It has been one year since Sunday, April 27th, 2025, when the world lost a truly special person—my cousin, Daniel Cole Reed.
Cousin Danny was the most loving guy anyone could meet—the embodiment of the phrase, ‘would give you the shirt off his back.’ He is so deeply missed, and the following is a tribute to him.
Daniel Core Reed was one of those rare individuals who was not afraid to be himself and to share himself with others. He spent fifty years on this earth, accumulating many experiences and relationships, yet through it all, he was always himself. He was someone who you were always excited as hell to see, because you knew you would walk away from the encounter with a hell of a story to tell.
There was just one issue with all the resulting stories—when recounting the story, unless the other person knew him also, they were simply not going to believe you.
For example, when with Danny, a simple drive to the eye doctor could turn into investigating a propane leak at a local pizza shop. A quick drive to Dunkin’ Donuts to get some donuts turned into, as he would say, “getting a white trash breakfast at Denny’s.” What was meant to be a straightforward afternoon loaning Danny a van to help move furniture to his new house turned into several chaotic hours: a tirade about a slanted chimney (“It’s going to cost sixty grand to fix this thing! It’s just not worth it”), a smoke break halfway up the stairs (“Put this couch down, I need a smoke before I blow my mind”), and the triumphant announcement that a Purple Mattress California King was arriving (“God bless express delivery!”)
Danny’s life was a never-ending source of incredible stories. There will always be too many of these stories to tell, but there is one wild evening in particular that I will never forget—when Danny took me along for one of his adventures.
A few years back, during COVID, I was out walking my dog when my phone suddenly rang. It was Cousin Danny. He explained that my brother Matt had told him I could give him a quick ride to Jerry’s, a mediocre pizza place, where he was to exchange cars with a family member. Evidently, he had called to ask Matt first, forgetting entirely that Matt lived in Boston, hours away, in a city Cousin Danny despised. Whenever Boston would come up, Danny would tell you all about his dislike of the “Massholes” that lived there. He strongly disapproved of Matt residing amongst them—“What the hell is he doing, living with the Massholes?”
I agreed to be over in twenty minutes, to which Danny replied, “All right, thanks babe. Love ya, babe.”
When I arrived there, I immediately saw Danny on the front porch pacing back and forth. I parked, he rushed to the side of my car, swung the door open, got in and declared, “All right, we need to go to New Haven. This guy has owed me thirty grand for thirty years. I just called him and told him it’s now or never. I’m done waiting around on his BS.”
“All right, sounds good.” In the back of my mind, my “yes” was motivated by a desire for a story to tell. I had no plans, and I was already there—I couldn’t justify leaving now. So I put the car in reverse, and the journey began. During that car ride, he fired off quips I’ll be repeating for the rest of my life.
For example, immediately he began asking about the car I was driving, which at that time was a Ford Ranger. “This is a nice truck, man. I love this thing. I used to have one till the front end got blown out when I was plowing, but it was a great truck. A lot better than the Chevy S-10 I had. That thing was a pile of crap.” He went on, “It was only good for going in reverse. They must make those things backwards.”
Later he added, “You’re driving way too fast, man. God damn, if that white dog of yours was in this car and put its head out this window, its tongue would fall out of its mouth.”
Then, for whatever reason, he started poking fun at my diet, which at the time was plant-based. Danny found this very odd. He joked, “The hell? You eat like a rabbit. You eat like one of them things. The hell do they call those animals? Oh yeah, that’s right. Kangaroos. You’re a god damn kangaroo, kid. We’re going to start calling you Kenny the Kangaroo.”
Eventually he let up. “But listen, I don’t care if you are a rabbit, a squirrel, or a kangaroo. I’ll always love ya, babe.”
As we got closer to New Haven, things grew quieter. I asked, “What can you do if someone owes you money?” “Nothing. Not a god damn thing,” he replied. “Just hope the person grows a heart and pays up. But the truth is, that never happens, so you just got to take matters into your own hands sometimes.”
We finally arrived at a house in one of the Havens. I didn’t know if it was East Haven, West Haven, or New Haven—I just knew it was one of the Havens. He instructed, “Park right on the street here.”
I parked, and he got out. Ten to fifteen minutes went by. I sat in the car with the engine running, watching the neighborhood, wondering what exactly was happening inside that house. Then Danny got back into the car and said, “All right, I got a partial payment. That’s better than nothing. I hope to never see this jackass again in my life. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
As Danny directed me back to the highway, he said, “I used to run these streets back in the day, and it wasn’t for a good reason. I was going through a lot in my life and it came out in all the wrong ways.” He looked out the window at the passing streets. “That’s why I’m happy you’re not a screwball like I was. I’m glad to have raised my family in cowtown Durham. Partly to be closer to your mom and her chili, but also because it’s easier to choose the right path there than in the Havens. All you kids turned out okay.”
We were on the highway for a while when, halfway home, out of nowhere, he exclaimed, “Damn, I’m hungry as hell. Get off at the next exit and find something for me to eat.” So I got off at the exit, and we started driving past the usual lineup of chain restaurants. After each one, Danny had something to say.
First up: Panera Bread. “That place sucks. It’s for woke hippies. You’ll never catch me in there.” I just rolled my eyes. Next: Chick-fil-A. “Chick-fil-A? More like chick-a-fuck-that. Who the hell wants to eat just chicken? Any real person wants red meat—a burger and a fry. That’s the American tradition.” Then: Olive Garden. A vein practically popped out of Danny’s forehead as he launched into his spiel. “Olive Garden is an embarrassment. They call themselves an Italian restaurant? It’s an Italian place for white-trash nobodies.” Fourth: Friendly’s. “Friendly’s is good. I really like a Friendly’s. But after seeing that disgrace of an establishment, Olive Garden, I’m not in a Friendly’s mood—and I mean that in more ways than one.” I chuckled as he went on relentlessly. Finally: Wendy’s. “There we go—Wendy’s. I love a Wendy’s. Great fry, great burger. Underrated place. In my opinion, they kick Burger King and McDonald’s asses when it comes to a burger.”
I pulled into the parking lot and headed toward the drive-through. Danny unbuckled and started leaning across the center console, practically climbing into my lap. His shoulder pressed against mine, his head hovering inches from my face as he strained toward the speaker.
“Welcome to Wendy’s. How may I take your order?”
Danny’s ear was basically in my mouth. “What? I can’t—” He pulled back, looked at me with an expression of pure exasperation, then leaned in again. The voice repeated itself, tiny and distant through the speaker. “I can’t hear a thing,” Danny announced, sitting back and fidgeting with his ears like he could manually adjust the volume. He looked at the speaker, then at me, and I watched in real-time as the decision formed in his mind. Resolution set in across his face. His eyes bore that certain look of his—the same look I’d seen when he decided we were driving to the Havens in the first place.
“Back the car up. I have to get out. I can’t hear this guy. Back it up.”
I put the car in reverse, checking my rearview mirror where an SUV had just pulled up behind us. The woman inside was craning her neck, trying to figure out why we were backing up. I gave her an apologetic look that I hoped communicated ‘I’m just the driver, this wasn’t my idea!’ Danny popped his door open before I’d even fully stopped. I watched him walk—not sheepishly, not quickly, but with complete and total confidence—right up to the drive-through speaker box where he stood as if he was at a podium.
“Sorry, babe. Couldn’t hear you. Please repeat that.”
I gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the SUV woman. This was my life now. This was what I had chosen when I agreed to this ride, but I had no regrets.
After finishing his order. He got back in the car and complained, “My ears are all jacked up. I need to get them looked at.” We pulled up, paid, got the food, and finally headed home.
We got back to his house, and he invited me to come inside, saying he needed to talk to me. I readily followed him inside. I sat down at his kitchen table, and he addressed me as he bustled around the kitchen. “I love you, babe. I’m so proud of ya and all the progress you made in the past few years. I know this world is often a pile of shit, but you’re going to keep fighting. I’m so proud of you, kid,” he said.
“Listen, I know you’ve had some mental health struggles in the past few years, and honestly most people don’t come out of that, but you did and made one hell of a comeback, kid. Well done, it’s just one hell of a comeback.” His words have stuck with me ever since. He gave me a big hug and concluded, “Listen, I love ya, babe. Don’t ever hesitate to call. Tell your mom I love her, and if you ever disrespect her, I’ll kick your ass.”
As soon as I was out the door, I immediately called my brother and my mom, told them the story, and we laughed and smiled easily, all of us knowing that’s how it was with Danny. Every experience was a story, his conversations blended humor with genuine wisdom, and every time you were with him, he made sure to check in on you and made sure you knew how much he loved you.
Above all, the thing that set my cousin Danny apart from most anyone else I know was when he said “love ya, babe,” “call anytime,” “I’m proud of you,” or even “I’ll kick your ass,” you could be certain he wasn’t just talking. If he said it, he meant it. He loved so strongly, and because of that, he affected most everyone’s lives so deeply.
He battled cancer fiercely until the very end. I’ll always regret not going to see him, especially since I was enrolled at a college just a ten minute walk from where he was. I think I stayed away because—after talking with family who had visited him—I knew he was in rough shape. I didn’t want to go and see a version of him that wasn’t the energetic guy I knew, the one with a cigarette in one hand, a big gulp soda in the other, and a mouth full of memorable quotes.
But then again, perhaps it’s not so bad I didn’t see him, because I can vividly picture exactly how it would have gone if I did visit.
“Hey, babe, thanks for coming,” he’d have said. “What are you up to nowadays?”
“I’m studying journalism, actually, just down the street at Gateway Community College.”
“How’re the grades?” he’d respond.
“Oh well, I actually made the honor roll first semester, which was surprising to me being how poor I did in high school.”
“Great to hear, babe. I’m so proud of you, babe. I love ya, babe.” And then he’d have given me a big hug.
I’d say, “Love you too.”
Every family deserves a Cousin Danny. Every family that doesn’t have one is at a great disadvantage. But the truth is, only one family had Cousin Danny, and it was the one I have been blessed to be a part of.
Maya Angelou once said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Danny made everyone around him feel loved, cared for, and seen. That’s the greatest legacy a person can leave behind—not money, not accomplishments, but the unmistakable feeling that you mattered to them.
Now that we know we won’t have him on this earth anymore, I hope we all can learn from his tremendous example and let those we love know it. Tell them directly. Tell them often. Make them feel it the way Danny made us feel it. Rest in peace, Cousin Danny. I will always love ya, babe.