SOMETHING WAS OFF ABOUT HIM (eBook)

Liza Morado (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
234 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-4432-7 (ISBN)

Infos

'SOMETHING WAS OFF ABOUT HIM' is a captivating blend of memoir and mystery set in the picturesque farming community of White Hall, Maryland, in northern Baltimore County. Join Liza on her extraordinary journey through a childhood filled with bizarre experiences, profound discoveries, and personal tragedies. Her keen observations and remarkable insights compel her to alert the FBI about an unexpected alliance between two neighbors. As the Department of Justice becomes involved, Liza embarks on her own investigation, unraveling a web of secrets and connections. One revelation after another hints at a shocking link to the infamous D.B. Cooper case, leaving Liza and the reader to ponder the ultimate question: 'whodunit?'.

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"e;SOMETHING WAS OFF ABOUT HIM"e; is a captivating blend of memoir and mystery set in the picturesque farming community of White Hall, Maryland. Join Liza on her extraordinary journey through her childhood memories filled with bizarre experiences, profound discoveries, and personal tragedies. Following an unsettling incident involving Mr. Kaufman, Liza heeded the warning signs and quietly returned to her home in Washington. She always suspected Mr. Kaufman harbored untold secrets as he never wanted to discuss his Brooklyn past and blocked his birth family. He developed an unlikely friendship with the town maniac, Mr. Hendrix. Something about Mr. Kaufman seemed off. Liza could not ignore her instincts. She broke her silence and alerted the Justice Department in 2011, disclosing something was off about Mr. Kaufman, and for some reason he was friends with Mr. Hendrix. Liza left it up to them to figure things out. As the Department of Justice became involved, Liza embarked on her own investigation, unraveling a web of secrets and connections. One peculiar revelation after another intrigued and baited Liza to keep digging. Liza's research hints at a shocking link to the infamous D.B. Cooper case. She and the reader are left to ponder the ultimate question: "e;whodunit?"e;.

Textauszug

NEW NEIGHBORS

Finding playmates in the country was hard. Farms were distanced far apart. As my parents were not farmers, there was little socializing between us and the neighboring farms.

The Hanna family lived at the top of the hill on Hunter Mill Road. We never really got to know them. Although we both lived in Harford County, we attended Seventh District Elementary while their kids went to Sparks Elementary in Baltimore County.

These neighbors had a flock of cage-free guinea hens that were often roaming in the middle of Hunter Mill Road. Sometimes their lives ended suddenly when drivers went over the crest of the hill, speeding.

My parents met interesting couples to befriend in the country, but they rarely had kids. My father and mother were highly educated. Some of our neighbors had barely finished high school. We did not have enough in common. Our lifestyles were completely different. It seemed as if all our neighbors were either farmers or steel workers living in the country but working in Baltimore harbor.

We heard about the Hendrix family, but we never spent any time with them. For a brief period, their kids got on the school bus on White Hall Road, but they soon disappeared and went to private schools - McDonough Military School for boys and Bryn Mawr School for girls.

Furman E. Hendrix owned an agricultural molasses supply business. We saw his trucks around town. He must have been rich because he also had an airstrip on his property. We could see his Piper airplane flying low in the skies above our farm. His airstrip was less than a mile from our house, by way the Piper flies.

The kids who lived in the Clarendon’s rental property never stayed for long. They left when their parents’ two-year lease was up.

Life was lonely for me as a young girl, and things got worse when my brother entered first grade. There were no little girls near our farm for me to play with. Friends were imported from homes that were miles away.

Neither Alex nor Eleanor was very tall. Alex was 5'8" and weighed about 160 pounds. He was not half the man my father was in every sense of the word. Pop was 6'2" and 220 pounds. He towered over Alex, but Pop used his brain rather than his brawn in the event of any disagreement.

Alex had the bad habit of showing up for happy hour and not reciprocating in kind or bringing a bottle to replenish what he drank. Pop decided the best way to end this was to go over to his house and drain his bottle of Drambuie…to Alex’s chagrin.

Alex lacked the life adventures, sea experiences, personal drive, and ambition that my father had, but he had his strengths. He worked hard and was immensely self-disciplined. He set goals and figured out how to reach them, one way or another. He had a clear path to financial success in mind.

Eleanor was about four inches shorter and weighed about 130 pounds. She was short but nonetheless a spitfire. She had her opinions and was not shy to share them. Laughter came easily, and she loved ironies. She made life comfortable with her easy-going personality. She loved politics and was a steadfast Democrat. If ever there was a march in Annapolis, she was in it and right at the front.

Both Alex and Eleanor lacked a college education, but they read books, which made conversations interesting. I always paid close attention to what they had to say.

Alex was a bay pilot. Bay pilots stayed in a little “shack” waiting for the incoming ship to enter Chesapeake Bay. They boarded a small tug that sailed out to the ship and saddled up next to a moving freighter. The pilot climbed a thirty-foot rope ladder, whereupon a crew of men would meet the pilot and usher him to the bridge. The pilot boat never stopped moving during the entire process.

It was dangerous work, especially in stormy seas. He had solid core strength because of this.

His job was to safely thread the merchant ship below the Francis Scott Key Bridge and drop anchor in Baltimore’s harbor. This took all night. It often involved waiting, with nothing to do in the little “shack.”

Alex was usually tired and immensely irritable by the time he got off the ship and drove forty-five minutes to their home.

Sometimes he simply went to bed, but more often he burst through their kitchen door screaming at everyone. This was very scary to witness - his face wrinkled, his lips curled, his eyes bulged. I usually made a quick exit and headed home.

When Alex and Eleanor Kaufman purchased their farm, life for me got more interesting. For once I could walk to a friend’s house. Their home was literally “over the river and through the woods.”

To get to their house, I walked down our lane to the intersection of Hunter Mill Road and Vernon Road, then hopped over the fence and walked across the horse’s pasture towards the little stream. I was familiar with this stream and knew exactly where there were enough big stones to use for crossing without falling in.

From there it was up and over the hill, across a never mowed pasture, past their red barn, and on to their kitchen door where my friend Dushka would be waiting for me. I had to blaze my own trail every time I went because the fields recovered quickly in the summer.

I was twelve years old when the Kaufman’s moved into their farm. Dushka was eight years old. I took to their family like a duck to water. Every week we got together at least once but usually three or four times a week. They seemed like the nicest people. The best part was they were not farmers. Both of our fathers were merchant marines. Dushka and I became the best of friends.

The Kaufman’s owned a couple of horses and had geese who meandered wherever they wanted. Horses are expensive creatures to have as pets. They have vet bills, feed bills, and blacksmiths are called regularly to change the horseshoes on their growing hooves. The cost of hay and straw adds up quickly. Their stalls need to be cleaned daily. Owning a horse was a status symbol in the country, but it presented a tether to the farm. Vacations had to be well planned. Hired help filled the gap.

The Kaufman’s’ home was old but not as historic as our home. It was a two-story colonial painted light blue with black shutters and had a small front porch. The best part about their home was the living room, which had exposed logs and mortar next to the stone fireplace. This provided a fascinating peak into the home’s history. Originally it was a log house.

Next to the fireplace was a wingback chair and a pole lamp - a welcoming place to read. The exposed log living room also had a corner curved staircase behind a door that went upstairs to a small second landing outside the bathroom. The same landing had another stairwell to the attic behind a closed door.

This hidden staircase was in addition to the formal staircase in the front hall across from the door. There was one other small, curved corner stairwell behind a door in the kitchen that went up to Dushka’s bedroom. In all there were four different stairwells in their house. Multiple staircases made their home unique.

The main part of the house was built in about 1860, plus or minus ten years. A newer renovation with an addition followed in 1950. A modern kitchen, plus a fireplace on the wall were added. These renovations also included two new bathrooms - a full bath upstairs and a tiny quarter bath on the first floor between the kitchen and the hall. The style of the bathroom fixtures reflected their age.

Their front door faced their lane and had an expansive lawn (that no one wanted to mow) in front of it. The Kaufman’s never used their front door. It was inconvenient to their parked cars. The only visitors who ever used it were the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Their driveway went right up to their kitchen door. Tall oak trees shaded the parking area.

There was a trap door on their hallway floor. Eleanor claimed that was where the people hid when attacked by marauding Native Americans. She said they could pull the little rug over to conceal the door and hide in the basement.

There is no history of marauding Indians in White Hall that I have ever read about. Beneath the trap door is a crude ladder that led down to their “dungeon,” otherwise known as their basement. There was only one light in the ceiling. Their dungeon may have once served as a root cellar.

Right inside the formal front door was the main stairwell; nothing fancy, but it was open. The open staircase included a wraparound railing on the second floor that provided open space for a little hall between two bedrooms. This area became Alex’s retreat, his man cave. He filled it with bookcases, a filing cabinet, a desk, and a desk chair. No one bothered him when he was sitting there. No one dared do such a thing. He did not even want us glancing at him sitting at his desk. There was no way I would ever cross that man. I never used this route between the bedrooms.

Throughout the house were the original wooden floors, c. 1860, that truly showed their age. They were rough and unfinished and collected dust. At first Eleanor swept these floors when they needed it, which was a never-ending chore. She soon relaxed the rules about housekeeping. As far as she was concerned, all the dirt came inside naturally.

Still, it was a tidy home, filled with interesting colonial antiques. I liked their master bedroom. Eleanor had a four-poster bed with a hand-crocheted cover hanging over the canopy. She could lie in...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 10.9.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Geisteswissenschaften ► Geschichte ► Regional- / Ländergeschichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-4432-7 / 9798350944327