In the summer of 2017, I realized it was time for a major change. I had spent years working in the casino industry, but I was no longer happy, and I knew I needed something different. That’s how The Riverside Woodshop was born. About a year before, I had crafted a wall hanging for my mother and shared a picture of it on Facebook. To my surprise, several people reached out, asking if I could make and sell more. Encouraged by the response, I started experimenting with new designs and products. Within a few months, we were buying machinery, scouting a workshop space, and beginning to generate steady business. Excitement and nerves collided—I was investing every cent back into the business, taking no paycheck, but I felt alive in a way I hadn’t for years.
Two years later, the shop had transformed. Machines lined the walls, a desk occupied a back corner, and a towering wall of wood displayed our inventory. We’d added a shed to store materials, a trailer for craft shows, and display racks to showcase our work. For the first time, I felt like the business could support a paycheck. My mother and I decided we deserved a vacation. We planned a trip to Roatan with my daughter and her boyfriend for late June 2019. I brought a laptop to work on designs in downtime, and my mother enabled international phone service so we could reach home if needed. At first, the trip was perfect: days spent on beaches, snorkeling, and evenings playing board games, laughing and relaxing for the first time in years. I felt proud that leaving my old job had been the right decision.
But on the night of June 30th, everything changed. I had taken a nap and was awake working on designs when a Facebook message from our hometown fire chief appeared: “Call immediately.” My heart sank. I woke my mother so I could use her phone, trembling as I dialed. The fire chief’s words hit me like a freight train: “Someone drove through your shop. They were going about 90 miles per hour. They hit the trailer, the shed, the 40-foot building, and landed on your desk before fleeing. Police are notified. We’re assessing the damage.”
Time froze. Two years of work, sweat, and passion—gone in an instant. I fired off questions, desperate for clarity, but the answers were vague. My daughter and her boyfriend joined us, and together we scrolled the town’s Facebook page, trying to make sense of the nightmare. My mother, who had been my partner in this journey—helping fund, paint, organize, and care for every detail—sat in stunned silence. Fear and despair settled over us like a heavy blanket.
Then panic shifted to practical worry: we had an order for 185 wedding platters due just a week after returning home. A third of the order had been completed and brought to our house, but the rest was trapped in the shop, amidst broken wood, shattered shelves, and ruined tools. I called the client, expecting disappointment, but he reassured me: “Do what you can. We understand.” That order became my priority.
When my daughter found the first images of the wreckage online, my stomach dropped. Concrete, splintered wood, paint, machinery, and half-finished products were scattered everywhere. The car rested where my desk had been. I could have been under it, napping during the hot summer days. Shaking off the fear, I instructed my daughter to post online that we were safe and unharmed. The next few days of vacation carried a somber undertone; relaxation was eclipsed by the storm waiting at home.
Returning at midnight, the devastation was overwhelming. The trailer was destroyed, the shed mostly collapsed except for a corner propped up by our slate coasters, and the shop—our sanctuary—was in ruins. Miraculously, our CO2 laser and several larger tools survived, but the cinderblock wall, wood shelves, paint area, and smaller tools were gone. That night, exhaustion and heartbreak weighed heavily.
The next morning, we made a plan: set up a temporary workspace, clean debris, salvage tools, and tackle the wedding order. Over the following days, the generosity of our community amazed us. Friends, church members, and even people I hadn’t spoken to in years showed up to help. A local funeral home set up a fund, neighbors offered advice, prayers, and hands-on support. Using a garage, a backyard tent, and our dining room, we worked nonstop to complete the wedding platters. The night before the wedding, the order was finished and delivered. Relief washed over me, and I could finally breathe again—ready to rebuild.
I reached out on Facebook, asking for storage and workspace solutions. Over the next month, we stored wood and continued building in our home, but suitable workshop space eluded us. Then, a couple from town reached out, offering a building that might work. Initially skeptical, we toured it and saw its potential, though it needed repairs and upgrades we couldn’t afford. The driver’s parole status and stolen-car insurance denial left us without compensation, forcing us to rely on loans and community funds.
As we prepared to leave, the couple stopped us: “We’ve owned a business for decades. You care about this town, these buildings, and your craft. Take it. We’ll transfer the title—no cost to you.” Shocked, I nodded at my mother, stunned by their generosity. Over the next few days, we accepted the gift and, with $25,000 in repairs, transformed the building into our new shop. Their kindness allowed us to survive, rebuild, and continue pursuing our dream.
Today, six months later, we’re still renovating and catching up. Orders have kept us busy, including last-minute deliveries over the holidays, and our social media presence is being revamped. Every day, I am grateful for the couple who gave us this chance. Thanks to them—and our resilient community—The Riverside Woodshop is not only surviving but thriving. Our journey has taught me that even in devastation, hope, generosity, and determination can rebuild dreams stronger than ever.
