![]() ![]() Also, I realized that I was actually writing about all the connections in my life. My mother is 87 and I know she really wants to see me publish a book. My cousin Julie, who writes mysteries, and my mother, who writes for the local paper, posted that I should write a book. Legitimate bonds had been created by sharing hats. He also said I’m the best friend he’s ever had who he’d never met. Jim told me it had helped him get through the pandemic. A few people told me they were sad it was over. When I made my last post, people who had never even marked a “like” on any of my posts started telling me how much they enjoyed the daily hat and story. I have never met Jim in person, but he wanted to keep the connection going.Īfter 125 days, I ran out of hats. One gentleman, Jim, a Viet Nam veteran who lives in Texas, ran out of hats about 25 days in, but he didn’t want to miss out on the fun, so he started sharing whatever he could find - autographs, pictures, CDs, bobbleheads. A little community quickly formed around the posts, sharing our lives through our love of hats. I started adding little stories with the hats. The first was how long we’d be locked down. Every day, I posted a picture on Facebook of the hat I’d wear. And there’s an interesting backstory, which Colby explains like so:Ī week into the lockdown in March 2020, I decided to wear a different hat every day until we were allowed to be together again. I’m not a cap collector myself, but I’ve collected lots of other things over the years, so I can relate to the story-driven approach Colby’s taking here - it’s a good concept. (There’s a short scene from the 1987 movie Throw Momma From the Train that illustrates this point really well.) That’s the idea behind a new book by Craig Colby, called All Caps: Stories That Justify an Outrageous Hat Collection. But often they’re also collections of stories. ![]() "The Watcher had expressed a desire to protect the Boulevard from change, but instead it had been torn apart," The Cut story concluded.Ī renter was found around 2017, and the letters began again after a two-and-a-half-year absence, revitalizing the investigation with no good solution. In 2019, five years after the ordeal began for the Broaddus family, they were able to sell the 1905 Dutch Colonial home to Andrew and Alison Carr - at a $400,000 loss ( via Patch). Today, the story survives as New Jersey's creepiest urban legend, and next month, you'll be able to experience it for yourself, Ryan-Murphy-style.Some collections are just collections of objects. However, attention turned to the family, with some wondering if the Broadduses themselves could be the instigators and putting the family under further scrutiny. When the Broadduses tried to unload the home (several times), it became a community issue. The family continued its personal investigation, and police continued to look into other people based on DNA evidence in the letters and other developments. The Broadduses decided not to move in, and they tried to sell the home instead. ![]() Yet the Watcher continued sending more and more unhinged messages. But by the end of the year, police had no clues. The letters referred to the children by name, decried changes to the home, and turned the Broadduses into nervous wrecks as they eyed neighbors like the Langfords and wondered if the Watcher planned to actually hurt them. A sign in the backyard was ripped out overnight, and the Watcher appeared to continue his (or her) surveillance while hinting that something was in the walls. The Woods had received one message just before moving out, but that was it - and they'd lived in the home for 23 years. The first letter outlined details of their move and guessed that they had three children, exulting in the idea of the house having "young blood." The Broaduses called the police immediately and also asked John and Andrea Woods, the original owners, if they knew anything about the Watcher. ![]()
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