All In A Lifetime

PUBLIC ENEMY NO. 1

There was no way, back in 1934, we could have known that the stranger at our door was John Dillinger. Newspapers reported the bank robberies, shoot-outs, and escapades of this infamous bank robber from Indiana. Radio newscasts also informed us of his escape from Northern Wisconsin. However, prior to his FBI picture appearing in the Duluth News Tribune, no one in our area knew what he looked like.

The largest iron ore yards in the world were only a few blocks away from our home. Trains arrived and departed continually “up-the-line” to the northern reaches of Minnesota, and “down-the-line” to Duluth, Superior, Milwaukee, Chicago and points east and west. Many times we would see men riding on the rods below the railroad cars.

A winding path led from the ore yards, over a narrow stream, through the dense woods, to a swampy area just beyond our back yard. Occasionally, a hungry “down-and-outer” would find his way to our back door for food. Evidently, the “hobo grapevine” informed them of mother’s benevolent spirit.

Mother would always motion for nosey-little-me to back away. After a plea for food, they would sit on our back step, hastily devour their sandwich, and gulp down cool water. Then they departed to ride the rods on either a south or northbound freight train.

I was watching mother prepare our evening meal in our clean and cozy kitchen. The wood-burning range was heated up. We would be eating soon. A sharp rap on the back door interrupted our conversation. Mother opened the door and I peeked around her.

This stranger stepped closer. His dirty, oversized, army overcoat collar was turned all the way up. The thought occurred to me that the evening was a bit chilly, but it didn’t seem to me that it was cold enough for him to turn up his collar.

He spoke softly, as he leaned forward, “Ma’am I’m a sewing machine repairman. Do you happen to have a machine needing adjusting or repair? I am not carrying tools, but all I would need is the tools that came with the machine.”

She replied, “Yes, I do...but, I can’t afford to have it done. I only have 50 cents until payday.”

He quickly responded, “50 cents will be fine.”

 Mother hesitated for a moment. He stepped closer as she glanced at the kitchen clock and told him her husband would be home very shortly. He could step in. Dad always came straight home from work—that day would not be an exception.

Stepping aside, so he could enter, we noticed that he glanced to the left and then to the right before entering.  We followed his glance, but saw no one. None of our neighbors had a view of our back door.

He was escorted to the old Singer treadle sewing machine. Mother reached for his coat, as he slowly removed it. She offered to hang it up. Politely, but firmly, he insisted it was not necessary. With special care he folded his soiled Army coat, and lowered it to the floor between the sewing machine and the wall—close to his side. I could hardly believe my eyes! He treated that filthy, Army coat with extreme care.

Mother had been sewing, by hand, for some time. She altered hand-me-down dresses from friends. Thoughts of new dresses flashed through my mind, and I was excited. I watched him closely as his nimble fingers moved from one part of the machine to the other—cleaning, adjusting, and oiling. It was very evident to this eleven-year-old that he was a man with a superior ability!

He had nearly co