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You Must Know, 5231 Stevens Creek Boulevard, Santa Clara, CA (2025)

11/12/2025

It was just after two in the morning when I heard a faint knock at the door—soft, hesitant, but insistent enough to wake me. When I opened it, a tiny barefoot girl stood there, clutching a limp kitten in her arms. Her nightgown was soaked, her lips pale from the freezing air.

“Can you fix her, mister?” she whispered, her breath shaking. “You fixed your big bike. Maybe you can fix my kitty too.”

I’d never seen her before. She couldn’t have been more than six years old. The porch light cast her in a ghostly glow, and behind her, my Harley gleamed faintly in the dark—tools still scattered across the garage floor from earlier. Somehow, this little soul had wandered through the cold night to find the one house with a motorcycle, believing that a man who fixed engines could heal the broken.

“Please,” she said again, her voice trembling. “Kitty’s sick… and Mommy won’t wake up.”

Those last words hit me like a hammer.

I scooped her up without a second thought. She melted into my jacket, tiny and shivering. The kitten barely stirred—it was in bad shape, hit by a car most likely. Her pajamas were wet with frost.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked as I wrapped her in a heavy blanket.

“Lucy,” she murmured. “This is Whiskers.”

“Where do you live, Lucy?”

She pointed down the street, toward the shadows. “By the yellow flowers. Mommy fell asleep, and the phone’s broke.”

I grabbed my phone and called 911, giving the dispatcher my address and explaining that a child’s mother wasn’t responding somewhere nearby. But when I asked her why she came to me—why this house—her answer froze my blood.

“My daddy,” she said softly, “before he went to heaven, he showed me his friends. They wore jackets like yours. He said if Mommy gets the ‘sleeping sickness’ again and he’s not here, I should find one of his angel brothers—because they fight the monsters.”

“Angel brothers.”

That wasn’t a child’s imagination—it was a code. I knew it instantly. Heaven’s Angels Motorcycle Club. My brothers. Her father had been one of us. And the “sleeping sickness”? Our quiet way of saying a member’s spouse had a medical condition—in her mother’s case, I’d later learn, severe diabetes.

I tightened my grip on her. “Hang on, kiddo. We’re going to your mom right now.”

We ran through the cold until she pointed at a small house with a dead bed of marigolds out front. The door was unlocked. Inside, I found a woman collapsed on the floor, pale and still, an insulin kit spilled nearby.

With Lucy still wrapped in my arm, I put her mother in the recovery position, followed the dispatcher’s directions, and stayed on the line until help arrived. The kitten didn’t make it—it slipped away quietly in the warmth of the blanket.

When the paramedics rushed in, I glanced at the mantel. A photo stopped me cold—a man in his 30s, grinning, arm around the same woman lying on the floor. His vest bore the Heaven’s Angels patch. Danny. I’d known him once. He’d died in a crash two years back. I’d sent flowers. I never knew he had a little girl.

They saved her mom that night. Stabilized her. As a police officer gently tried to lead Lucy away, she clung to me and cried, “No! He’s Daddy’s angel brother! Daddy sent him!”

The cop looked at my jacket, met my eyes, and nodded. “She’s fine with him,” he said quietly.

I stayed with her at the hospital. Held her as she slept, tiny fists curled around my jacket. When her mother finally woke, weak but alive, she saw us together and started to cry. “You found one,” she whispered. “Danny always said one of you would come if anything happened.”

From that moment, Lucy and her mom weren’t alone anymore. The Heaven’s Angels showed up like a storm—patched vests, roaring bikes, and hearts of gold. We fixed the roof, filled the pantry, and set up a trust for Lucy’s future.

They started calling me “Uncle Sarge.” I taught Lucy how to ride a bike, how to keep her balance, how to trust her own strength.

She came to my door that night looking for someone to fix her kitten. But in the end, she fixed something far more broken—a lonely old biker who’d forgotten what it meant to be part of a family.

And in keeping my fallen brother’s promise, I found my own reason to keep fighting the monsters.

Follow You Must Know

10/28/2025

My daughter is 12 years old. She doesn't have many friends, and last year, the bullying at school got so bad I'd find her hiding in the bathroom during lunch. So she spends most of her time with me, watching me fill orders for my Tedooo app shop.

She's been quietly taking my yarn for weeks, working on something secret in her room. Last night she came out wearing this scarf she made completely by herself. "Mom," she said, "I want my own Tedooo app shop someday. For kids like me who create things instead of having friends."
I had to leave the room so she wouldn't see me cry. This child who eats lunch alone, who hasn't been invited to a birthday party in two years, found her salvation in loops of yarn and dreams of her own craft business.

This morning I found her practicing new stitches at 6 AM. "For my future customers," she explained. My beautiful, resilient girl turning her loneliness into art.

That scarf isn't just well-made for a 12-year-old - it's stunning, period. The tension is perfect, the color changes are seamless, and that fringe? Professional level. But more than that, it's proof that while other kids were busy excluding her, she was busy becoming extraordinary.
Please, if you see this, leave her some encouragement. She reads every comment on my Tedooo app posts, studying what customers like. Your words might be the first kindness she's heard from peers in months. Show her that the craft community celebrates the quiet, talented kids who create beauty while the world tries to dim their light.

Sometimes the best revenge against bullies isn't fighting back - it's becoming so talented they'll one day brag they knew you when.
Credit to the rightful owner~

10/28/2025

They call it “lunch shaming.” I call it cruelty. For 38 years, I watched it happen from my history classroom. Then, one Tuesday, I decided to become a quiet criminal.

My name is Arthur Harrison. For nearly four decades, my world has been cinder block walls, the smell of old books, and the drone of the 2:15 PM bell. I teach American History. I’ve lectured on the Great Depression, on bread lines and poverty, trying to make the black-and-white photos feel real to kids who live in a world of vibrant color and constant noise.

But the most brutal history lesson wasn’t in my textbook. It was in the cafeteria.

It was a Tuesday when I saw it happen to Marcus, a quiet sophomore who sat in the back of my third-period class. He was a good kid, drew incredible sketches of Civil War soldiers in his notebook margins. I saw him at the front of the lunch line. The cashier, a woman I’d known for twenty years, said something to him. I saw his shoulders slump. He was handed not a tray of hot food, but a cold cheese sandwich and a small milk carton—the “alternative meal.” The IOU. The badge of shame.

He walked past his friends, eyes glued to the floor, and sat at an empty table at the far end of the cafeteria. He didn’t eat. He just stared at the wall. In that moment, he wasn’t a student. He was a statistic. His family’s bank account balance was on public display, served between two slices of cheap bread.

Something inside me, a part of my soul worn thin by years of budget cuts and standardized tests, finally snapped.

The next day, I walked into the main office before school. Linda, the cafeteria manager, was there sorting receipts.

“Art,” she said, not looking up. “Don’t tell me the coffee machine is broken again.”

“It’s fine, Linda,” I said, sliding a folded fifty-dollar bill across the counter. “I want to start a fund. Anonymously. For the kids who come up short. When it happens, just… take it from this. No cheese sandwiches.”

She finally looked up, her eyes lingering on the money, then on my face. She didn’t say a word. She just gave a slow, deliberate nod and tucked the bill into her apron.

I started doing it every week. A fifty, sometimes a hundred if my pension check had a little extra. I called it the “Invisible Lunch Fund.” Linda never mentioned it, but sometimes I’d see her give a real hot meal to a kid I knew was struggling, and she’d catch my eye from across the room with that same quiet nod. It was our secret conspiracy of decency.

This went on for a year. It was my quiet rebellion.

Then, one afternoon, Sarah, the sharpest student in my AP History class, stayed after the bell.

“Mr. Harrison?” she started, twisting the strap of her backpack. “I have a question. It’s not about the homework.”

“Go ahead, Sarah.”

“I know about the lunch money,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “My mom works in the school office. She sees Linda’s accounting. There’s a line item she just writes in as ‘Donation.’ I know it’s you.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was caught. I imagined disciplinary meetings, being told I’d broken some obscure district policy.

But Sarah wasn’t angry. Her eyes were shining. “We want to help,” she said.

The next Monday, a group of students from my AP class set up a bake sale in the main hall. The sign, hand-painted on poster board, read: “BAKE SALE FOR BENEDICT ARNOLDS. (Because betraying your friends by letting them go hungry is treason.)”

By lunchtime, they had a shoebox overflowing with crumpled bills and coins. They placed it on my desk without a word. Over four hundred dollars. The administration, to their credit, looked the other way.

I’m retiring this year. The Invisible Lunch Fund is now just “The Fund,” and it’s run entirely by the students. They’ve made it their own.

For 38 years, I tried to teach kids that history is shaped by big speeches and epic battles. I was wrong. History isn’t just about the noise. It’s about the quiet moments, the unspoken acts of grace. It’s written not in textbooks, but on a lunch receipt when one person decides that another human being will not be shamed for being hungry. That’s the America I want to believe in. That’s the lesson I finally learned.

Thank you Carol Sacks Goldstein for sharing..🫡❤️

10/23/2025

☢️ The Most Dangerous Grave in America — The Man Buried in a Nuclear Coffin

In 1961, deep in the Idaho desert, a U.S. Army nuclear reactor exploded.
Three men died instantly — their bodies soaked in radiation, hotter than anything man had ever touched.

One of them was Richard Leroy McKinley.

His remains were so radioactive that scientists couldn’t cremate or wash them. They couldn’t even touch them without risking death.

At Arlington National Cemetery, engineers built a grave like no other — a lead-lined metal coffin, vacuum-sealed, nested inside layers of steel and shielding, then buried deep beneath the ground. A coffin built not to preserve, but to contain.

Even after six decades, Richard’s body still hums faintly with radiation — a silent reminder of mankind’s dance with the atom.

There are no flowers on his grave. No visitors.

10/16/2025

s some of you know, I have gone through every mother's worst fear. On June 2nd, I lost my youngest son in a horrible car accident. I was driving.
I had pulled away from a gas station, checking each buckle, and I began to drive the curvy, mountainous road to my family's house. My son was notorious for doing everything he could to unbuckle in the car ("The Flash doesn't wear a seatbelt, and I'm the Flash, mama") We tried five point harness seats, boosters,
I believe even zip ties at one point (probably not safe either) but he always viewed it as a superhero challenge. He was a superhero because he always succeeded.
On average, I would usually pull over three or four times on any given trip to firmly make him buckle up again. We were only five minutes out when a large rock rolled into my lane.
I had three choices: try to straddle the rock, move to the oncoming lane which was a double line large curve with an angry river at the other side. Rock, head on collision, river.
I chose the rock. I chose wrong. And yes, he had already unbuckled along with his 8 year old brother.
(They were switching spots and I didn't know.) The rock hit my axle, and sent us plummeting into the side of a cliff. Our 13 passenger van rolled and my son was instantly gone.
Our lives were instantly ripped apart. The little boy who had been my pride and joy was cruelly taken from me in a matter of seconds. I remember being smashed between my console (no airbag engaged) and our three ton van.
I had blood everywhere. I fought and fought and then blacked out. When I awoke, I was unbuckling my baby from her car seat (she was upside down) and working to get each child (5 of my children were with me) out of the van.
When I came to Titus I worked with all my might to lift the heavy van off his tiny body. My 8 year old son was trying to help me. I could only see the lower half of his body.
I rubbed his tummy and tried gentle compressions. But he was already gone. It was instantaneous, which only brings me comfort because I know he felt no pain.
What followed was a blur. I refused treatment from the paramedics until they let me hold my dead son. All my children were whipped away and taken to an ambulance to be cared for.
I was life flighted and sedated, for the shock made me inconsolable. It was two days later that I saw it all over Facebook. A news report reporting the death of my child as if they were reporting that the weather might change, or a new planet had been discovered.
I was thankful they reported that no drugs or alcohol had been a factor.
But that's not what hurt. The readers commented the cruelest things about how horrible of a mother I was. How I deserved it. How my children should be taken from me.
I wanted to punch them, shake them. Tell them how close we were, how hard I fought to keep him safe.
How we had a special good night kiss and a designated McDonald's date each week. I wanted to scream that he always told me he wanted to marry me, that I was the best mama ever.
That he built me Lego ships, took naps in my bed while holding my hand with his dimpled little fingers.
But no one would have listened anyway. I feel led to write this to all you Mamas because I have a longing to look each of you in the eyes and tell you this: "Hold your babies tight".
That's all I want to shout to the world.
I'm not who I once was; death and loss changes a person from the inside out.
I have held my dead sons body in the middle of a highway while I rocked him and screamed - no ordered God to bring him back.
-I have chosen a funeral plot for my four year old boy as I contemplated jumping from the cliff the cemetery overlooks just so I could be where he is.
-I have purchased a 200 dollars superhero outfit for my son to wear as he decomposes in the earth.
-I have kissed a co**se over and over and wept as I traced over every feature of his ice cold face and held his still dimpled, but lifeless hands.
-I have slept in a cemetery just to try and take one more nap with him. I talk to the dirt.
To the ground where he lies with his lovey blanket and his avengers outfit.
And what I want to say (if you've read this far, you're so patient and so kind) is this. And you can share it with any mama you know.
- maybe finishing broccoli at dinner isn't as important as we might think. Watch how your children eat, soak in their hatred for corn (oh how Titus hated corn).
Maybe they can still have ice cream - even just sometimes - while those veggies still sit on their plate.
-learn to pretend.
Get into their world. Learn to play the Xbox with them. Embrace their beautiful, fleeting imagination. Let them really believe that they are Captain America or Queen Elsa.
Get in their mind, see how they tick. The dishes will still be there.
- take every hug and kiss they bring you - even the twenty fifth one they use just to get out of bed at night.
And really squeeze them.
-stop and look at the bugs, the rocks, the sticks, the sunset. Slow down mama, slow down.
- tell them you love them. But look in their eyes and say it like you mean it. Tell them they can do anything - anything they set their mind to.
-yes, we must hold them accountable but sometimes- maybe grace is the answer. Maybe, just maybe, they won't end up ruined if we let some things slide.
-never judge another mama. We don't know the whole story, we don't know. We just don't know.
-Go hug your babies right now.
Soak in their smell, look at the innocent sparkle in their eyes that is lost somewhere between childhood and adulthood.
Really feel how they squeeze you.
Set down your phone and see them through the lens of your eyes not only the lens of your camera. Remember the feeling of their head on your shoulder, their hand in yours, their sloppy kisses on your cheeks.
Nurse them one more time. Sleep is overrated. Listen five minutes longer about Star Wars, mine-craft and Disney princesses.
Mamas, hold your children tight. How blessed you are to have been entrusted with such unique, beautiful, tiny humans.
Credit goes to : Ashley Grimm

10/16/2025

Don’t Mess with Seniors—They’ve Seen It All!
In a nearly empty store at a Florida mall, two young businessmen leaned against a counter, taking a break. Their soon-to-open shop was still a work in progress—bare shelves, empty display racks, and the scent of fresh paint lingering in the air.
One of them smirked and nudged his buddy. “I bet any second now, some old-timer is gonna walk by, press his face against the window, and ask what we’re selling.”
They chuckled, feeling oh-so-clever.
Right on cue, as if the universe had a sense of humor, a senior gentleman strolled past, slowed down, and peered through the glass. He tapped on the window, squinting inside, then called out in a loud, clear voice, “What are y’all sellin’ here?”
The young men exchanged grins. Here was their chance for some fun.
With a cocky smirk, one of them shot back, “We’re selling ass-holes.”
Silence.
For a split second, the old man just stared at them. Then, without missing a beat, he shrugged and fired back:
"Well, business must be good—you’ve only got two left!"
Touché.
As the old man strolled away, leaving them speechless, the lesson became clear—never underestimate a senior citizen. They’ve seen it all, they’ve heard it all, and they’ve got comebacks sharper than a steak knife.

10/12/2025

A little boy lay in the hospital, terrified and sobbing. Doctors worked, but nothing could calm him. That’s when a police officer watching nearby stepped forward and asked, “Can I hold him?”
Within minutes of being in the officer’s arms, the boy stopped crying and fell asleep against his chest. The weight of the uniform and gear made it hard, so the officer sat on the bed, holding him quietly until the child finally rested.
“It was just human instinct,” he said later. “He needed someone to be there for him.”
It wasn’t about the badge or authority — it was about compassion. And sometimes, the strongest act of protection is simply being a safe place for someone small and afraid.

10/12/2025

“WOW okay so the most amazing thing just happened to me and I can’t help but share it with the world. American Airlines instituted a new policy where you have to pay to take a carry-on onto the plane. Which is ridiculous but off topic.
I consolidate my bags into one and they measure it and say it’s just a little too big. They proceed to charge me $50, except they only take credit card, no cash. Since I just got back from Europe all my cards are being declined as Chase doesn’t know I’m back.
They tell me that I’m going to have to miss the flight and head back to the ticket counter to pay down there. I’m pleading, devastated after a long day of travel. Then, this man walks up and says, “How much is it?” They tell him $50 and he says “I got it.”
I’m astonished and tell him it’s fine not to worry and he hands the lady his card as the American Airlines employees stand in silence shocked by this man’s generosity. They swipe the card and he tells me to have a great flight and hop on board.
I’m crying as I write this and as I board the flight. This man was an angel. I stop him as he’s sitting in first class and try to give him my money but he just shook me off and told me to pay it forward.
My heart is so happy. There are good people in this world. Be that person for someone because I know after this I sure will be.” 💕

10/12/2025

I can not shop at Costco anymore :-)))))Yesterday I was at Costco buying a large bag of Purina dog chow for my loyal pet, Necco, the Wonder Dog, which weighs 191 lbs. I was in the check-out line when a woman behind me asked if I had a dog.What did she think I had an elephant?So because I'm retired and have little to do,on impulse I told her that no, I didn't have a dog, I was starting the Purina Diet again.I added that I probably shouldn't, because I ended up in the hospital last time, but that I'd lost 50 pounds before I awakened in an intensive care ward with tubes coming out of most of my orifices and IVs in both arms.I told her that it was essentially a Perfect Diet and that the way that it works is, to load your jacket pockets with Purina Nuggets and simply eat one or two every time you feel hungry.The food is nutritionally complete so it works well and I was going to try it again. (I have to mention here that practically everyone in line was now enthralled with my story.)Horrified, she asked if I ended up in intensive care, because the dog food poisoned me. I told her no, I stopped to P*e on a Fire Hydrant and a car hit me,
I thought the guy behind her was going to have a heart attack he was laughing so hard.
Costco won't let me shop there anymore.Better watch what you ask retired people. They have all the time in the World to think of crazy things to say.Forward this (especially) to all your retired friends...it will be their laugh for the day!

09/23/2025

“This is my daughter. She is 12, today she gave me a proud parent moment. It’s a bit long but worth the time to write. We are on vacation and she has had this $5 bill burning a whole in her pocket since we got down here. She has asked multiple times to buy something and I told her not to waste her money on it. Well today, we are at the boardwalk and she comes into the coffee shop where I’m in ordering me and the Wifey’s drinks. She looks at me and asks “dad can I give my $5 to a homeless person?” I chuckled and said no. Not realizing I was about to feel like an idiot. I didn’t realize that there was a homeless woman sitting out across from the coffee shop.
The lady wasn’t begging for money, but rather just sitting there alone and sad looking. We walk away and my daughter asked why I chuckled when she asked me about giving the lady her money. I told her I was sorry and didn’t realize there was a homeless woman outside. We walk around the boardwalk and on the way back by the woman was still sitting there, the entire time walking the boards mind you, not once did my daughter ask to spend her money. I looked at my daughter and told her yes, you can give her your $5. She said thank you for telling her not to use it previously and hopefully this woman can get food or something to help out even though it’s only $5.
She has such a big heart, we passed the woman once more on our way out, she gave my daughter a little wave of thanks and my daughter returned it. I told her she did a good thing, she was not bragging or telling everyone what she did but knew to be humble that she was able to help someone who needed it. Kids have a way of proving humanity still has a chance and that both bad habits and good habits are learned behavior.”
Credit- Greg Peterson~

09/23/2025

"Dog stealing blanket leads to heartwarming discovery"
Security cameras caught a dog breaking into a retail store late one evening, dragging a blanket out the door. A co-worker followed the dog before closing and discovered he was carrying the blanket to an elderly homeless man.
Instead of taking it back, the worker returned to the store, gathering snacks, a pillow, and even some dog food to bring to them.
When the story was shared online, it quickly went viral. Donations poured in, and a GoFundMe was launched. Today, the man and his loyal dog are staying in a nearby motel while he applies for jobs, finally with warmth, food, and hope. When asked if he was upset about the missing blanket, the store owner smiled and said, “Why would I be upset? The dog did what so many humans wouldn’t, help someone in need.

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