As a child, he had dreamed wild thoughts; riots of fame, fortune, glory and shiny cars.  Later, when he came to know that he was ordinary,  these thoughts dimmed.  

His life was now grey, not gold.  He drove a plain car - shabby even.   His hands were calloused, held ordinary work, the work of bone and muscle and brawn.  Yet when he bent to do a task, it was still with the unmistakable stiffness of a man of great pride bending under a humble thing; it gave to the work a great honor, the glory of a simple thing done well, that you would have never noticed before.