Growing up when I did, I was skeptical of the hippie movement. I was hanging out with Stephen and his siblings at the duck pond one sunny afternoon, when an older hippie kid came along; long hair, a peace sign belt buckle round his bell-bottom corduroys, and John Lennon eyeglasses perched upon his Ichabod Crane nose. He sat down next to me with a philosophical air, cross-legged like a Himalayan cave dweller, and said, “What do you believe in?” I meekly stammered out some kind of I-don’t-know reply, but he kept putting on the creepy hippie pressure, becoming more aggressive, “Do you believe in
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