I started smithing because singing alone didn't explain what I was trying to say. The forge made the rest of it audible.
It started with a boy smashing dumpster-salvaged copper pipe with a rock while singing Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I used to dumpster-dive in my housing development for scrap metal. I'd smash copper pipe against rocks to make swords while singing Phantom of the Opera or Starlight Express. I was nine. I haven't really stopped.
Before my first job as a Cinemark ticket-taker, I was a blacksmith. In fact, I was a blacksmith before I was much of anything, and it's the one thing that's persisted across twenty years of varied professional experience.
I was a blacksmith in the Navy. I was a blacksmith in college. I was a blacksmith while running a martial arts school. I was a blacksmith even when all my other identities were lost. When I knew nothing else about myself, I knew I was a blacksmith.
Now I'm a therapist, father, husband, entrepreneur, author, speaker, vocalist, and teacher — and within all of those things, I am a blacksmith.
My first business was a blacksmith shop. My first business failure was a blacksmith shop. And now that failure has evolved into something no one else in Colorado, and maybe no one else in the country, is doing.
I've spent more than half my life at the forge with a hammer in my hand, and no matter how much time I spend away from it, I always come back.
I've always been mobile. I got my first real forge while I was in the Navy, and it had to fit in the back of my 2003 Toyota Camry. I'd spend my whole weekend in the South Carolina swamp swinging a hammer and singing to the alligators, then pack it all up for the week ahead. My work travels with me wherever I go, because that's what I needed when I needed the forge most. And now, I can bring it to you.
Most blacksmithing schools make you come to them. That's fine if you live close or can schedule a day trip, but it leaves a lot of Colorado off the map and a lot of curious people out of the picture. The mobile setup — whether I bring the whole 1800s-style smithy wagon or just work off the tailgate of my obnoxiously orange Dodge Ram — means I can show up at your driveway, your AirBnB, your brewery, your venue, or your kid's birthday party.
The mobility is what makes Hammer & Fable special. People are always mesmerized by the forge and the work. They want to see a blacksmith in action and maybe even swing the hammer themselves. But it takes so much planning to find a shop and schedule a visit. Now you don't have to. I can bring the magic to wherever you need it, the same way that forge in the 2003 Camry was there for me.
The vehicle has changed. The heart never will.
I'm a classically trained vocalist, which is another story for another time. I've mostly kept that skill for myself, never done anything with it, but I always found that a good sea shanty sounds even better with an anvil ringing as percussion. When I have four groomsmen swinging eight-pound sledges in time, Drunken Sailor keeps everyone from smashing thumbs or shinbones while we work.
I sing because I love it and the work feels better with music in it. Plus, people get chills when the beat hits just right.
A place to teach.
Or more accurately, teaching without a place. I can bring the forge to Mr. Fuentes's class on medieval history day. To the library for a community workshop. To the park to amuse curious passersby. It's not about “selling” classes — it's about inspiring curiosity and helping some kid (or kid-at-heart) find their passion in a world that always feels too busy to go somewhere and learn something on purpose. Heritage craft is dying because it's hard to teach and harder to organize. I want to make it accessible for anyone to learn.
A presence.
People stop and watch with their mouths open when they see someone twist a railroad spike with nothing but a couple pairs of pliers. They sing along to well-known folk songs. They ask questions, bring their kids over (let's be honest — usually the kids are dragging their parents), and sometimes leave with a token made right in front of them. I want to be the guy who shows up in a truck and turns ordinary events into ones people remember.
Heirloom pieces people will pass down.
Custom blades with a handle made from the antlers of the first deer you shot. A belt buckle forged from your grandpa's old wood rasp. A bottle opener made from the wrench your dad kept around his auto shop. Architectural pieces and sculptures people mark anniversaries with. Or just a cool idea you have, brought to life. The pieces I'm proudest of are the ones that didn't seem possible — until we made it possible.
I'm a horror and dark fantasy author, painter, software architect, clinical counselor, father, and husband. None of that is on the brochure, but if you're going to invite me to your event, you should know who's showing up. I'm not just a guy with a forge. I'm the most eclectic serial-hobbyist you'll meet.
Send me an email. Tell me what you're imagining. Or book through one of the class pages. If you have an event in mind, send the date and venue and let's talk it through. If you're looking for an apprenticeship, let's get to know each other and see if it's a good fit.
The shop door is always open. Come sit by the fire. I'll tell you old stories, sing you old songs, and there's always room for you to join me.
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