, I started calling myself a professional. Still learning. Still figuring things out. Still making plenty of mistakes. But the work was getting better, and people could feel that there was something real in it.

My first paid piece was a rolling butcher block. Honestly, it came out better than it had any right to. I barely knew what I was doing, but I knew enough to care. And that part hasn’t changed.

I build live edge tables and custom wood pieces one at a time. No production line. No mystery. No pretending a piece is custom when it’s really just a few options picked from a menu.

I read every slab before I cut it.

The grain tells you where it wants to go. The knots, cracks, color, weight, and shape all matter. If you rush that part, the piece loses something before it ever reaches the room.

That’s not how I work.

I want you to know what went into it, where it came from, and who built it. I want you to be able to look at your table ten years from now and still remember the conversation we had before I made the first cut.

This work is personal because the relationships are personal.

I’m a husband. I’m a father of three. I build to provide for my family and to show my kids that hard work still matters. That you can choose your path, make something with your hands, and stand behind it when it leaves the shop.

I keep my bench clean because a cluttered bench is a cluttered mind. I work hard, then I go home at 5. Not a minute later.

God guides the customers.

I do the work.

Every piece that leaves my shop has a little bit of that in it. The hours. The sawdust. The decisions nobody sees. The part where I stop, look at the slab again, and make sure I’m not forcing it into something it doesn’t want to be.

That’s how you end up with something you don’t replace.

You pass it down.