I watched bikers rebuild my elderly neighbor’s porch after his family abandoned him for bring poor. His own children said they’d rather inherit his house when he dies than waste money fixing it. Twenty-three leather-clad men showed up with lumber and tools while Harold sat crying in his wheelchair, and what they built was so much more than just a porch. My name is Margaret and I’ve lived next door to Harold Peterson for thirty-two years. I watched his kids grow up, watched his wife die of cancer, watched him age from a strong carpenter to a ninety-one-year-old man who can barely walk. And last month, I watched his children break his heart in the cruelest way possible….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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