It was gray and snowing in Waterville the Saturday before Christmas as I headed out on my holiday mission.

I stopped first at Caswell’s Liquidation Center on Armory Road which sells food and other items at discount prices. I perused the aisles, looking for people who might be deserving of some extra cash.

Near the coffee shelf I saw a woman pushing a mostly-empty cart, a younger version of herself, whom I deemed to be her teenage daughter, at her side.

“Excuse me,” I said, approaching. “Every year at Christmas a man sends me money to give out to people, and I’d like to give you this $100 bill.”

I handed it to the woman, who appeared stunned.

“Is this your daughter?” I asked, to which she nodded her head.

“This is for you then.”

I gave the girl $100 also.

The gratitude mother and daughter exuded was palpable. It warmed my heart.

“My car broke down so she had to give me a ride,” the woman said, motioning to a friend who was maneuvering a shopping cart toward us.

“Well, then, here’s $100 for you also,” I said, and handed over a bill.

It was my second Christmas giving out money — not my own, but donations from a man I consider a dear friend, though I presume I have never met him, don’t know his name and have no idea who he is.

For the last four years, he has been mailing me bank checks to the newspaper office in handwritten, addressed envelopes with no return address. Enclosed are notes thanking me for my writing and asking that I give the money to the charities of my choice, which I have done, taking my task seriously and contemplating those most deserving. Last Christmas he sent me $1,000 and I decided to do something a bit different — hand out 10 $100 bills to people on the street just before Christmas, like you see rich people do on TV.

I always explain to the recipient the money comes from someone else and that I am merely carrying out his wishes. They always thank me, many with tears in their eyes. Some ask that I please thank the donor, should I ever learn his identity.

He has mailed checks totaling several thousand dollars over the years, saying in his most recent note that “the good Lord has seen fit to bless me and my family with another great year,” and asking that I continue to write.

Before Christmas, he mailed $2,000, and I spent the afternoon Dec. 21 handing out 20 $100 bills.

In Walmart, I watched a young couple as they scanned the aisles, looking at low-priced items. The woman pointed to a box of sweets.

“This would be so nice,” she said to the man, who walked with a limp.

I politely interrupted their conversation, uttered my spiel and gave them a crisp $100 bill. They were surprised and thankful.

As I left the store, the snow was picking up, blowing sideways. I drove to the housing projects off Chaplin Street and parked outside an apartment where a couple stood with several small children bundled in snowsuits and dancing around in the snow.

“Are you serious?” the mother asked, when I gave the couple two $100 bills. “We really need this.”

A little girl wearing glasses and holding a doll in a baby carrier seemed delighted.

“I hope you have a merry Christmas!” she shouted.

My heart warming at a rapid rate, I headed into the Family Dollar store on The Concourse downtown where I noticed a man who appeared to be in his 50s in the food aisle, staring blankly at the canned goods. When I handed him a $100 bill, he perked up.

“This means so much,” he said and, pausing, added: “I’m surgically rebuilt.”

His offer of this information spurred me to probe further. He had been struck by a vehicle 4 1/2 years ago, he said, and suffered serious injuries requiring surgery to insert titanium in his neck, back and wrist.

“I was in the hospital for two years,” he said. “I didn’t know if I’d walk again. I live in Florida but I was born and raised here. I visit my 90-year-old father here every Christmas.”

A woman outside the nearby Dollar Tree was equally grateful when I gave her $100. She was with a young boy and said the factory where she works mandated all employees take the week off with no pay.

“Can I give you a hug?” she asked, tearfully.

We embraced, and I tried to give her another $100, but she declined, insisting I give it to someone else in need.

Others I gifted money to included a woman, her daughter and grandson who were in a car by an apartment building off Water Street, heading out to run holiday errands. The women cried when they realized each was getting $100.

There are more stories from that afternoon than I have space for here, but let me leave you with one that was particularly touching, at least for me.

It was getting dark and still snowing as I drove north on Summer Street in the city’s South End. A middle-aged man was hauling a cart up an incline in the snow, with three large plastic bags of returnable bottles. I told him I was disbursing money from an anonymous donor, and handed him $100.

“God bless you,” he said. “Merry Christmas. I wish there were more people like him. I have a family of five and we go back and forth to the food bank. I’m taking these bottles to Hannaford now.”

I drove home with an empty pocket and a full heart, silently thanking my anonymous donor for the gift of being able to experience, first-hand, the joy his generosity reaped, four days before Christmas.

To him, a Happy New Year, and may all people, everywhere, follow your lead in 2025.

Amy Calder has been a Morning Sentinel reporter 35 years. Her columns appear here Saturdays. She is the author of the book, “Comfort is an Old Barn,” a collection of her curated columns, published in 2023 by Islandport Press. She may be reached at acalder@centralmaine.com. For previous Reporting Aside columns, go to centralmaine.com