In the corner of a small Springville workshop, Dave Giles spent decades covered in sawdust.
Wood shavings curled from the spinning lathe. Walnut and oak blocks slowly transformed beneath steady hands. Somewhere in the background, another custom order waited to be finished — maybe for a judge, maybe for a Masonic lodge, maybe for a movie set halfway across the country.
It wasn’t glamorous work. It was dirty, repetitive, solitary work.
But over 30 years, Giles toiled as not only the premier but perhaps the only custom gavel maker in America — crafting gavels that ended up in courtrooms, ceremonies, films, and even some that marked historic events.
It’s the sort of career that sounds almost made up — a profession so oddly specific that most people would assume there couldn’t possibly be enough demand to support a business.
But for Giles, what began as a small side project in the 1990s quietly grew into an internationally recognized niche business that reached far beyond Utah Valley.
“I was looking for a little project that would work after hours,” Giles said with the easygoing tone of someone who still seems slightly amused by the whole thing.
The idea came from his father, who owned Ferry’s Mill in Provo. The mill occasionally made gavels as promotional gifts for local organizations like the Elks and Eagles lodges. Giles, already experienced with woodworking and lathe turning from his years at the mill, snapped a photo of one of his father’s gavels.
“A week later I had an order,” he said. “And that’s what started it.”
That single order turned into The Gavel Store, a one-man operation that Giles ran from 1996 until retirement. Along the way, he discovered something surprising: There really wasn’t much competition.
“You’re probably talking to the only one that makes custom gavels,” he joked.
It’s not an exaggeration.
Backyard woodworkers might occasionally make a gavel or two, said Giles, but producing matching gavels consistently required specialized skill. Years spent turning stair parts and wooden balusters at Ferry’s Mill gave him the ability to duplicate shapes precisely — a deceptively difficult task on a lathe.
“People make gavels, but they can’t make two look the same,” he said. “That’s the difference.”
Inside his workshop, the process remained entirely old-school. Giles worked by hand, shaping blocks of walnut and oak on a lathe, sanding and finishing each piece individually. One gavel could take 6 to 8 hours from start to finish.
“It’s one of the dirtiest machines in a wood shop,” he said of the lathe, laughing. “All the shavings and everything go down your neck, and it’s just a filthy machine. But you produce a lot of beautiful things with it.”
Over the years, customers came from all over the world. Judges ordered ceremonial gavels. Masonic organizations purchased themed gavels for youth groups. Companies commissioned unusual custom designs.
One of the strangest requests came from motorcycle enthusiasts.
A customer wanted a motorcycle-themed gavel, so Giles experimented with designs inspired by BMW engines before eventually creating a Harley-style version with a V-twin engine that he worked into the head of the gavel.
Then there was the denim-handled gavel requested by Levi Strauss, as well as the movie prop departments that regularly ordered his work for films and television productions.
Sometimes, the stories attached to the gavels became bigger than the gavels themselves.
About 20 years ago, Giles received a broken gavel from the New York Stock Exchange along with a simple request: Could he build one that wouldn’t break?
He could. And they’ve been using his gavels ever since to ceremonially open and close trading at the Stock Exchange — though he admits it’s been about five years since he sent them a new one.
“I guess I made it too good,” he said. “They don’t need anymore.”
Another memorable order came during the military trial proceedings involving Saddam Hussein. Giles shipped two gavels overseas to an APO address, later receiving a note from a military clerk explaining their significance.
“He said, ‘You need to understand, these two gavels will be the gavels that put Saddam Hussein down,’” Giles said.
For a man who spent most of his career quietly working alone in a woodshop, his creations ended up brushing unexpectedly close to world history.
Still, Giles talks about his work with remarkable humility.
“I’m just a little independent guy trying to make a living,” he said. “And it’s been wonderful.”
These days, retirement has slowed things down considerably. Giles still lives in Provo and spends more time fishing and flying model airplanes than turning gavels. Though he occasionally takes on an order, he admits customers have to “twist my arm” before he’ll agree to make one now.
He’s also dismantled some of the more visible reminders of the business, including the giant 14-foot gavel sign that once stood outside his Springville shop. Built from 55-gallon barrels and corrugated pipe, the massive gavel had become something of a roadside curiosity and local photo hotspot over the years.
“It turned out pretty cute,” he said.
There’s no clear successor waiting in the wings. Giles never apprenticed anyone, and his daughters pursued different interests. When he eventually stops making gavels entirely, his unusual craft may quietly disappear with him.
Dave Giles’ story belongs to a fading kind of American small business — one built not through scaling up or chasing trends, but through mastering one oddly specific thing and doing it exceptionally well for decades.
In a world of mass production and automation, there’s something deeply charming about the idea that some of the world’s most recognizable gavels were handcrafted one at a time in a small Springville workshop by a man covered in sawdust.
