Our Story

I’m Kevin.

Before wood became my passon, I worked in the early days of the web—long hours, fast pace, chasing something that always seemed just ahead. When the dot-com world shifted beneath me and I was laid off from a company called Net Perceptions, it felt like one of those quiet crossroads in life. I could keep going down the same road… or choose something entirely different.

So we chose different.

My wife Mari and I began a new chapter—one built not on computers, but on reclaimed wood, worn by time and rich with story.

In 2002, life was already full with our nearly five-year-old son. Then, in what felt like a whirlwind of grace and chaos, we were blessed with triplets—two girls and another boy. By 2004, we found ourselves starting a business with two-year-olds in tow. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t easy. It felt less like a company and more like a family farm—everyone doing what they could, when they could.

The kids grew up alongside the work. They were out at the barn site, picking up nails before they could read, learning to count through piles of reclaimed boards. Our oldest built and sold his first table at twelve. The others made “block frames” and sold them at craft shows, saving for college one piece at a time. Their work even found its way onto an episode of American Pickers, which was pretty darn fun.

Those years were full—messy, exhausting, meaningful, but wonderful.

Now the shop is quieter. The kids are grown and graduated from college, each finding their own path in the world. When I look back, they are the true work of my life—four unique individuals shaped by grit, empathy, and a willingness to build something of their own.

Mari and I still carry on the work together. We answer the phones, tend the website, and spend our days with these beautiful old boards, each one holding a past life we try to honor. Over the years, we’ve created hundreds of tables and thousands of mantels. We still love it—but in our late fifties, we feel the weight of the wood on our bodies a little more than we did twenty years ago.

In 2024, for our daughter Ellie’s wedding, I made something different—wood vases. Each one held a full-size glass insert, capable of holding water and living flowers. There was something about them that caught hold of me. The natural beauty was stunning.

Mari and I are empty nesters now. We watch our parents age, and likewise, we’ve said goodbye to some of them. Our friends are all walking similar paths. And somewhere in that space, I began to see these vases differently.

A vase is a vessel.

It can hold both beginnings and endings—fresh blooms in season, or the dust and ashes of a life remembered.

As I looked at many urns, I kept coming back to the same feeling—they often seemed cold or manufactured, disconnected from the depth they were meant to carry. Square boxes – not something you’d want to hold near and dear.

I wanted to create something else. Something more personal. Something shaped by human hands, but also guided by something quieter—something you can feel, even if you can’t quite explain it.

Something that feels complete and beautiful on its own—worthy of the space it sits in—while also holding the memory of someone deeply loved. Not just a container, but a presence.

When I’m working a piece of wood into a new form, I’ve learned to let go in the process. The wood has its own story, its own direction. If I slow down and listen, it starts to guide me—through the grain, through the weight, through the small decisions that shape what it becomes.

Every once in a while, I forget that. Not long ago, I tried to force a piece into what I thought it should be. It fought me the whole way, and in the end, it really wasn’t a piece that really resonated.

Moments like that remind me there’s something bigger at work—not just in the wood, but in life. The best things seem to come when you’re paying attention, when you’re willing to be led a little, to trust the path even when you don’t fully understand it. Back in the day when I was doing computer, I certainly never imagined my life to unfold as it has, but in the end, what a blessing!

So with these urns, I want to create a piece that resonates with you and carries the spirit of your loved one. I hope I can achieve that.