After too much hard work outdoors, it was a cold, tired, end-of-the-day. The winter clouds were threatening snow. We were both looking forward to a hot shower, coffee, and a meal.

Frank (my father) was a plumber. I worked for him during my high school years. He needed the help and I needed the money. But I was happy to work with my Dad because he was one of the best craftsmen in our county. I learned a trade from him.

Plumbers in those days did not earn what they do now. His income was enough for us to have a home and eat three meals daily. But we were a one-income family and our standard of living was on the lower end of middle class with most other blue-collar workers.

On the way home from that very tiring day, Dad pulled into a gas station to fuel up for the next day’s work. Standing next to the office was a poor, young couple traveling to a distant place. They too were cold. And they were in need—not begging mind you—but obviously in need. Dad had an eye for that. He had been in a similar position earlier in life.

While the tank was filling, he spoke quietly to them and then handed them the contents of his wallet, suggesting they get a hot meal, a room, and gas for their car. I did not see the interaction nor did Dad say anything about it to me. I only learned of it from my mother much later. He told her, not to gain praise, but to explain where their money had gone. It amounted to a good share of that week’s profits.

Dad was a generous man, a good man. A real man.