My daughter, Vivian, was almost two when we visited my husband’s parents, who lived in the Santa Cruz Mountains in California. At that time the hippie movement was in full swing and they had pretty much invaded the countryside surrounding the area. I am now ashamed to admit that my opinion of hippies reflected that of most of my friends and relatives. They didn’t work. They rarely bathed or changed their clothing or bothered to comb their hair. In many people’s opinion, they were lazy and not of much use to the human race…a harsh judgment to say the least.

Before making our trip back home, my husband took our car down to his father’s mechanic to be checked out. Vivian and I walked down the street to a drive in hamburger place and I bought us both an ice cream. It was a beautiful, sunny day so we sat at an outdoor table near the street and enjoyed our ice creams. As we sat there I saw a hippie walking down the street towards us. What a mess he was. His clothes looked as if he’d slept in them for months and the last time his shoulder length hair had been combed was anybody’s guess. I wrinkled my nose and imagined how he must smell. Finishing up my ice cream cone, I grimaced at that particular thought as I actually lost my appetite for ice cream; maybe I should get back to check on my husband and our car.

There was more ice cream on Vivian’s hands and face than in her tummy. How precious she was to me…my pride and my joy in life, at the moment. Looking around I noticed a napkin holder on the table right behind ours. I stood, turned my back for only a moment to grab a hand full of napkins. Though everything happened so fast it seemed like slow motion. I had no sooner plucked the napkins from its holder when I heard tires screeching, people screaming and my child’s frantic cry. As I turned, the scene before me was horrific. My child was in the middle of the street, a car was inches away from hitting her. In the flash of an instant, the hippie who had previously been making his way down the street, stepped in front of the car… grabbed my daughter and stepped back into safety. He had saved my daughter’s life! Without a thought for his appearance or his smell, I ran to him, took my daughter from his arms, and gave him the biggest hug of gratitude I could muster. The people who had witnessed the rescue broke out in cheers. It reminded me of a movie script…except this was for real.

I wish I’d had the forethought to ask the young man his name. I would have liked to have acknowledged his bravery further. Much to my regret, I didn’t. All I could do is to keep repeating over and over…thank you, thank you…thank you. He never said a word. He took an exaggerated bow for the crowd, smiled at me and continued on his way down the street.

My daughter is now 36 and we are best of friends. The lesson I learned from this experience has remained with me throughout the years and I’ve shared it with many. God’s word tells us we are not to judge others…that is His job, not ours! Wherever this young man is today I again offer him my thanks and I pray that his life has been as blessed as mine has been, thanks to him! Who knows…maybe he’s reading this and will remember the little blonde girl whose life he saved long ago.

Chris Smith iluvmyfamilyxxx000@yahoo.com