We made the decision this week to spend money we don’t really have.
Truth is, I’m worried. I am. But at the same time, I can’t think of any other way to deal with the situation we’re in.
You see, for the past few months, we’ve been getting absolutely slain by rain. You read that right. It’s not just rain—it’s flooding. Honestly, this might be the perfect weather to test the quality of any construction. Branches, seeds, random debris, rotting wood, strong winds… it’s been a recipe for chaos. And my shop has seen the worst of it.
Last week, during one of those sideways rainstorms—wind mixed with a heavy downpour—I found myself wondering, with a kind of bubbling anxiety: How is my shop surviving this? I had a feeling it wasn’t doing too well.
A few days later, when the path to the shop was no longer a river of mud, I went out there and confirmed it.
Everything was wet. I mean everything.
An old computer. A monitor that somehow survived 16 years with me—dripping with water. My bandsaws? Wet. Rust starting to creep in.
Chaos and pain. Chaos and pain.
I spoke with my wife soon after, and that’s how we got here. Here I am, complaining to the universe… as it prepares a refund check for me.
Because I’m not exaggerating when I say this: we don’t have the money to fix this. We don’t.
But we also don’t have enough money not to.
If I lose my equipment—the very tools I use to build guitars—I lose a lot more than just machines. Getting that equipment down here wasn’t cheap. Replacing it? That’s not even on the table. That’s just not happening.
My brother has offered to help, and I’m deeply grateful for that. It’s strange—no matter how many good things happen (and they do), I always feel like I’m one day away from being reminded how far behind I really am.
But like I always tell my wife:
We’ll figure it out.
We will—because we always do.
And we’ve been here before.
MenO