They say every great story follows at least one of a number of storylines. Discovery, tragedy, rebirth, adventure, and escape, are a few that come to mind. But, truth be told, I’ve never fit neatly into any one category (have you seen how I spell Racheal?) and I’ve always been the type to color outside the lines—and, as my Mom would be quick to point out, on the tabletop, wall, carpet, couch, and anything else that could be “beautified” with permanent marker. You could say that the foundation for Haven Designs was always there but, more than anything else, it’s the byproduct of some really special people and meaningful experiences that have shaped me along the way. I was born and raised in a small town. Now, I realize a lot of people say they’re from a small town, but I am talking “less than 9,000 residents” small. Though small, my hometown is mighty! It’s the home of Dum-Dum suckers and the birthplace of the Etch A Sketch, which I explain to my niece and nephews as an iPad for cavemen. My parents were very industrious people and if work needed done in or on the house, they did it themselves. They were also always happy to lend a helping hand to a neighbor. It was amazing what they were capable of building and fixing and, whether it was around the house or in preparation for a craft show, my Dad would build items, my Mom would finish them, and my two older brothers would help wherever needed. By the time I had reached the ripe age of six, I was familiar with what it took to prepare for a craft show and was finally ready to join my brothers in helping my parents. On top of taking a lot of pride in our work and being excited to help, it was an assembly line that would make Henry Ford proud. But just as Ford had his trouble with the unions, we weren’t about to roll over for our parents. Naturally, we saw ourselves as world-class sanders and finishers so we had to be tough negotiators and brokered a deal that kept us flush with enough Happy Meals and frozen DQ treats that we were willing to overlook the child labor laws that, to this day, we are sure were being broken. The three of us were blissfully unaware our parents were having the last laugh because, in addition to the salt and grease from the French fries, we were absorbing some important life lessons: the value of hard work, the importance of paying things forward, the beauty of craftsmanship, and respect for tools and materials. Fast forward a few years, and I’ve gotten myself a driver’s license and a Chevy S-10 with a 4-speed stick shift that my dad and his buddy hand painted primer-gray. As a friend and I drove through town one afternoon, I hit the brakes when I spied a vintage gold (candidly, a color somewhere between barf and macaroni and cheese) chair someone had put out with their garbage. I saw the lines of the chair and knew immediately I could do something remarkable with it. We loaded the chair into the back of my sleek soup can on wheels and drove off. I was excited to show my Mom that she had passed on her design chops and eye for potential, and determined that refurbishing this chair would be my first signature project. She was mortified that I would even touch that chair. Acknowledging the possibility that my parents’ creative genes were recessive, I followed a more traditional career path and became a residential appraiser and built a great business. Eventually feeling like I was at a point in life where I needed to take a flyer, I began a new chapter by moving to South Carolina, where I lived for 3 years. Like anything, the novelty was exciting at first but eventually faded, leaving reality to slowly creep back into the picture. For me, that reality was that it was nearly impossible to find a job. Slowly, my search for a job turned into a search for much, much more. As a bit of a hobby and a way to combat my homesickness, I started getting my hands dirty again. Wood, and the story behind it, has always appealed to me, so I began collecting and working with interesting pieces of shoreline driftwood. As my appreciation for the wood grew, I began pulling from old barns throughout South Carolina and beyond. It seemed crazy to me to discard the old beams and siding; it was still strong and had a weathered beauty to it. I knew the answer was to repurpose it and give it a new life. This reignited the spark in me and I, too, was reborn in a sense. I shared what I was up to with friends and invited them to join me on my search for the right pieces. Evidently, they saw my passion and before I knew it, one of my friends had promised a large piece of my work to enhance their tradeshow presence. I was thrilled that someone had not only seen the value and creativity in my work, but also that there was actually a market for something I loved doing! I began selling small, custom pieces to friends and, cautious, I didn’t fully embrace their calls to start my own business. This was about something different. Nevertheless, excited and energized, I was working harder and harder on my craft, trying new ideas and taking on increasingly complex projects. The more challenging projects stumped (pun intended) me at times and required a call home to seek my Dad’s advice. At first, the calls were about building advice and techniques but they evolved to more of a lifeline than a tutorial. Likewise, my time spent working on projects became less about the project and more about the way it made me feel close to my family. I felt a step closer to that purpose I was searching for. Then, out of nowhere, was the gut punch. My friend, my mentor, my slice of home, my Dad had cancer. And, no matter how hard we try to craft our own story, life has a funny way of twisting and warping without regard to your big plans. I knew right away that I had to uproot myself and head back home. Woodworking aside, I knew I had so much more to learn, and my Dad had so much more to teach. Struggling to balance a full-time appraisal career with continuing the growth of what is now Haven Designs, I kept my nose to the grindstone and things began to fall into place. On top of being with my family again, I was surrounded by friends and felt like my heart was full again. I was beginning to flourish, and so was Haven. At my first craft show back in Michigan, with my Dad’s help, I was able to set up the booth next to my parents’ booth. I can’t even begin to tell you how meaningful that was. What began with some invitations to small craft shows grew, within a year, to Haven shipping all over the map. Somehow, the small town girl in the primer-gray pickup from Bryan, Ohio was selling her work to clients in Belize and getting picked up by stores all over the country. But it doesn’t feel like that. My workshop is still my Haven. I’m still getting weird looks from contractors as I strut out of Home Depot pushing a cart with a table saw in it. And I still like to work late into the night, fueled by loud music and the nectar of the gods (vodka and Red Bull). I’m just sitting back, watching this unfold before me, and knowing the sky is the limit. I won’t presume to tell you I have it all figured out. My life is still a work in process, but there are a few things I have learned along the way: humility is key; it’s never too late to reinvent yourself and follow your passions; family is everything; and always add the vodka before the Red Bull. As you might expect, Haven Designs isn’t the soulless, manufactured result of a perfect trip from concept to execution. My workshop is a nest for unique, eye-catching pieces that are as functional as they are fun. Sure, it’s just repurposed wood, but at its heart, it’s carefully shaped by a lifetime of energy, color, passion, and positivity. It’s a tangible expression of life and love and family, and above all, it’s real. I hope you make it part of your life’s story.
