Meet the Maker
Our Story
Havenmaker Co. is about memory, grief, and the beauty of love persevering.
Havenmaker Co. was inspired almost entirely by my grandfather. This amazing man was my hero, my knight in shining armor, not because he was a WW2 vet, not because he was wickedly intelligent, or because he was devastingly charming in that Cary Grant/Rock Hudson way, but because he consistently chose me. I'm sure when he married my grandmother he didn't expect that in just a few short years he'd be become the center of a little girl's universe.
I spent hours of almost every single day with him. He taught me to swim and dive, to ride a bike, to play blackjack and poker much to my elementary school teacher's chagrin. I watched golf and football with him and in return he'd play cowboys and Indians, vet, and sometimes house with me. He patiently cleaned up kitchen messes while I was learning to bake and enthusiastically tried everything I ever made for him. He took me to see the ocean for the first time and rode down water slides with me well into his seventies. In my teen years he took me cross country to visit his side of the family in California. We saw another ocean together, Las Vegas lights, and a million places in between. We shared a love of kitties, (he gave me my first pet), and sweets. So much of who I am can be traced back to his influence.
In 2020 during the pandemic and quarantine, I missed out on alot of time with him. Like many people I was doing my best to protect him. But it soon became clear that virus or not this was our last year with him. I gave in on his birthday and came over to make him breakfast. I would take every opportunity I could to see him and as the months went by he started to eat less and less and sleep more and more. We shifted holiday plans certain that this would be our last Christmas together as a complete family. I was chomping at the bit to get a family picture done, one that included my youngest. Early Christmas morning as I scuttled around the house trying to get kids ready, and food finished, the phone rang. It was my parents telling me that he had been found unresponsive when they went to give him his morning pills. I spent the next week in a haze, trying not to cry every second of the day. Trying to put on a happy face for my birthday.
He would pass on New Year's Day a the age of 98 having never fully regained consciousness.
I made my first memorial ring just a few short weeks later. I have worn it every single day since. To say it has given me a sense of peace and comfort would be an immense understatement. My grandmother asked for one shortly after and I made hers too. Her ring ended up being so beautiful, as I had already learned and grew in my abilities as a ring maker at that point. A few friends asked me to make plain opal rings for them and before long I I had sold a memorial ring on Etsy and so Havenmaker Co. was formed.
I'm sure that my grandfather would be proud that something beautiful has grown from his loss.
I now have rings all across the country helping people through grief and celebrating the lives of those we've lost.
Havenmaker Co. was inspired almost entirely by my grandfather. This amazing man was my hero, my knight in shining armor, not because he was a WW2 vet, not because he was wickedly intelligent, or because he was devastingly charming in that Cary Grant/Rock Hudson way, but because he consistently chose me. I'm sure when he married my grandmother he didn't expect that in just a few short years he'd be become the center of a little girl's universe.
I spent hours of almost every single day with him. He taught me to swim and dive, to ride a bike, to play blackjack and poker much to my elementary school teacher's chagrin. I watched golf and football with him and in return he'd play cowboys and Indians, vet, and sometimes house with me. He patiently cleaned up kitchen messes while I was learning to bake and enthusiastically tried everything I ever made for him. He took me to see the ocean for the first time and rode down water slides with me well into his seventies. In my teen years he took me cross country to visit his side of the family in California. We saw another ocean together, Las Vegas lights, and a million places in between. We shared a love of kitties, (he gave me my first pet), and sweets. So much of who I am can be traced back to his influence.
In 2020 during the pandemic and quarantine, I missed out on alot of time with him. Like many people I was doing my best to protect him. But it soon became clear that virus or not this was our last year with him. I gave in on his birthday and came over to make him breakfast. I would take every opportunity I could to see him and as the months went by he started to eat less and less and sleep more and more. We shifted holiday plans certain that this would be our last Christmas together as a complete family. I was chomping at the bit to get a family picture done, one that included my youngest. Early Christmas morning as I scuttled around the house trying to get kids ready, and food finished, the phone rang. It was my parents telling me that he had been found unresponsive when they went to give him his morning pills. I spent the next week in a haze, trying not to cry every second of the day. Trying to put on a happy face for my birthday.
He would pass on New Year's Day a the age of 98 having never fully regained consciousness.
I made my first memorial ring just a few short weeks later. I have worn it every single day since. To say it has given me a sense of peace and comfort would be an immense understatement. My grandmother asked for one shortly after and I made hers too. Her ring ended up being so beautiful, as I had already learned and grew in my abilities as a ring maker at that point. A few friends asked me to make plain opal rings for them and before long I I had sold a memorial ring on Etsy and so Havenmaker Co. was formed.
I'm sure that my grandfather would be proud that something beautiful has grown from his loss.
I now have rings all across the country helping people through grief and celebrating the lives of those we've lost.