Don’t Judge a Book by Its Cover

Man relearns a valuable lesson as an odd assortment of good samaritans lends a helping hand.

| March/April 2012

They didn’t look like angels. They looked like a band of misfits made up of human beings left over from the hippie days of the 1960s and ’70s.

The driver of the battered old station wagon was a young man with long, lanky blond hair and a wispy black goatee (clearly dyed). Beside him was a young woman with long, lanky blond hair. In the back seat was a dowdy-looking white woman in a Mother Hubbard dress. Beside her was a big African American man, with a bushy white beard and a shaved head.

I offered up a short prayer that they wouldn’t stop.

I’d been standing in the hot southern Utah sun for an hour trying to “thumb” a ride. My car had broken down, and I needed to get to the nearest town, Las Vegas, and find a Chevrolet garage. My wife, Edna, was trying to keep cool in the car.

The station wagon pulled in behind my car and stopped. The young man hopped out with a grin and said, “Car trouble, mister?”

“Engine froze up on me,” I said. “I need to get to town and get a wrecker out here. How far is Las Vegas?”

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