The youngster who was dying had an empty lemonade stand until bikers discovered what his sign really read under “50 cents.”
Tyler, who was seven years old, remained at his small folding table for three hours without a single customer. He wore a yellow baseball cap to conceal his bald head and kept shaking his slender hands as he moved his cups around.
People in the area had been avoiding him for weeks since they heard that his disease was terminal.
I observed cars slow down, see him, and then speed up again from my porch. Parents who were walking with their kids crossed the street to avoid his stand.
One mother even covered her child’s eyes as they rushed by, as if cancer were contagious. Some believed that staring at a dying child might somehow bring them bad luck.
Tyler didn’t cry. He merely sat there, waiting, in his bright yellow shirt that hung off his thin body. His mason jar remains empty. I could see that his bottom lip was shaking, but his smile never changed.
Then the noise began. It was low and deep, like thunder coming from far away. Tyler’s head jerked up. He opened his eyes wide. Four bikers on Harleys were riding down our calm suburban neighborhood. Their leather vests shone in the midday light.
The
The lead biker, who was huge and had a gray beard that reached down to his chest, stopped just in front of Tyler’s stand.
When he took off his helmet, he noticed it. Tyler had pasted a short handwritten note under his price sign. The true reason he was out here.
The
“Hey there, little man,” the first biker said as he walked up to Tyler’s kiosk. “How much for one cup?”
Tyler’s voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Sir, fifty cents.” But… He pointed to the note that was under his sign.
The cyclist got down on one knee to read it. I noticed that his shoulders were starting to shake. This scary-looking man, who probably weighed 300 pounds, was crying as he read what Tyler had written on that piece of paper.
The note added, “I’m not really selling lemonade.” I’m selling memories. My mom needs money for my funeral, but she doesn’t know I know. Please let me help her before I die. — Tyler, 7 years old
The biker carefully got up, took out his wallet, and put a $100 bill in Tyler’s jar. “Little brother, I’ll take twenty cups.” But I just need one. “Give the rest to my brothers here.”
Tears filled Tyler’s eyes. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” The biker’s voice was gruff with feeling. “Warrior, what’s your name?”
“Tyler.” “Tyler Morrison.”
“Hey, Tyler Morrison, my name is Bear. Diesel, Tank, and Preacher are my brothers. We are members of the Leathernecks Motorcycle Club. All of them are veterans. And we know a warrior when we see one.
Tyler’s face brightened up. “Did you fight?”
“Marines,” Bear said softly. “And you’re waging a struggle that’s harder than anything we’ve ever been through. It takes many guts to do what you’re doing.
Janet, Tyler’s mother, ran out of the house at that point. “Tyler! “What are you—” When she saw the bikers, she stopped. Her face showed fear.
“Ma’am,” Bear said as he took off his sunglasses. “Your son is a real piece of work.” He is out here trying to help you, even though he is unable to finish his task. He wasn’t able to finish. “Even when he’s sick.”
Janet’s face fell apart. “Tyler, sweetheart, you don’t have to worry about money. That’s not your job.
“But Mom,” Tyler whispered softly, “I heard you crying on the phone when you told Grandma that you didn’t have enough money for later.” I wanted to do something to help.
I saw Janet fall onto one of our neighbor’s garden chairs and cry. Bear knelt down next to her. “How long does he have, ma’am?”
“Six weeks,” she said in a low voice. “Maybe less.” The tumors have spread to his brain. The physicians told me there was nothing else they could do.
Bear got up and took out his phone. “Diesel, get the brothers on the phone. Every one of them. Let them know we have a problem. We need to aid a small warrior.
There were forty-seven bikes on our street in less than an hour. Everyone who came up to Tyler’s booth read his note and left money in his jar. Some people put in twenties. Some put in hundreds. One rider, an elderly man with Vietnam patches, gave five hundred dollars and couldn’t talk because he was crying.
Tyler wanted to pour lemonade for everyone, but his hands were shaking too much. Bear carefully took the pitcher. “Let me help you, little brother.” “You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Why is everyone being so nice to me?” “What did Tyler ask?”
Tank, a biker with military tattoos on his arms, knelt down. “Because you remind us why we fought, little guy. We battled for children like you. Children who shouldn’t have to fight fights this huge.” Kids who deserve better than what life gave them.”
Preacher, who had a crucifix patch on his vest, spoke up. “And we do this because we care about each other. You’re looking after your mom. We’re looking out for you. That’s how it goes.
The bikers were there for three hours. They had lemonade. They told Tyler stories about their bikes. They let him sit on their bikes, took selfies with him, and gave him patches from their vests.
But more significantly, they created a plan.
Bear took Janet to the side. “Ma’am, we’re going to help.” Our club has money set aside for things like these. We have raised money for Tyler’s medical expenses, but we were unaware of the additional costs involved.
“I can’t accept—”
“Yes, you can. And you will. Tyler is trying to be a guy and look out for you. Let’s assist him in doing it. Let him know that his work was important. That he changed things.
The Leathernecks MC made Tyler’s lemonade stand an event for the next five weeks. They would come every Saturday. They would bring buddies. Other groups. These groups were specifically designed for veterans. A big pickle jar and eventually a five-gallon bucket took the place of Tyler’s mason jar.
The story made it to the local news: “Biker Community Helps Dying Boy’s Lemonade Stand Raise Thousands.”
Tyler got weaker. He couldn’t stand by the fourth week. Bear made him a unique chair with cushions and an umbrella. Tyler could hardly stay awake by the fifth week. While Tyler slept, the bikers would sit with him, hold the umbrella, and pour lemonade for customers.
Over two hundred bikers came to see Tyler last Saturday when he was able to go outside. They filled the whole roadway. Everyone went by his stand, even though Tyler was too weak to pour anymore. They would throw money in his bucket and say things like “Thank you, warrior,” “You’re braver than all of us,” or “Rest easy, little brother.”
Tyler made $47,832 selling lemonade. It was enough to pay for his funeral, his mother’s mortgage for a year, and to start a little fund for other youngsters with cancer.
But that’s not the end of the narrative.
Tyler died at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday.
AM. Janet called Bear to tell him. Bikers started showing up at their residence within two hours. They made an honor guard. They waited in the rain for six hours to take Tyler to the funeral home.
There were 347 bikers at the funeral. They came from six different states. Some people had never met Tyler; they had just heard his story. They crowded the graveyard. As Tyler’s little casket was put into the grave, they roared their engines one last time.
Bear spoke during the funeral. As he spoke, this huge, tattooed Marine cried and said, “Tyler Morrison was seven years old.” He didn’t sell lemonade to get money for toys or candies; he did it to help his mom. He wanted to be certain she would be fine while he was gone.
In just five weeks, this small child showed more bravery, love, and selflessness than most people do in their entire lives. He told us that being tough isn’t about how you appear or how loud your bike is. It’s about getting up when you can hardly stand. It’s about fighting when the battle is over. It’s about loving others more than being afraid of death.
“Tyler said we were his friends. He wore our patches on his hospital gown. He said to the nurses, “These are my bodyguards.” But the truth is that he was protecting us. Keeping our hearts safe. “Reminding us of what really matters.”
The Leathernecks MC set up the Tyler Morrison Memorial Fund after the funeral. They have a lemonade stand rally every year. Hundreds of motorcyclists put up kiosks all throughout the state to sell lemonade to assist families pay for funerals and earn money for kids cancer research.
So far, they have raised more than $300,000.
Janet still lives in the same place. The bikers still look in on her. They get together on Tyler’s street every year on her birthday. They bring lemonade with them. They tell each other stories. They think of a seven-year-old boy who wanted to help his mom and ended up impacting the lives of hundreds of people.
Bear still has a picture of Tyler in his wallet. Next to his own grandkids. He said, “People ask me why I keep a picture of a stranger’s child.” “I tell them Tyler wasn’t a stranger.” He was my younger brother. He was like a little brother to all of us.
Janet still has the lemonade stand in her garage. She just can’t throw it away. The sign is still there, and Tyler’s writing is fading but still readable. It says “50 cents,” and below that, in tiny characters, is his truth.
The kids in the neighborhood sometimes ask about it. Janet tells them about Tyler. About the stall where he sold lemonade. About the motorcyclists who came when no one else was looking. This is the story of how a seven-year-old boy, who was dying, gathered enough money to help his parents and other children like him.
And sometimes, on quiet Saturday afternoons, bikers still come by. They knock on Janet’s door and ask if they may buy a lemonade. Janet always says that the stand is closed.
But then she welcomes them inside, prepares them lemonade, and they sit together and look at images of Tyler. They cry. They laugh. They remember.
That’s what Tyler was truly peddling at his booth. Not lemonade. Thoughts. And love. This serves as evidence that even in the face of death and at the age of seven, one can still make a difference.
You can still bring people together. You can still make hundreds of tough bikers cry. You can still look after your mom.
You can still be a fighter.
Tyler Morrison passed away when he was seven years old. But in the last five weeks of his life, he did more than most individuals do in decades. He served lemonade to people riding bikes. He got thousands of dollars. He made men cry.
