Growing up, my dad’s workshop was my favorite room in the house. It smelled like sawdust and machine oil, and every corner bristled with tools — solid, reliable, heavy in your hand. He could fix anything, and if he couldn’t, he’d make it. The things he made felt permanent. Even the shelves in our garage, held together with screws from a local hardware store, seemed like they’d outlast the house itself.
Today, I don’t have a workshop. I have a toolbox from a big-box store, full of flimsy wrenches that bend if I torque too hard. I have shelves that are perfectly uniform but sag under the weight of books. And if something breaks, odds are I’ll replace it before I try to fix it. Sometimes it feels like everything in my home is built to fail — or, worse, to be forgotten.
There’s an ache in watching American manufacturing vanish, an ache I didn’t recognize at first. In the 90s, when factories were shutting down and industries were moving overseas, I was too young to understand what was happening. All I knew was that the cars my dad admired came from Michigan, and the toy trucks I played with said “Made in China” on the bottom.
Now, as an adult, I see what was lost. Manufacturing wasn’t just about jobs; it was about identity. The things we made — cars, appliances, tools — reflected a pride in craftsmanship and durability. Buying something wasn’t a casual transaction; it was a long-term investment, a handshake deal that promised, “This will last.”
Today, the promise feels broken.
It’s not that everything we own is worse — some things, like phones or computers, are marvels of modern engineering. But most of it? Most of it feels like filler. Furniture from a flat-pack store, clothes that unravel after a few washes, appliances that die right after the warranty expires. The sheer volume of it should feel like abundance, but it doesn’t. It feels hollow.
I see it most clearly in the small things. My parents still have a toaster they got for their wedding. It’s heavy, chrome-plated, and still makes perfect toast. I’ve gone through three toasters in five years. Each one promised to be better than the last — more settings, better heating elements — but they all ended up the same: jammed, broken, or tossed.
The weight of things has shifted. The objects I grew up with carried a physical weight, a density that spoke of their purpose. What I have now carries a different kind of weight — the weight of waste, of disposability, of knowing that this, too, will end up in the trash.
I don’t want to romanticize the past too much. Manufacturing jobs weren’t always kind, and the products weren’t always perfect. But there was a sense of permanence, a belief that what we built mattered. Watching that disappear feels like losing a piece of ourselves — not just our economy, but our culture.
And yet, there’s hope. I see it in the people who are trying to bring manufacturing back, who are investing in small-batch, local production. I see it in the push for sustainability, for buying less but buying better. I see it in the resurgence of repair culture, where fixing something is an act of defiance against disposability.
Living in a house full of more — and less — has taught me something important: it’s not the abundance that matters, but the intention behind it. I don’t need more things. I need better things. Things that last, that mean something, that carry the weight of care.
I think about that workshop sometimes. About the tools that didn’t bend and the shelves that didn’t sag. I wonder what it would take to feel that kind of permanence again, to trust the things I own and the stories they tell. Maybe it starts with buying less. Maybe it starts with fixing what I already have. Or maybe it starts with remembering that what we build isn’t just for today — it’s for tomorrow, too.
