When I was just a little kid, my age still in the single digits, I’d often go with my dad, especially during the long, sun-drenched days of summer, to homes where he’d patiently coax life back into broken appliances—mostly refrigerators, the ancient, rumbling kind.

Ears, Tools, and Soap Bubbles

My role in these expeditions wasn’t particularly sophisticated; I was chiefly the tool-passer. Sometimes, though, I also served as his ears. His own hearing had been relentlessly battered by years of wrestling with loud, heavy engines, often while they were running, with no thought given to ear protection back then. So, whenever my dad suspected a gas leak, my job was to help locate it. Since his own hearing was poor, I would listen intently for the tell-tale hiss of escaping gas. My dad also had other tools in his arsenal for confirming a leak, like a simple bar of soap. We used soap frequently, and it was an ingenious way to detect a leak.

The Sound of Sacrifice

It always makes me feel a pang of sorrow, though, thinking about how my dad lost most of his hearing; that was the steep price he paid to keep food on our table. I tagged along a couple of times when he was fixing those monstrous industrial engines, jobs that would stretch on for days, and the deafening, relentless roar was something I never got used to.

House Calls

Anyway, on a particularly busy day, we might make two or three house calls. We’d head out in the cool of the early morning, as diagnosing and fixing an appliance could often takes hours. My dad is a genuinely smart man, a problem-solver, and I cherished those workdays by his side, watching him think. Tipping, however, wasn’t really a custom where I grew up—not like it is in the States, or at least, not how it seems to be now. For me, I think the most fascinating part of the job was the unrestricted glimpse into people’s refrigerators, a silent testament to their lives—those who were visibly wealthy and those who clearly were not. But, of course, what did a boy my age truly comprehend about wealth back then? Absolutely nothing. What was remarkably common, however, was that no one ever seemed to clear out their fridge before our arrival. It wasn’t out of laziness, I think, but more because they were never entirely sure which day my dad would actually appear. So, almost without fail, our arrival was met with a surprise. Invariably, a grandma, mom, or sister would greet us at the door, often pulled away mid-task—the rhythmic chop of vegetables suddenly paused, a cleaning rag set aside, or, on many memorable occasions, a fork hovering mid-air as they were caught in the middle of their own meal.

Of course, stumbling upon a family mid-meal was the most socially awkward situation of all. The rich, warm smell of home-cooked food would fill the air, and the unspoken pressure I felt—a silent invitation, perhaps, to join them—was intense each time. But my mom had laid down the law: “You don’t eat or accept anything from anyone unless your dad explicitly tells you so.” And my dad, a man of few words in those situations, never once signaled for me to go for it.

Sweet Rewards

However, not every service call ended with us leaving empty-handed. Sometimes, on what I considered a few gloriously lucky missions, the broken refrigerator would belong to a small pastry shop. So an ice cream treat was almost certainly forthcoming, and I often managed to snag more than one.

A Call to a Different World

Then there was this one particular house, their refrigerator on the fritz. It was a Saturday, and my dad had prioritized this call because an elderly lady was living there all alone in her son’s grand house, while her son himself lived overseas. The house was a single story. It was constructed from large, artfully placed stones, each one looking like a carefully chosen piece of a mosaic. The furniture inside was unmistakably French, in that opulent, Napoleonic deep-red style. Honestly, it felt like stepping into a miniature palace. Even the garden was impeccably maintained. This was clearly one of the few truly affluent families in our area, so I remember feeling a thrill of excitement mixed with a touch of shy embarrassment to even be there.

The Ritual of Repair (and a Heavy Toolbox)

We’d go in, and my dad would immediately get down to business, assessing the silent, problematic fridge. He’d ask his usual barrage of diagnostic questions, his head cocked, listening intently (or trying to) while the lady described the issue with dramatic flair. Every time, these pre-repair conversations felt infused with a sense of crisis, as if we were discussing an existential threat rather than a faulty appliance. “Everything was working perfectly, and then suddenly, poof, it just stopped!” she might exclaim, or “I paid so much for it; it’s a top-of-the-line Italian refrigerator—it never should have broken!” And, almost invariably, the ladies would conclude their sentence with something along the lines of, “I was actually ready to throw the wretched thing out, but I thought I’d give it one last try, as long as it doesn’t cost me more than [she’d name a startlingly low sum of money],” a figure that always prompted a slow, weary roll of my dad’s eyes. Anyway, my dad would agree to tackle the issue and then dispatch me to the car to bring in the heavy metal toolbox. It was a beast of a box, probably a good 20 pounds, a weight I could never properly manage to lift. I mostly just dragged its protesting bulk from the car to the front door, where my dad would finally lend a hand.

An Unexpected Encounter

On this occasion, however, while I was wrestling with that cumbersome box, the elderly lady approached me. I wasn’t anywhere near my dad when she leaned in and asked with a gentle smile, “Do you know that my grandson is just your age?” I looked up, surprised. “Really?” “Yes,” she affirmed. “He’s exactly your age, and he lives in France with his family. They’re visiting this summer, in just a few short weeks.” I just managed an, “Oh, okay.” I genuinely didn’t know what else to say to her. Then she continued, her voice filled with pride, “And he just received a $1000 gift! To buy whatever his heart desires.” I didn’t know precisely how much $1000 translated to back then, but the way she said it, I knew it was an astronomical sum. The most money I’d ever possessed was about a quarter of a dollar—which, to be fair, could still buy a king’s ransom in my world: five of those intensely sweet, red berry lollipops. I got them from the tiny, cramped grocery shop tucked away in the basement of our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Hana, who was well into her mid-70s at the time. To buy anything, you had to hike up her outside stairs, knock timidly on her door, and politely ask her to come down and open the shop. She’d peer out, “Are you here to buy something, child?” and I’d eagerly nod yes, holding up my quarter like a precious jewel for her to see. Then I’d race back down to the shop and wait by the heavy, rusty iron door, an eternity passing, it seemed, as she made her slow, deliberate way down, relying heavily on her worn wooden cane to balance each careful step.

A Child’s View, An Adult’s Understanding

So, anyway, standing there in that grand house, it really felt like the old lady was, perhaps unintentionally, rubbing that $1000 gift right in my face, and a wave of sadness washed over me that day. My own house wasn’t magnificent; I had no shiny scooter, none of the amazing things the lady had enthusiastically listed that her grandson was about to acquire. But later in life, reflecting on that conversation, I came to a different understanding. I don’t believe she ever intended to make me feel inadequate or small. She was most likely just overflowing with excitement for her beloved grandchild, thrilled that he was well-cared for and experiencing a life she considered happy and full of promise.

The Elevator Epiphany: A Shared Human Chord

And as this understanding about the wealthy lady settled in—that her words, however they struck my young ears, truly stemmed from a place of love for her family—an encounter just an hour ago brought an unexpected parallel to mind. I was coming down the elevator in my building, unsure what I wanted to write about today. On my way down, a Domino’s Pizza delivery guy hopped in with me and, looking around, remarked, “This apartment building is very nice.” For some reason, listening to him, I felt a curious connection. That wealthy lady from my childhood, proudly describing her grandson possessions, felt, in that moment of my reflection, remarkably similar in spirit to this humble delivery guy, who was genuinely appreciating something beautiful that was likely beyond his own means. Though one spoke of having and the other of appreciating from afar, the simple, heartfelt sincerity in both their expressions struck the same human chord within me.

If you found this post valuable, inspiring, or thought-provoking, please consider supporting my work with a small tip. It helps keep the writing going — and the coffee flowing ☕