1925 - John Oliver Manson and the Phantom Kidnapping
Note: I have written a great deal about the search for my long-lost paternal grandparents, the sad Elisabetta DeFabritus and Francesco Mancini, and eventually published a book called Immigrant Secrets about the search.
In a series of new posts, I’m going to start to document another unusual family character, my maternal grandfather, John Oliver Manson. I will likely hop around a bit as I do the research, so I’ll put a date stamp in the titles so those keeping score at home can follow the timeline.
By 1925, my grandfather had been married to his first wife, Laura Moran, for 12 years, and were settled in Miami. They had a son, John Francis Manson (born in 1913, my Uncle Jack), and a daughter, Marcia Evangeline Manson (born in 1923). All seemed well in this small nuclear family, “seemed” being the operative word.
My grandfather had a bit of local notoriety in Florida as captain of the Presidential Yacht of Warren G. Harding. (Note: Until recently, Harding was generally acknowledged as the worst U.S. President).
Strangely enough, my grandfather was evidently enough of a local celebrity that a driving trip to Hendersonville, NC merited coverage in the Miami News (8-26-21). Captain Manson’s knowledge not only included oceans, but also roads (“they were good”), weather (“rainy”), agriculture (“the cotton crops have been practically destroyed by boll weevil”) and tourism (“only 4 posters encouraging tourism to Miami, and all riddled with bullets”).
Mirroring what appeared to be a somewhat prominent position in society, my grandfather’s wife’s entry in a local contest to develop a slogan for Miami (Prize $100!) was covered in the paper in 1922.
Her entry in the poster contest may have been sullied a few months later by my grandfather’s arrest for transporting liquor (shock!), and for his efforts to elude the police by “dodging around corners.”
My grandfather apparently had a knack for real estate marketing, as evidenced by his creative pine tree approach. This seems a lot easier than the extensive “staging” torture we recently engaged in to sell our house.
I guess the pine tree tactic didn’t work, because the next year, my grandfather made the decision to lease the property -- valued at $22,000 (quite a haul in 1923) -- to someone named C.P. Kelly for 99 years. Wait a minute. Mr. Kelly, it’s 2022 and I want our property back. The lease is up. According to Google Maps, it looks like that block is a parking garage, but still. What’s right is right.
Alas, by 1925, all was not well in Miami for my grandfather and his first wife Laura Moran, as reflected in this notice in the Miami Tribune for July 7, 1925.
But the best was yet to come.
On July 10, the Miami News reported that my Uncle Jack had “disappeared after a mystery telephone call.” According to the report, a friend’s mother had invited my Uncle to meet them at a local park at 10 a.m. From there, the plan was to have a birthday party for the friend, and Jack would be home by 5 p.m. Except he never arrived. My grandfather’s wife then went to the friend’s house, and of course neither the friend nor his mother had any idea what she was talking about. As the reporter in the News dramatically notes, “The telephone call had been faked.”
The article contained a remarkably full description – “Jack wore long white duck trousers, a white waist with sleeves cut off at the elbow, brown golf hose, and white sneakers. He was bareheaded and had four pennies in his pockets.”
By the next day, the story had spread to the regional press across the southern U.S. Jack’s sister Marcia was even brought into the tale and issued her own plea for her brother’s return in the Miami News.
One day later, the mystery was resolved. Jack had apparently been with his father (my grandfather), all along, in what appears to have been a bit of drama tied to the family difficulties hinted at by my grandfather’s personal ad on July 7.
By August, divorce proceedings were underway.
