Thirty-five years ago, I never imagined that a single moment with a friend and a five-string banjo would set me on a path that continues to shape my retirement years today. At the time, I was simply curious. My friend was eager to teach me how to play, and I was eager to learn. We shared another passion—woodworking—and before long, that curiosity and companionship sparked an idea: why not try to build our own banjos?

The first banjo I made was entirely of wood. Looking back, I smile at its imperfections, but it remains a symbol of where the journey began. Life soon swept me in other directions—work, responsibilities, family. My tools sat idle for years, my passion for instrument-making tucked away like a dusty book on a shelf.

But retirement has a way of rekindling old flames. Once my days were no longer consumed by deadlines and obligations, I had the time to return to the woodworking I love most. What started as a hobby decades earlier has now become a creative adventure—one that blends music, woodworking, and artistry in unexpected ways.

When I picked up my tools again, I wasn’t content to make just one banjo. I had years of ideas bottled up, and retirement offered the time to let them out. I started experimenting with woods, shapes, and techniques, creating banjos that not only played beautifully but also carried a distinct personality.

To date, I’ve built seven banjos and one mandolin. Each instrument tells its own story. Some reflect the traditional look and feel of old-time banjos, while others push the boundaries with creative designs. But one truth soon became clear—when you pour your heart into building, you don’t just create objects; you create companions.

The joy of stringing up a new banjo for the first time, running my fingers over the fretboard, and hearing those first notes ring out is hard to describe. It’s equal parts pride, relief, and wonder—like watching a child take their first steps.

But there was a problem. Where do you put seven banjos and a mandolin?

At first, I leaned them in corners and against shelves. But any musician knows that instruments deserve respect. Leaving them in stacks or leaning precariously wasn’t an option. I needed a solution—not just for storage, but for display.

But these weren’t going to be ordinary stands. No, I wanted them to be as full of personality as the instruments they held. Soon, I found myself sketching caricatures—people, animals, whimsical figures—that could cradle my banjos in style. The results were not only functional but also pieces of art in their own right.

A banjo held by a carved character isn’t just stored; it’s showcased. Each stand became a conversation starter, a piece of visual humor, and a tribute to the creativity that woodworking allows.

As often happens with creative projects, the solution led to another problem. Before long, I had a room filled with not only banjos and a mandolin, but also the stands that held them. What began as a way to solve the space issue had created a new one.

I found myself surrounded—banjos in caricatured arms, mandolins resting in whimsical animal hands. The workshop and display area looked less like a storage solution and more like a gallery.

Before I talk about selling, let me share why I build in the first place. For me, woodworking is more than cutting, shaping, and assembling wood. It’s a meditation, a connection to tradition, and a way of telling stories.

Each banjo is more than wood, strings, and frets—it’s a bridge between past and present, a nod to folk traditions, and a deeply personal creation. Each stand is more than just support—it’s a burst of humor, imagination, and problem-solving.

When I sit in my workshop, chisel in hand, the world slows down. The smell of sawdust, the hum of sandpaper, the feel of shaping something by hand—it’s grounding, almost therapeutic. After decades of working life, where efficiency and productivity often overshadow creativity, woodworking has become my sanctuary.

And perhaps that’s why I’ve kept building, even when I ran out of space. The act itself is fulfilling, regardless of the end result.

But here’s the reality: you can’t keep everything you build. My home and workshop are not infinite galleries. And while I’m sentimentally attached to each instrument and stand, I know they could bring joy to others as well.

So, I’ve decided to begin letting some of them go—banjos, stands, and perhaps even the mandolin. This isn’t about giving up on the craft. Quite the opposite. By sharing these creations, I make space to keep building, to keep exploring, and to keep enjoying the woodworking I love.

For someone else, buying one of my banjos or stands isn’t just purchasing an object—it’s receiving a piece of my story. It’s holding in their hands the product of decades of inspiration, pauses, and rediscovery.

Factory instruments are consistent, precise, and mass-produced. They’re designed to meet standards, not tell stories. Handmade instruments, on the other hand, are unique. No two are alike. The grain of the wood, the feel of the neck, the resonance of the body—each carries its own identity.

When you play a handmade banjo, you’re not just making music—you’re carrying forward the touch of the maker, the hours of craftsmanship, and the love that went into every detail.

And when that banjo rests in a caricature stand? Well, then it’s not just music—it’s conversation, laughter, and art.

One of the joys of this journey has been the connections it creates. Musicians and woodworkers are kindred spirits. We both understand the value of patience, practice, and craft. Sharing my banjos and stands has led to wonderful conversations—some about the technicalities of building, others about the joy of music, and many about the intersection of both.

When I tell people I’ve built seven banjos, they often ask, “Why so many?” My answer is simple: because each one was an idea worth trying. And when you’re retired, the freedom to follow those ideas is one of life’s greatest gifts.

Right now, my workshop and home feel like a gallery. Stands shaped like quirky caricatures line the room. Banjos of varying designs sit in their arms. The mandolin gleams nearby.

Every visitor who walks in smiles, chuckles, or lingers. They don’t just see instruments—they see personality, imagination, and care. That’s the magic I hope to share when these creations find new homes.

Selling isn’t just about making space. It’s about passing along something meaningful. Each buyer becomes part of the story. My work leaves my hands but continues to live, to be played, to be displayed, and to be loved.

That’s the beauty of handmade creations—they outlast trends. They carry the fingerprints of their maker, both literally and figuratively. And in doing so, they become heirlooms, conversation pieces, and companions for whoever owns them next.

So, what’s next? I’ll keep building. There are always new ideas to try, new woods to work with, and new ways to combine humor and function. Maybe it’ll be another banjo, maybe another mandolin, maybe even something entirely different.

What I know for certain is that woodworking remains at the heart of my retirement. It’s not just a pastime—it’s a passion, a joy, and a way of expressing myself.

And now, by sharing some of these creations, I can make room for even more.

Thirty-five years ago, I picked up a banjo because a friend thought it might be fun. I built my first banjo because I loved woodworking. Then life stepped in, and the tools went quiet.

But retirement gave me the chance to return to that passion, and what a gift it has been. Seven banjos, one mandolin, and a collection of caricature stands later, I’m surrounded by reminders of what creativity can do when given time and space.

Now, I’m ready to let others share in that story. To hold these instruments, to smile at these stands, and to give them new homes where they can continue to spark joy.