Walt died on a Tuesday morning in March. He was seventy-six.
He’d opened the garage at seven, the way he had every day for forty-six years. He made the coffee. He was bent over the engine of a 2009 Chevy Silverado belonging to the Lutheran pastor when his heart stopped.
The pastor found him. He said Walt still had a wrench in his hand.
Joanne had passed in 2017. Walt only had one child. His son, Derek.
Derek is forty-one. He moved to Minneapolis right after college and never really came back. He sells cybersecurity software to hospitals. He drives a Tesla. He came home for Christmas most years, and Walt was always so proud of him he could hardly stand it.
“My boy’s a big shot,” Walt would tell anybody who’d listen. “Works with computers. Smarter than his old man ever was.”
I don’t think Derek ever changed his own oil in his life.
Walt’s will was simple. He wrote it with the attorney in town, Margaret Haugen, back in 2018 after Joanne died. Everything went to Derek. The garage, the building, the tools, the house on Fourth Street.
And Walt named me executor of his estate.
“Derek’s too far away, Carol,” he told me when he signed it. “And you’re the only one in this family who can balance a checkbook.”
I’d been a bookkeeper at the Spencer co-op for thirty-three years. He wasn’t wrong.
So after the funeral, it was my job to inventory everything. File the papers with the Clay County court. Pay Walt’s last bills. And eventually, once the estate closed, hand it all over to Derek.
Derek flew in from Minneapolis three weeks after the funeral to start cleaning out the garage.
I was helping him.
That’s when he found the coffee can.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.