At 68, I owned the smallest repair shop on the edge of the town, though “owned” was starting to feel generous. The bank owned more of it than I did. The roof leaked whenever it rained, the office heater coughed louder than most engines I fixed, and the sign out front had been missing two letters since a windstorm three winters ago.
Still, every morning, I unlocked the garage doors and whispered the same thing.
“Morning, old girl.”
I wasn’t sure if I was talking to the shop, my pickup, or myself.
Maybe all three.
My name is Walter, and I have spent most of my life fixing things that other people gave up on. Cars. Trucks. Lawn mowers. Once, even a church van that smelled like wet carpet and regret. People in town knew I charged less than I should have. Some called it kindness. My friend Earl called it stupidity.