The Shopkeepers That Made Me: A Founder's Reflection on Building House of Thayer

I used to think I just liked “nice things” - the smell of new stationery, the hum of a label maker, the gentle clink of ceramic mugs stacked neatly on a shelf. But it turns out, what I was really drawn to was ritual. Presence. The feeling of a space so carefully made that it made you want to do something carefully, too.

Growing up in upstate New York, I was surrounded by storefronts that were more than just places of business - they were extensions of their owners. They were established businesses who - sometimes - were generations old. Every Saturday morning, I’d watch shopkeepers sweep their sidewalks before they even unlocked their doors. Some would mist the plants hanging in front of their windows. Others would tug open old gates with a creak, straighten a sign, and flip the classic “Closed” to “Open” with a small nod, like they were opening the curtain on something sacred. For my family, Saturday’s were for shopping. And most Saturday’s we could be found from dawn til dusk walking main streets, trailing the mall, stepping into flea markets, even a day roadtrip to antique and thrift stores.

Those small, almost invisible acts of care were, for me, a quiet education. I didn’t know the term “entrepreneur” yet. I just knew I wanted to be one of those people - the ones who made the spaces you wanted to be in.

But it wasn’t just real-life shopkeepers who got me dreaming. Like most Millennials, I was also raised by television and movies — and one character in particular showed me exactly what shopkeeper magic looked like: Kathleen Kelly.

Meg Ryan as Kathleen Kelly in You’ve Got Mail

Her little children’s bookstore in You’ve Got Mail wasn’t just a charming movie set. It was a masterclass in building a world. The warm light, the carefully chosen titles, the handwritten signs, the conversations at the counter - all of it felt like a calling. She hung lights and decorated the store’s Christmas tree with grace. She knew her neighbors and customers by name. She curated a space that meant something and she believed in it, even as the world changed around her.

Like Kathleen, I didn’t want to just sell things. I wanted to create places that held meaning — where scent, color, story, and memory collided in beautiful, subtle ways. Places where someone could walk in and feel known, welcomed, maybe even inspired.

There was Lorelei Gilmore at the Dragonfly Inn, greeting guests and running around making decisions and directing staff with her unmatched blend of wit, warmth, and caffeine. Roseanne, whose messy but determined attempt at owning a bike shop with Dan felt strangely ambitious to me. Even Rachel Green - whose job as a personal shopper at Bloomingdale’s felt like the height of aspirational adulthood and glamour -held a certain power I couldn’t shake. (Ironically, that’s a job I actually ended up doing, and yes, it was every bit as satisfying as I imagined.)

Jennifer Aniston as Rachel Green in Episode 12 of Friends, “The One with All the Jealousy.”

Each of these women had something in common. They created something. They opened the doors. They chose the furniture, the outfits, the music playing in the background. They put their name, or at least their spirit, on the line. And even in moments of chaos, they believed in the magic of small, intentional spaces.

Years later, when I worked as a personal shopper at Bloomingdale’s Chicago, I started to understand just how much thought and curation went into what we call “taste.” I wasn’t just helping people buy clothes. I was helping them see themselves differently. I started to notice the power of details: the texture of a sweater, the fit of a dress, the perfect brass button, the subtle shape of a pocket. I also noticed how easy it was to sell things that looked good, but how rare it was to find things that felt good, that meant something, that would last.

This tension - between appearance and essence - became a driving force in my career.

After graduate school in History and Historic Preservation, I worked for one of Chicago’s top antique dealers and later joined the Antiques Roadshow team, where I learned to read the language of objects: the grain of wood, the signature of pottery, the weight of old silver, the story behind a handmade quilt. I realized that good design doesn’t just reflect the present — it nods to the past, and it builds toward a future.

And that’s the philosophy that eventually led me to co-found House of Thayer.

At House of Thayer, we believe every material tells a story. Where it came from. Who shaped it. What it was meant to endure. We source materials with provenance - reclaimed wood, unlacquered brass, hand-dyed linens - not because they’re trendy, but because they’ve earned their place in the world. We create pieces and spaces with care because we know that care is contagious.

Our process may involve mood boards, CAD renderings, and custom sourcing, but at its heart, it’s still about the same thing I saw on Main Street as a kid: creating something real, something good, something you’re proud to open the door to.

The nostalgia I carry isn’t about aesthetic. It’s about ethos. It’s about remembering a time when business owners knew their products, their customers, their suppliers. When style had depth and stories had weight. When design wasn’t just about the way things looked, but how they made people feel.

And yes, it’s also about denim sofas, see-through landline phones, and sunflowers on every kitchen curtain. Because let’s be honest — our childhoods were filled with bold design choices. And if I’m being totally honest - the 90s were the absolute peak of humanity. The ducks in the kitchen? The paisley borders? The inflatable chairs and Lisa Frank trapper keepers? They may not be what we’re curating today, but they planted the seed that design matters. That your space says something about you, even when it’s saying, “We got this at JCPenney in 1994 and we love it anyway.”

Now, as a designer, illustrator, and co-founder, I get to bring that full circle. Whether it’s curating a thoughtful room, developing a scent profile for a candle, or drawing a vintage-inspired wallpaper pattern by hand, I carry that same sense of care into everything I do.

I want people to feel what I felt watching those shopkeepers - and watching Kathleen Kelly arrange tulips in a jar beside the register or stopping to buy a pumpkin to adorn the cashwrap during the fall season, that something has been prepared for them with intention. That someone took time. That design can still have a soul.

So maybe this is just my adult version of flipping the “Open” sign. Of sweeping the front stoop. Of making sure the window display says something worth stopping for.

If you’re here, welcome. Come in. I’ve been waiting to show you around.