Chirping Like Crazy

The names rolled off Dad’s tongue. John Dillinger. Pretty Boy Floyd. Baby Face Nelson. Machine Gun Kelly. Ma Barker. Bonnie and Clyde. Outlaws all. Folk heroes too.

As a child, for whatever reason, it didn’t occur to me how out of character it was for Dad to sit at the supper table and regale us with stories of their exploits, shooting up banks, running from the law. Dad had been a soldier, military discipline stayed with him, expected us kids to follow orders. Never robbed a soul, expected us kids to keep our noses clean. Was a farmer, worked seven days a week from sunrise to nightfall, made an honest living, expected us kids to earn our keep.

Yet more times than I can count, there he was at the supper table or on the front steps or leaning against a fencepost, speaking admiringly—almost worshipfully—of common criminals. I don’t pretend to fully understand the psychology of how he reconciled the standards of behavior he set for himself and his children with his fondness for these house…