“My name’s Hank. I’m 66. I deliver propane to homes. Rural routes, farms, folks off the grid. I fill their tanks, check connections, drive to the next house. Most customers just sign the slip, barely look up. I’m just the propane guy.
But last February, during that brutal cold snap, I noticed something at the Miller place.
Pulled up to fill their tank, gauge showed empty. Completely dry. In 15-degree weather.
I knocked on the door. Mrs. Miller answered, three kids bundled behind her in coats. Inside the house.
“Ma’am, your tank’s bone dry. How long you been without heat?”
“Four days.” Her voice was steady, but her hands shook. “Bill’s due Friday. We’re waiting on my husband’s paycheck.”
Four days. Three kids. Fifteen degrees.
“Ma’am, I’m filling it now.”
“I can’t pay until”
“I’ll mark it as a delivery error. Computer glitch. Nobody’ll know.”
She started crying. “Why would you do this?”
“Because those kids are wearing coats inside.”
I filled their tank. Checked the furnace. Made sure heat kicked on before I left.
Drove away thinking about what I’d seen. Kids doing homework in winter jackets. A mom choosing between heat and food.
Started paying attention different after that. The elderly veteran whose tank was at 10%, he was rationing, keeping one room warm. The single dad whose payment was two weeks late, he’d been burning firewood he couldn’t really afford.
I started doing something I shouldn’t. When I saw someone struggling, someone who’d run out, someone rationing heat—I’d add 50 gallons. Mark it as “meter calibration” or “pressure test residual.”
Small amounts. Enough to get them through.
Did it eleven times that winter. My boss noticed the discrepancies. Called me in.
“Hank, we’re showing extra gallons delivered but not billed.”
I told him the truth. Everything.
He stared at me for a long time. Then said, “My daughter was a single mom once. Chose between heat and groceries every winter. I wished someone had helped her.”
He didn’t fire me. Instead, he created something, “Warm Hearts Emergency Fund.” Customers could donate. We’d match it. Use it for families in crisis who couldn’t afford propane.
But here’s what broke me, Mrs. Miller came to our office in May. She’d gotten a better job, caught up on bills.
She handed me an envelope. Inside, $200.
“For the next family. The one you’ll find in February, four days without heat, trying to be brave for their kids.”
She grabbed my hands. “Hank, my youngest has asthma. Four more days in that cold… I don’t know if…” She couldn’t finish.
Last winter, the Warm Hearts Fund helped 23 families. Not with handouts, with heat when they had none. With dignity when they felt broken.
And here’s the thing, other propane companies heard about it. Started their own programs. Now there are “emergency heat funds” in six states.
But the moment that destroyed me happened last month. Got a call to deliver to an address I recognized, the Miller place.
Mrs. Miller answered. “Hank! Come in, please.”
Inside, warm, kids doing homework at the table, laughing. She handed me a check. Full payment, plus extra.
“For the fund. But also…” She pulled out a drawing her youngest had made. Stick figure man with a propane truck. Caption in crayon: “Mr. Hank, my hero.”
“She asks about you every winter. ‘Is Mr. Hank making sure people are warm?'”
I’m 66. I deliver propane to houses nobody notices.
But I learned this- Cold doesn’t wait for paychecks. And no child should do homework in a winter coat inside their own home.
So if you deliver anything, oil, propane, firewood, and you see someone struggling, someone empty, someone rationing,
Find a way. Mark it wrong. Call your boss. Start a fund. Do something.
Because heat isn’t a luxury. It’s survival.
And the difference between freezing and living shouldn’t be whether your paycheck arrived on time.
Be the reason someone stays warm.”
Let this story reach more hearts….
By Mary Nelson