The old guy was an easy mark. He’d had a stroke a few years before, made a good recovery with no evident physical effects, but certainly wasn’t the bright young man of his youth. And he wasn’t just any old guy. He was my dad.
“Rain or Shine” Milt Stein, an appellation that referred to his reliability and work ethic, was 83, but still active. Early every morning he took a walk of perhaps a mile in the area near the condo he shared with my mother, who was seven years his junior.
It was the very steamy summer of 1995, the hottest in Chicago’s history, topping out at 106 degrees Fahrenheit (41 degrees Celsius). On the day in question the temperature was already in the 90s, although not yet 7 AM. A relatively young couple with a small boy approached him.
“Our car broke down, sir. Do you have any water — water to drink?” It was a Sunday and stores would not open for three hours or so.
Milt Stein was a gentle and decent man. Perhaps he noted that the family wasn’t especially well-dressed — that their clothing was damp with perspiration. Approximately 750 deaths by heat and dehydration had been reported in the news recently. The condo was only a couple of blocks away. He led the family there.
My mom was shocked when dad unlocked the door and the family entered. Much less trusting than my father, Jeanette Stein never would have permitted this if she had been given a choice. Beauty, charm, and a quick wit were my mother’s strong suits. Faith in humanity wasn’t high on the list. She often said that “no good deed goes unpunished.” Mom knew this wasn’t exactly politically correct and wondered what others might think of her lack of trust. She sometimes made her suspicions known by saying (always with a twinkle in her eye), “People say I’m kind, but what I want to know is, what kind?”
As she would have viewed it, the “aliens” were now inside the gate. But what could she do? Dad was already on the way to the kitchen to get some glasses and fill them full of water. Meanwhile, the man and woman began to talk excitedly to my mother.
The boy disappeared.
It all happened quickly. Within just a few minutes everyone had been hydrated and the trio departed. But when my parents went into their bedroom, they noticed that a closet door was open and a card board box on a shelf there was ajar. The box was empty of the $10,000 in jewelry it had contained only a few minutes before. The little boy had done his crafty worst. He had taken the treasure.
The police were engaged quickly. A report was filed and the officer told my parents that there had been similar episodes in their neighborhood recently. None of this made my dad feel any better. He felt the fool and, unfortunately, my mother’s criticism of his trusting nature didn’t encourage a quick emotional rebound from the event.
Surprisingly, the police actually were able to recover more than half of the jewelry within a few weeks. But Mrs. Stein’s approval wasn’t so quickly retrieved by Mr. Stein. Mother would tell people the story and father would have to admit that, yes indeed, his kindness had not been repaid in kind.
So what we have here is a difference of temperament or personality on questions of trust and compassion — two models of how to live. You probably have a few family stories yourself, the kind that illustrate similar things, get repeated, and eventually become amusing, even if they didn’t begin that way.
As time passed, my always-clever mother found a humorous way to tell this tale. First she would explain the details of the “con.” Next mom would comment about my father’s naivety and mention the recovery of some of the jewelry almost as an afterthought. But you just knew she couldn’t end it there and the twinkle in her eye gave away that she was getting ready for the knock-out punch. Mrs. Stein pointed her index finger at the man to whom she had been married for nearly 45 years, took a deep breath, wound up and delivered:
People keep telling me that I should change the locks on the condo. But the problem is, he’s got a key!
—
The image above is my mother as a young woman.
[…] Visit link: To Trust or Not to Trust: A Con Artist Story That Leads Back Home … […]
A lovely picture of your mom, Dr. Stein. What a story – I’d have been right there with your dad! I’ve long wondered about how frequently I see couples with differing models on how to live. Is it a dichotomy that serves to keep them balanced?
Milt Stein is a hero — he proved it again and again. I suspect that’s how he survived the knock out punches!
Thank you for praising my mother’s beauty. She would have been more than grateful, Wynne. It was the one thing that she was sure of about herself.
The dichotomy your suggest wasn’t the basis of my parents lifelong marriage. My dad was crazy in love with her and placed her on a pedestal. He didn’t see her flaws even when I pointed them out.
My mother got tuberculosis in the ’30s. She suffered from malnutritian as a young woman woman in a desperately poor family. Her mother saw her as “damaged goods” because of the illness. When my father entered her life, a young man with no prospects during the Great Depression, my grandmother reportedly encouraged my mother to marry him. Gradually, she warmed to him, something he was aware of.
My dad was a decent man who more than once took the side of black men he encountered both during his time of military service and his time as a supervisor in the main post office building in Chicago. I still miss him.
Yeah, Dad was a kind, naive man that day. I was just so happy that they were not harmed.
You have it right, Jack. The threesome could have done worse than steal from them. They were both lucky, as you say.
It’s so good to hear stories likes yours, thank you Dr. Stein. Unfortunately my parents were not so courageous!
You are welcome, Martina. The desire to glorify parents is built into us. As we grow up, sometimes we see their limits.
To the good, my dad displayed concern for strangers. These days, such actions have become more noteworthy and more needed than they once were. Thanks for your comment.
Absolutely 🌺
Thanks again, Martina.
Your “always clever” mother…yes, indeed. I love hearing stories about both of your parents. Remarkable people…in so many ways. 😉❤️😉
My mother would love your praise, Vicki. She was immensely sensitive to small comments or failures of one kind or another, and disposed of friendships frequently. Her life was tragic, in no small part due to parents and poverty. My dad was the best thing that ever entered her life. She treasured her kids too, though we were more trouble. You know more than a little about such broken souls. I imagine some of this resonates. Thanks, Vicki.
Indeed it does…Jeanette’s (or Jeannette’s?) edges often conjure notes of familiarity whenever you share about her. Oh how we adapt and wield our self-protection techniques. And your sweet dad? It seems Milton was ever-enamored. Seeing only her charm and wit. ❤️😉❤️
Yes, you understand Jeanette and Milton very well, Vicki.
I knew it. One “n”. I’ll need to remember. Sending rainy day hugs and smiles to you. 💝😊💝
What a lovely photo of your “always clever” mother! Like your mother, I’m also not trusting to bring strangers into my home like your decent father did. Love the punchline of her story about the con.
Yes. A great punchline, unfortunately at my father’s expense. As you say, Rosaliene, she turned heads and was as beautiful as the photo suggests.
We do live in a different moment now. The stranger has become a well remembered subject of biblical guidance, but not an easy thing to do. Perhaps we will recapture our sense of responsibility for the welfare of those who are unfortunate. Than you, Rosaliene.