Incredible act of kindness (11/01/06)

It was the summer of 1968, a hot and divisive summer in the history of America, but you'd never know it from one hitchhiker's experience.

I was working at Conner Prairie that summer, spending some of my days mending fences and some of them as a museum guide. One day, it was swing a hammer or grab a paintbrush. The next day, it was get in costume and get in character and lead a tour of school children back into Indiana history.

When it came to wheels, I had none. So getting back for a visit to my folks' house in Richmond meant taking the bus or sticking out my thumb.

I was better at sticking out my thumb than taking the bus.

That's how it came to pass on a hot afternoon that I found myself standing alongside U.S. 40, looking for a ride. It must have been a Monday because our shifts varied to cover the weekend.

At some crossroads too small to qualify as a village, my chances of getting a ride were slim. Hitchhiking on the interstate was prohibited, so I was stuck with local highways.

And yet, a car pulled over.

It might have been someone's fantasy, but it was true. There were four young women in the car, pretty much my age at the time. At least two of them were very pretty.

They'd just gotten off work at the Richmond Glove Co. and were heading home.

Why they stopped to pick up a hitchhiker, I'll never know.

But they did.

Where are you going? They wondered.

Over by Noblesville, I said.

First one was dropped off, then another, then another. Finally, it was just me and the driver. She wasn't the prettiest of the group, but she possessed remarkable kindness.

Let's go home, she said. Her brother was back from Vietnam on leave, she said, and I should meet him.

Now, keep in mind, this is 1968. I was a student at a Quaker college, steeped in anti-war thinking. My hair had been cut shorter for work at Conner Prairie, but the cultural and political lines were clearly drawn.

Yet she said, let's go home.

We headed north from U.S. 40 and then went west down a long lane to a farmhouse.

There, I was treated like a king. I met my new friend's brother, a great guy. I met her parents and heaven knows how many siblings.

Gathering around a huge table, we had a meal that could have been suggested by Norman Rockwell: Fried chicken, fresh tomatoes, sweet corn, mashed potatoes. There may even have been homemade ice cream.

We didn't talk politics that night. We did talk a little about the war.

My new friend's brother talked about his experiences in Vietnam. I talked about the arbitrary nature of the draft. I may have even told them that I'd been working as a campaign volunteer in Wisconsin that spring for anti-war candidate Gene McCarthy.

But there was nothing that could break the mood.

We were all Americans. We were all Hoosiers. We were all human beings, trying to find the right path.

After dinner, I suggested they take me back to U.S. 40 so I could stick my thumb out and get back to Conner Prairie.

My new friend and her brother would have none of it.

They recalled that their former pastor lived in the Noblesville area.

The young soldier said he wanted a chance to drive his car after so long without being behind the wheel.

And the next thing I knew, they were taking me to my door, probably 50 miles away and another 50 miles home.

I remember thanking them when they dropped me off, stunned by my good fortune.

No problem, they said. Forget it.

But I haven't.

And I doubt I ever will.[[In-content Ad]]