My grandfather was a butcher. No, literally; he worked in a meat shop and cut up animals. So there was no pension fund for him, just Social Security, and perhaps he got something from the VA (he served in WWII). Whatever he made, it was small enough that he qualified for government peanut butter. (Possibly other staples, too, but he'd give the PB to us so I remember it.)
My parents wanted to help him out, so they'd try to give him some money. He wouldn't hear of it, of course. So, once when we were visiting, my father put some money in a plain envelope and tucked it in with the other mail, just before we left.
The next time we came to visit, something like six months later, my grandfather ambled over to my father with an enveloped labeled "Pat," my father's name. "Look at what I found," he said. "Got your name on it. Somebody must've left it here for you."
Defeated, my dad just had to chuckle and take the envelope back.