It was late summer when I first rolled up Ravine Street and saw the big TCI Group signs posted out front—216 Ravine Street, a curious little building just past the curve, once home to Eastman Credit Union, then Holston Valley Credit Union. I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of a different kind of freedom. One that didn’t ask permission.
I called my friend Jackie Hewitt immediately. I didn’t need to sleep on it. Something about the building struck a nerve—like it had been waiting on me. Two lots, a drive-through, a remote ATM unit that would eventually house my lawnmower, and roughly 1,300 square feet of institutional blandness wrapped in modular brick. Not much to look at. But to me, it was a launch pad.
I bought it in November 2023, the same month my marriage officially ended. In some ways, the place was just walls and safes and bulletproof windows. But to me, it was also a line in the sand—the beginning of a chapter where I would stop seeking approval, stop waiting for “someday,” and just build the life I wanted.
Before renovations began, I leaned on a longtime friend, Greg Taylor, for ideas and encouragement. He’s the kind of guy whose wisdom sneaks up on you. At one point, while I was overthinking a decision, he just smiled and said, “Why not both?” That phrase stuck with me—and it’s been echoing in every creative decision I’ve made since.
By January 2024, I had hired Earnest Campbell to start tearing it apart. The old credit union walls came down. Acoustic tiles went up. The floor was stripped and redone. The windows were blacked out. While Earnest handled the inside, Nacho and his crew patched the leaky roof. By May, it was ready.
I called it my media lab, but in reality, it’s a compound of creativity—part office, part studio, part rehearsal space. It quickly became headquarters for Volume Interactive. That blue circle with the white “V” turned up? It means something here. It’s the symbol of a new volume in my life, too—turned up, not down.
What I’ve built here is fully teched out: a wall of computers, hard drives, media tools, cameras, audio gear—every gadget I could want in a space designed for producing, creating, and pushing out new ideas. From editing suites to rehearsal corners, this place is wired for both art and work.
This is how I operate now—on a two-year plan. I invest, I build, I learn, and then I evolve. It’s not always easy. There’s a lot of trouble involved in creating something from nothing. But it’s worth it. The sense of accomplishment, the clarity of vision, and the momentum of seeing something through—that’s the real payoff.
And yet, it’s not just about tools or output. The place has remnants of my past scattered across every surface. My plants, my old photos, fragments from a life well lived. It’s not a museum, but it is personal. It’s filled with meaning.
The space has seen everything from jazz rehearsals to full-on band sessions. Samantha Gray and I recorded our first videos here. These Undowners practiced here. We ran meetings, wrote campaigns, edited content, and filled whiteboards with new plans every week. I’m constantly drawing on the walls—dry erase notes for the future. It’s how I keep my compass set.
And while it was built to work, it’s also become a bit of a bunker. There’s a regular parade of folks walking up Ravine from the Greenbelt and Church Circle. Some homeless, some just lost. A few visitors still pull through the drive-through expecting to cash a check. I’ve considered taking their deposits. (Insert smile emoji.)
This place isn’t perfect, but it’s mine. I moved a Yamaha piano into the space—by hand. I won’t be doing that again. Note to self: hire movers next time. There’s a hum here, a rhythm to the street outside and the quiet that happens once the door closes. I’ve built something here, something I needed more than I realized.
I don’t know how long I’ll keep it. There’s a bigger space being renovated now, three times the size, with an apartment overhead in Colonial Heights. It’s closer to the interstate. Closer to what’s next. But this little studio on the hill served its purpose. It helped me remember that a home isn’t a place—it’s a momentum. It’s choosing not to wait.
This pirate life—entrepreneurial, unbound, and maybe a little reckless—is mine now. And from this perch above Ravine, I’ve seen what happens when you stop asking for permission and just build the damn thing.
