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Posted on 07/04/2002 12:10:57 AM PDT by Mama_Bear
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Thank you, dutchess. Glad you enjoyed the opening of our thread. A happy 4th of July to you and yours.
Hi whoever, hope you have a great day!
Billie and Daisy, I am going to need to leave for awhile. I will try to get back here later this afternoon. Daisy, thank you for posting those photos of our military enjoying a barbecue on Independence Day. Hugs to you all.
Five signers were captured by the British as traitors and tortured before they died. Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned. Two lost their sons serving in the Continental Army; another had two sons captured. Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War. They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.
What kind of men were they? Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists. Eleven were merchants, nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated. But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured. Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags. Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton, Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton. At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson Jr., noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt. Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed. The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months. John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying. Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished. A few weeks later he died from exhaustion and a broken heart.
Norris and Livingston suffered similar fates. Such were the stories and sacrifices of the American Revolution. These were not wild-eyed, rabble-rousing ruffians. They were soft-spoken men of means and education. They had security, but they valued liberty more. Standing tall, straight, and unwavering, they pledged: "For the support of this declaration, with firm reliance on the protection of the divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other, our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor." They gave you and me a free and independent America. The history books never told you a lot about what happened in the Revolutionary War.
We didn't fight just the British. We were British subjects at that time, and we fought our own government! Some of us take these liberties so much for granted, but we shouldn't. So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they paid. Remember freedom is never free! It's time we get the word out that patriotism is not a sin, and the Fourth of July has more to it than beer, picnics, and baseball games."
I did not know that either. Thanks for posting it.
What a neat thing to do. She is an inspiration.
Thanks for telling us that.
God Bless the USA!!
Long read prefaced with "TISSUE WARNING!!
"Home Biker and the Baby
February 2nd 2001
Ride of Their Lives
How a biker's love rescued the baby nobody wanted!
Roy Hutchison opened the door and gently lifted the baby out of the car. Carefully, as if he where bearing porcelain in his brawny arms, he carried her up the walk to his red brick townhouse in Independence, Mo. From that moment, the child, swaddled warmly in blankets, a fluff of blond hair poking out, laid claim to his heart. She seemed a picture of perfection—but she was not. Tiffany’s tiny body had been severely damaged at birth.
Inside the house, Roy Hutchison set Tiffany down on a couch and turned to his wife, Judy. “We’ve got all those pretty new clothes for her,” he said. “Let’s get her bathed and see how they fit.”
Roy and Judy had often discussed becoming foster parents. When they learned of a handicapped child no one else wanted, Family Services agreed to put them through care-giver classes and let them take Tiffany. They each had two children from previous marriages, but they both wanted a baby in the house.
Tiffany’s story, as they heard it from doctors and caseworkers, was heartbreaking. Some eight months earlier, in September 1984, a mentally handicapped teenager had given birth in a restroom stall at a hospital in Kansas City. The umbilical cord had been wrapped tightly around the newborn’s neck, shutting off oxygen, causing calamitous brain damage. The baby had cerebral palsy. She was almost totally blind and nearly completely deaf.
Moreover, she had curvature of the spine that in time would constrict her breathing and probably shorten her life.
She would never talk or play like other High school, marry or have children.
Declared a ward of the court, she was placed in foster care. But her needs had proved too burdensome for caregivers until the Hutchison's came along. Some people might have been surprised that Roy, at age 37, had taken on such an awesome responsibility. “But he does have a big heart,” his daughter Barbara told friends. And as an emergency medical technician (EMT), Roy was confident he had the right training for the task.
Tiffany needed to be fed through a stomach tube every four hours; medications to prevent epileptic seizures also had to be regularly administered through the tube. She slept in a crib in the master bedroom, where Roy and Judy kept constant vigil. Even so, in kicking her legs that first week, Tiffany’s toes caught in the tube and dislodged it. They had to rush her to a pediatric hospital in Kansas City to have the tube replaced.
The routine was daunting, but it also had its rewards. When Roy cradled Tiffany against his cheek she would squirm with delight and her blue-green eyes would light up. “They’re glistening like diamonds, Tiff," he would tell her. Their bond was complete. And shortly after her second birthday, the Hutchison's adopted her.
But the pressures of caring for Tiffany did not diminish. In time the Hutchison's divorced. The couple was now faced with a dilemma. What was best for Tiffany? Should she have the medical care that only a group home could provide? Or was individual attention more important? Roy believed the latter; he just couldn’t give her up. And eventually he was granted custody in November 1988.
Now unable to work long shifts as an EMT, he took a job driving a delivery truck. His life revolved around his daughter: giving her sponge baths, balancing medicines to regulate her seizures, preparing her for nightly feedings that some times lasted as long as eight hours. As she grew older, there were runs to the day care center for disabled children and frequent visits to the doctor.
Power of One— Somehow Tiffany got most people she knew to go the extra mile.
When he brought her home at night, Tiffany sat nearby in her wheelchair while Hutchison prepared dinner. “W’hat’ll it be, Tiff?” he’d joke, laughing out loud and caressing her cheek. “Fried chicken or steaks?” The child, who could eat nothing, devoured his affection. Sometimes in the middle of the night he would find her arched backward, her body rigid in an epileptic seizure. Then he’d gently massage her limbs until her body slowly relaxed and she lapsed into sleep. Deep inside this little girl, Hutchison sensed, was a resolute will to live. “As long as you fight, baby,” he’d whisper to her, “I’ll fight with you.”
Whatever Hutchison did, Tiffany did. Since she could not play, he made her part of his play. If he went to a movie, restaurant, mall, church, or even on a date, Tiffany went too. “We come as a package,” he always explained in advance. Even so, not every woman understood. Arriving at the Hutchison house for pizza and a movie, one woman saw a sign on a bedroom door “Tiffany’s Room.” She had thought the "handicapped daughter lived in a group home. “I think this date's over" she told Hutchison.
Though there was this missing piece his life Hutchison was too busy to be lonely. His job, nursing his daughter, spending time with his two other children, and working on motorcycles completely filled his hours. Over the years he’d let his beard grow, tied back his dark hair in a ponytail and gotten tattoos in proper biker style. Then in the fall of 1992, he bought a new Harley Davidson and set about refitting it with chrome-plated parts to compete at custom-designed-bike shows.
At night, he made Tiffany comfortable in the garage, pumped up the volume of her favorite music and worked away on his bike. Despite Tiffany’s minimal hearing, Hutchison had discovered that she could feel the beat. She hated heavy metal, but loved the sweet vibrations of country music. So he parked her in her chair to one side, and talked to her about mag wheels and disc brakes—over the pulse of Nashville’s hits.
For their first bike show in early 1993 father and daughter took the big black Harley into Kansas City in a trailer coupled to a truck. Tiffany, now eight, seemed to love the great auditorium filled With the body-shaking roar of motorcycle engines. She quivered with excitement when Hutchison took her around in her wheelchair to check out the bikes on display. At each stop, bearded, leather-clad bikers clustered around to clap Hutchison on the back and say “Hi” to his daughter.
Hutchison won a trophy at that show and soon became a regular at events around the Midwest. So did Tiffany—and Tiffany’s “uncles.” It all started at another show in Kansas City. Hutchison couldn’t drive the truck into the hall and was having difficulty unloading his equipment with Tiffany in tow. “Go ahead, Hutch, I’ll watch Tiffany,” a fellow Harley rider offered. “You need to get your bike inside and fired up.”
Moved by her, some of the bikers went an extra mile, taking part in charity rides for disabled kids.
Tiffany’s impact was often subtle. One uncle, Bill Young, 56, was a spray painter at the Ford motor plan in Claycomo, Mo. A wiry, balding man with a gruff manner and tattoos everywhere, Young worked seven days a week to provide for his wife and six children. Yet after watching Hutchison and Tiffany together, he felt a kind of envy "I’ve never loved my kids that way,” he confided. I thought love came from buying what they needed.” Inspired by Hutchison, Young cut his hours at the plant to spend more time with his family.
There was still a missing part in Hutchison’s family, too, but it was a lot harder to fill. Then in the spring of 1999, he met Eilene Brown, a tall and quiet-spoken divorced mother of a teenage daughter. For their first date, she rode for 100 miles on the back of his bike. But there was one more test that Eilene had to pass - Tiffany. Driving in his truck to a restaurant one night, Hutchison put Tiffany in the passenger-side seat and Eilene sat in the middle. As the truck swayed around a curve, Eilene put a tentative arm around the child and Tiffany cuddled in closer. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Hutchison thought that this just might be a woman with enough room in her heart for a broken little girl. Before long, Eilene was outfitted in a leather jacket and vest, and riding with him on weekends They married a few weeks after Tiffany turned 15.
By that time, love had kept Tiffany alive far beyond medical expectations, but her scoliosis was putting increasing strain on her lungs and heart and there was no way to reverse it. She was taken out of school, and confined to a hospital bed at home.
In early June 2000, on the Monday before Father’s Day, Tiffany’s lungs began to fill with fluid. She was gasping for air when Hutchison rushed home, and even with oxygen and his soothing touch it took hours to ease her distress. Day after day, Tiffany fought to keep breathing. Early Sunday, Eilene gave Tiffany a watch she had bought and wrapped in bright paper. ‘You can give it to Daddy for Father's Day,” she told Tiffany. Later that morning Hutchison found his present clutched in Tiffany’s hand. All day and through the night he stayed by her bedside. “I promised I‘d be with her at the end,” he said to Eilene.
At 2:30 p.m. on the next day, Tiffany weakly lifted her head and seemed to look at him with an expression of tenderness in her eyes. “It’s okay, baby,” he told her softly,
‘It’s okay for you to go.'
Shortly thereafter, her head sank the pillow. A look of peace came over her face, and she stopped breathing. “You’ll hurt no more, baby,” Hutchison whispered. “It’s your time now to laugh and sing and play.” ,p> "COME ON YOUR BIKE AND COME IN LEATHERS” Hutchison told the many friends who asked to attend the funeral. He wanted his close-knit band of “uncles and Harley riders” to dress as Tiffany had known and cherished them.
On the sunlit morning of the funeral, the street outside the Hutchison home was filled with bikers. After the service, an honor guard of six motorcycles led the cortege accompanying Tiffany from the funeral home to a small grave in a simple hillside cemetery. An endless stream of bikes followed the somber hearse.
They flowed along a winding country road to the sound of rolling thunder, a sound that Tiffany loved. It lifted Hutchison's grief and made his heart swell with Pride. We are winners Tiff, he thought. We beat the odds.
His love had given her life, and her life had given him love.
From the February 2001 Reader's Digest,
www.readersdigest.com "
(Took the liberty of posting this long one, Billie and Mama_Bear, in view of so many posters being absent for the holiday.
I felt it shows a nation UNDER GOD.)
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Freedom Is Worth Fighting For !!
Molon Labe !!
Thank you, Dave. I hope you and yours have a very nice 4th of July weekend.
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Celebrating American Independence Day 
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