Author: Helena

My friend, Mary Anne Hamilton and I wrote a life stories book about her unique memories. One story involved a couple who had a boating accident in the Potomac River when Mary Anne’s family lived nearby. Mary Anne’s recollection of the events are included in Chapter 6 of our 2023 book, Destined to Be a Hamilton. The neighbors were Scott and Katie Seeger and the following is the story he wrote about their ordeal on February 8, 1967:

Death and the Friendly River

BY SCOTT SEEGERS

FOR SEVERAL winters my wife Katie and I had promised ourselves that the next time there was a really good snow on the ground we would row out to the big rock near the far side of the Potomac River and take some pictures of our house. The site is spectacular. The heavily forested Virginia shore at that point rises almost as steeply as a cliff, and our house is perched on a hilltop high above. From the rock, the turbulence of Yellow Falls just downstream would make a dramatic foreground; by combining it with the snow-covered hillside reaching up to the house, we hoped to produce a stunning photograph.

Last February 8, a foot of new snow glistened under brilliant sunlight. It was bitter cold, but achingly beautiful. “We’ll never have a better day for it,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We were on good terms with this stretch of the Potomac, located a few miles above Washington. It was a member of the family, the place our kids had learned to swim and on whose sun-drenched rocks we had picnicked for years. But this amiable river, our river, would teach us that day a lesson we will never forget.

The roundabout track down to the river had once been a wagon road leading to a small gold mine, now long abandoned. Although decades of spring rains have dotted it with deep holes, our jeep would take us to the river’s edge and back, except that in two places on the return trip I would have to hook a cable to a tree and use our power winch to drag us over obstructions.

Through the woods and down the steep hill we went, our eight-foot, aluminum skiff sliding behind us as gaily as a sleigh. At the shore, I carefully loaded my cameras into the skiff. Bundled into layers of heavy clothes, booted and gloved, we clumsily got aboard and shoved off.

The river was high and the current swift, but I launched the skiff well upstream of the big rock. It was no problem to row across, then drift down upon the rock. As we swept past, I grabbed a little scrub maple and pulled us ashore. I had done it many times before.

I tied up the skiff, brushed the snow from the rock, and carefully climbed to its top. The view of the house was magnificent. In the foreground, the falls leaped like molten sapphires in the intense sunlight. One at a time, Katie handed up the cameras, some with normal, others with telephoto lenses. To be sure of getting just the photos I wanted, I took several shots with each.

Carefully, Katie stowed the cameras and sat down in the stern of the skiff. I climbed aboard and set the oars in the oarlocks. But, still bemused by the beauty of the scene, I pushed away from the rock while still standing, instead of sitting down and being ready to row the moment I cast off. Before I could sit down, the current had caught the skiff and whirled it past the rock. The falls were not more than 40 feet away.

I dropped to the seat and pulled as powerful as I could on the oars. The skiff hesitated an instant as the blades bit into the water. We would have escaped the pull of the falls if one oar had not hit a barely submerged rock and jumped from the oarlock. The lopsided thrust threw the boat crosswise to the current, and we raced toward the falls.

At this particular spot, the falls are in three steps, the last and largest a drop of about two feet into a deep, swirling pool. The skiff bounced gently as it went sidewise over the first step. I got the oar back in the oarlock and straightened the boat out as we dropped over the second step in a welter of foam. There was no chance of getting upstream now, but no water had yet come aboard. I had an instant’s wild hope that we might also live through the last drop. “Hold tight,” I said to Katie. “Here we go.” The skiff bucked like a wild stallion – and the world exploded.

I came to the surface clutching at the overturned skiff. Katie was beside me, also holding on. The paralyzing cold squeezed my chest with steel bands. I could hardly breathe. In a voice that sounded like a run­down Victrola, I said, “Hang onto the boat. Kick and paddle toward shore.”

We were in the main branch of the river, about 250 feet from the Virginia shore and our waiting jeep. Although we kicked and paddled mightily, our booted legs and gloved hands were heavy and nearly useless, and the current carried us rapidly downstream. I spared a few seconds to watch the fine black leather case containing my new Graflex disappear in the water.

Suddenly, with a crash, the current brought the skiff up against a large boulder. As if in slow motion, we struggled onto the rock and took stock. The oars were gone. Although I managed somehow to turn the boat over, it remained half underwater riveted against the rock by the current. I tugged at the skiff for almost ten minutes, but I could not drag it high enough up the rock to bail. “We’ll have to leave the boat,” I said.

We took off our boots and heavy outer clothing. With fingers as numb as sticks, I removed the skiff’s mooring line and tied one end to Katie’s wrist. Holding onto the other end, I started wading out on a submerged bar. ”I’m going to try to get to that rock” I told her, pointing to a boulder a little way out in the racing channel between us and shore. “If the rope reaches, I’ll pull you over. If it isn’t long enough, jump in the instant it tightens.”

The savage cold hurt like an enormous toothache. (The water temperature was 35 degrees, the air temperature 20, we learned later.) But we were not frightened, simply because we had not realized how desperate our plight was. We couldn’t swim in our remaining clothes, but we knew that by keeping our feet down when we went under we would soon hit a shallow or a rock on which to push to the surface for another breath. And if we consistently pushed toward shore we would make it. Then it would be only a matter of walking back through the forest to the jeep, getting home, and building a fire. Or so we thought.

I launched myself into deep water and plummeted to the bottom. The current whirled me along, banging my legs against underwater rocks. Finally, I got my feet under me, kicked hard against the bottom, and sailed toward daylight. Too soon, I opened my mouth to breathe—and got instead a big swallow of Potomac. I felt surprised and indignant. “Our” river was trying to drown me! The next time up I got air instead of water, and then I sank again.

I missed the rock I was aiming for, but fetched up on another one downstream. Katie had hit the water the instant the rope tightened, and a moment later she was beside me. I don’t know how many similar rock-to-rock traverses we made, but we finally stumbled ashore about 400 yards downstream from the jeep. “The worst is over,” I said to Katie. I was wrong.

The shore rose above us in a steep bank some eight feet high. Even on her hands and knees, Katie could not make the climb. Hanging onto each other, we floundered along through the ice and tangled roots at the water’s edge until the bank leveled off. Katie fell frequently, and each time she fell she pulled me down with her. Within a few minutes I no longer had the strength to pull her to her feet.

We would stumble a few steps, then fall. I would scramble to my feet and try to pull Katie along until we reached a tree. Using the tree as a prop, we would get her upright and aim for another tree. Then the next tree, one at a time.

With the soft gray fuzz of oblivion lapping at the edges of our consciousness, we tottered and crawled through a little clearing from which we could look up at our home. It sat less than 500 feet away, straight up the hill. But it might as well have been on the moon for any chance we had of climbing the precipitous slope.

About 150 yards from the jeep, Katie fell for the last time. “I can’t go any farther,” she mumbled, lying face down in the snow. I shook her. “You’ve got to keep moving,” I said. She did not respond.

“I’ll go get the jeep and come back for you,” I said. She never heard me. I staggered toward the jeep. Suddenly the trees went into a wild dance, and the ground rose and hit me in the face. I fell every time my numb feet hit a stone. With maybe 75 yards to go, I could not get up again. I crawled to the nearest tree, pulled and shoved myself upright. Through lips too stiff to form the words properly, a voice groaned, “I’ll be damned if I’ll freeze to death this close.”

I shoved myself away from the tree, staggered a dozen steps, fell, and crawled to the next tree. I no longer felt cold. There was room in my mind for only one thought. Jeep. The world was a red jeep.

Suddenly I was there, groping at the door, dragging myself into the seat. Concentrating like a chess master, I looked at the instrument panel. The ignition lock swam into focus. I fumbled the key into it. Choke. With a cold motor the jeep will not start unless choked. My useless fingers slipped off the choke button. I used both hands, and both slipped off. The choke was the center of the universe. Pull the choke out. A partly opened wrench lay on the floor. I slid the jaws over the choke shaft, got my hands behind the wrench and pulled. The choke came out. I could not turn the ignition key. I used the wrench again. The motor sputtered into life.

I pawed at the steering wheel for a precious minute before realizing that my hands would not grip it. I hooked my wrists over the spokes, then cautiously piloted the jeep across the rocks to where Katie lay. I do not remember rousing her and cannot imagine how she got into the jeep. With the glimmer of consciousness left to me, I gave myself step-by-step instructions.

I must remember not to turn around here because the trees are too close. Back up. I poked a few times at the gear shift, and it finally slid into reverse. The jeep backed erratically to a more open spot. I turned it around and put the accelerator to the floor. Weaving crazily, the forest fled past on both sides.

I must not try the gold-mine-road we came down because I cannot handle the winch and cable. Try the track up the other side of the valley.

Roaring wide open in four-wheel drive, the jeep plowed along the twisting track up the ridge. It came out on top at the home of a neighbor. He must have seen the jeep coming because he opened his door instantly. Faces floated before me. They got Katie out of the jeep.

My memories of the rest are confused. Someone gave me brandy. Someone else dabbed at my face with a cloth, and I realized that saliva was streaming out of both corners of my mouth. I was lying on the floor before a big fire, shaking uncontrollably and making strange involuntary noises. Through the fog came Katie’s voice: “Darling, are you all right?” “No,” I mumbled ungraciously, “I’m cold.”

I passed out then, and was roused by a squirt of oxygen administered by the local Rescue Squad. They took us to the hospital, packed a score of gorgeous hot-water bags around each of us, and gave us typhoid and tetanus shots. From the waist down, our bodies were a mosaic of bruises and cuts from being banged against the rocks, but nothing was broken.

They took our temperatures. Katie’s was 92 degrees. This was about two hours after we arrived at the neighbor’s house. I learned later that cold-weather-survival specialists consider 88 degrees the lowest body temperature from which one normally can be expected to recover. Katie must have been very close to the edge.

During the years that Katie and I have been married we have tried to live each day aware of the beauty around us, taking joy and strength from it. We continue to live that way. Still, the brush with death has cleared away a lot of cobwebs, and things that once were great problems now seem not so important.

We still love the river. When summer came again and the children, now grown, visited us, we jeeped down to its shore for a picnic, and afterward we romped and tumbled in the falls.

But we will never again think of the river as one of the family. It is a body of moving water, beautiful in its still pools, in its swift-running channels, and where it foams over the rocks below the house. But it is without conscience. If you forget that it obeys only the law of gravity, it can quite casually kill you.

Originally Published: Reader’s Digest (January 1968), Copyright © by Trusted Media Brands, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Mary Anne Clark is a 31-year-old struggling waitress and soon-to-be-divorced mother of five, who serves 65-year-old Laurens Morgan Hamilton, heir to J. P. Morgan and Founding Father Alexander Hamilton. He returns the next day—her day off—to announce he’s going to marry her. She tries to dissuade him, but Laurens courts her and her five children, offering fancy meals, lavish gifts, and extravagant trips.

More than a memoir, Mary Anne’s unbelievable life stories segue to three sections of 90 Hamilton facts labeled Laurens’ Lists A, B, and C. QR Codes link to her speeches online. Over 70 images, most in color, are posted next to their related true stories, which are entertaining and inspiring as well as challenging. These tragedies and triumphs—and an unprecedented global phenomenon when Mary Anne is in her 80s—create an unexpected purpose for her life.

SPOILER ALERT

Initially, Mary Anne Hamilton, 31, was hesitant to develop a relationship with a 65-year-old man. Two things happened that made her more comfortable.

The first is explained in Chapter 6 of the book, Destined to Be a Hamilton. The second occurred when Mary Anne read a speech Laurens delivered at the US Coast Guard Academy on January 7, 1966. Instead of always being proper and stuffy, his speech revealed a refreshing glimpse of his persona. He seemed to be fun and witty and smart. When she saw the photo of Laurens seated on the floor, chatting with the cadets after his speech, he appeared to be so down to earth, literally. She continued getting to know him better.

Both the photo and the speech are posted here.

This First Annual Alexander Hamilton Lecture was dedicated to RICHARD PARKHURST, my long time fellow Hamiltonian, companion, collaborator, and friend of the Coast Guard" by LAURENS M.HAMILTON, who delivered the Lecture at the United States Coast Guard Academy, New London, Connecticut, 7 Jan.1966

FIRST ANNUAL
ALEXANDER HAMILTON LECTURE
DELIVERED BY
THE HON. LAURENS M. HAMILTON
7 January, 1966

Thank you. Admiral Bender, Admiral Scullion, President-General Coe, my long-valued friend and Hamiltonian Richard Parkhurst, Captain Smith, distinguished guests, members of the faculty and, last but not least, you gentlemen of the Corps of Cadets of this Academy. Now, if I have left anybody out, will they please raise up their hand. I'd like to include by name Mr. Broadwell and the band; it's always a pleasure to come where they play.

The first mission with which I am charged tonight is to present to you the regrets of your Commandant, Admiral Roland, that he cannot be here. He had hoped to be, but something came up in Washington (things are always coming up in Washington), and he phoned me personally at the last minute and asked me to present his regrets to you at not being able to be with you this evening. Admiral Scullion represents not only himself but Admiral Roland in addition.

It is coincidental that I should be introduced tonight by my long-time friend and compatriot, Howard Coe, for, as he said, he and I first met right here in New London, some thirty years ago, in what we refer to in our jocular moments as the "Battle of New London.” There was an effort  to unseat the President-General, which was treason in those days, and Mr. Coe and I collaborated to re-elect the incumbent, the late Messmore Kendall, to the office which Mr. Coe himself holds today so ably.

A further coincidence (and Mr. Coe forgot the little commercial he might have gotten in) is that for the first time since then, the National Society of the Sons of the American Revolution are going to hold their National Congress in New London again this year, this coming June.

Now, that's where coincidences stop. At least they could, except, like all plays and movies and books, any resemblance between the man President-General Coe introduced and myself is purely coincidental. I thought he knew me better, but I must have been mistaken or else he's a bigger liar than I took him for. But, anyway, I do thank him for saying such nice things about me.

It is not my intention this evening to eulogize Alexander Hamilton. For one thing, I don't think it is becoming a descendent to eulogize one of his own ancestors. And, for another thing, I am sure that so long as Alexander Hamilton's picture appears on a ten-dollar bill, he'll be popular. 

But there is a still more important reason for not eulogizing an individual. It is because this is a public institution, supported by public funds, devoted to training public servants for public service. I therefore do not think a private opinion, even my own, of an individual or on any controversial question should be inflicted upon you. However, it should be possible to borrow some lesson from Hamilton's career which we can apply to some of our present day problems. 

As Professor Rossiter so ably expressed it in that excellent book of his, Alexander Hamilton and the Constitution, several copies of which are in the Library, (I know because I gave them) there are many facets to Hamilton's character. Even Thomas Jefferson, who can hardly be counted among Hamilton's friends and admirers, wrote in a letter to Madison on the subject of Hamilton that "without numbers, he is an host within himself". 

I therefore think we might appropriately take two facets from the many and examine them this evening. I intend to speak to you tonight about "Hamilton the Patriot" and about "Hamilton the Officer", for it is in those two capacities that he best serves as an example for the conclusions that I hope to come to this evening.

As a patriot, Hamilton has recently come under fire from another of those writers who is an ardent Jeffersonian and therefore can discover nothing but vice in Hamilton. Parenthetically, I would like to express my amusement, not to mention my amazement, to put it mildly, by the fact that every man who wants to boost Jefferson seems to find it necessary to tear down Hamilton. I didn't think that Jefferson was so short. Hamilton was only about five foot four, he wasn't like Mr. Parkhurst or Admiral Bender, or some of these other six footers I've been up against. (What a basketball team you could have here, incidentally.) But they all seem to think they have to tear down Hamilton before they can build up Jefferson. 

But perhaps in order better to understand what I mean about patriots, we should decide just what a patriot is. I suggest that it is not only those who lay down their lives for their country in battle who are patriots. To me, those who devote their lives, dedicate their lives, to the service of their nation are none the less patriotic.

Oddly enough, Hamilton could qualify as a patriot in either of those classifications, for when he laid down his life on a dueling ground in Weehawken in 1804 he was fighting for the honor of his country and what he felt was his country's interest just as keenly as he did at the Battle of Yorktown in 1781, when he stormed Redoubt No. 10 and staged the prelude to the victory through which American Independence was won. 

His subsequent service as a member of the Continental Congress, as a member of the Legislature of his own state, (in which I insert a parenthetical remark that when I took my seat in that same Legislature, it was 141 years after he had taken his) then as a delegate to the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, his labors in producing most of "The Federalist" papers, and his battle at Poughkeepsie to have the Constitution ratified by the State of New York---they were certainly patriotic labors.

Washington as Secretary of the Treasury, the first Secretary of the Treasury under President Washington, marked the end of his active civilian career, for although he was at all times a political power to be reckoned with, he did not emerge again in the public eye as a civilian until Washington insisted on his being named senior Major-General and Inspector-General of the United States Army. That is when the United States Army started in 1788, at a time when war with France seemed inevitable. On Washington's death in December of 1799, Hamilton automatically became the Commanding General of the United States Army, until he resigned that office in 1800.

So, I suggest that at all times, both in peace and in war, and in many different capacities, Hamilton proved his patriotism during the years he devoted to the creation and foundation of this Nation.

Now, you gentlemen are patriots according to my definition. You are dedicating your lives to one of the most useful and demanding public services. You are preparing yourselves for ceaseless war against elements and human stupidity, which demand a heavy toll of lives and property each year, and with which there can be no truce. The Honor Roll of the Coast Guard has as many names of Coast Guardsmen who have sacrificed their lives in peace as in time of war.

That brings me to the second facet of Hamilton's character, namely, "Hamilton the Officer". He trained himself and others to serve as officers, and he subsequently proved by his own service as an officer the soundness of that training.

Shortly after his admission, in 1774 I think it was, to what was then King's College in New York, he was one of the organizers of a small militia group known as "Hearts of Oak" Artillery Company. Today we would liken it to the ROTC Unit in some college or university. (I don't suppose you have an ROTC Unit here, do you Admiral? They are all--well, never mind, you don't know what you've missed!) But it was in that capacity, training that small battery that he first attracted the attention of his superiors and eventually, that of his Commander-in-Chief. General Washington was quick to recruit the young artillery captain for his staff, where Hamilton served with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel as Washington's closest and most-often­ consulted military secretary. The missions on which he was sent, like the one to General Gates to beg for reinforcements, (which he got, incidentally) were all tributes to the faith Washington had in him and in his ability. 

Always chomping at the bit for active service, the impetuous young Hamilton, just over twenty years of age, finally found active service under his friend Lafayette at Yorktown, down in Virginia where I've lived for the past 25 years, (I don't mean at Yorktown, I mean in Virginia) in what turned out to be the concluding battle of that war.

In the way he prepared himself as a young college student for the military prowess he later exhibited, each and every one of you may find an example of which you may well make use while here at this Academy, and later on active service. After all, the purpose of this Academy is to train the officers of tomorrow for the Coast Guard. You have been admitted here only after you proved your competence, and without political appointment. You will have undergone, before you are finished, four years of intensive practical training--training equal to that received by any cadet at West Point or any midshipman at Annapolis. I might say, that when President Johnson delivered the Commencement Address here in 1964 (I was here on that occasion), that immediately put this Academy at New London on the same footing as the Military Academy at West Point and the Naval Academy at Annapolis. Training, I might add, such as Hamilton was one of the first to advocate when he became one of the sponsors of the creation of a military academy.

It is an interesting footnote to that, incidentally, that the last letter General George Washington is known to have written before his death in December of 1799, was to Hamilton, in reply to one from Hamilton about the establishment of a military academy, the place which we now know as West Point, and from which all the other service academies, including this one, have derived.

The importance of thorough training in order to be able to do a thorough job should need no expiation from me in this place, at this time or at any other time. The motto of your service, "Semper Paratus", could be translated "Always Prepared" just as correctly as "Always Ready." You will be taught to use the most modern weapons in your war against the elements and human stupidity, and even, as happens at the moment, some foreign enemies. You will be taught by men with years of active experience how to cope with the forces you will find arrayed against you, time and time again. You will be taught by others of equal experience how to discharge the administrative duties which are part of the Coast Guardsman's job. In short, you will be taught how to become Coast Guardsmen.

I would like to interpose here a little comment on just how fine it can be to be a Coast Guardsman. It was my happy privilege just three weeks ago tomorrow to be at New Orleans when the new Coast Guard Cutter ALEXANDER HAMILTON was launched. I might state that although it is officially named ALEXANDER HAMILTON, it will be called HAMILTON so as not to confuse it with the submarine ALEXANDER HAMILTON which was launched just across the river, about four years ago, I think it was. My niece was the sponsor, and if we hear of the ALEXANDER HAMILTON going around the world under water, we want to know that it wasn't the Revenue Cutter.

I mingled in New Orleans with all the "high brass" and a lot of the "intermediate brass" of the Coast Guard. I saw them at cocktail parties; I saw them at dinners; I saw them in private conversations. From your Commandant down, every one of them was a credit to the service, and as a citizen I felt very proud of my Coast Guard. Your Commandant was equaled by the Secretary of the Treasury, (your number one boss, I guess; well, just under the President, your number two boss) Mr. Fowler, whose gracious lady broke the traditional bottle of champagne with such vigor that she literally seemed to push the vessel half-way into the Mississippi River, where it landed with a tremendous splash. I envy those of you who will later see service on that cutter and its sister ships. As many of you may know, on the Mississippi they have to launch them thwart-wise. It isn't wide enough to let them go down stern-first, so you see this vessel up on a levee, and a lady smacks it with champagne and something happens and the next thing you know, the whole darn thing is slipping to leeward and it lands in there with an awful splash, shakes itself a couple of times like a terrier and then floats proudly. That was the experience three weeks ago tomorrow.

Now, I think I have read enough of Hamilton's own writings and other people's comments on him and them to be able to frame on this occasion a few precepts which Hamilton might incorporate if he were laying down rules for young officers as specifically as he laid down rules of conduct for his own eldest son. And I might point a little tragic note on that, his eldest son, Philip, was killed two years before Alexander himself was, on the same dueling ground, and for the same reasons. So that the youngest son, who was born shortly after the eldest son's death, was also called Philip, and on the cover of that book, Alexander Hamilton and the Constitution, you will see a portrait of Hamilton which is a little different from the one which hangs in the lobby of Hamilton Hall. You will see the father who has just lost his oldest son; the party leader whose party has disintegrated; and the man who is getting old and discouraged at the age of forty-five or six.

I think that Hamilton would stress the importance of being thoroughly prepared, (he always was) of being proud to be an officer, of being obedient to superiors and a good leader to those under your command.

I would like to pause at those last words for a moment, for leadership is, in my opinion, the most vital element in the American concept of command. Just as Hamilton led his troops in the assault on Redoubt No. 10 at Yorktown, so do most American officers lead their men into battle. Leadership is the essence of instilling in your subordinates that will to obey, that will to follow, which accounts for American success in peace and war.

As to obedience, I know of no situation in which it is more important than on a ship at sea. There can be only one man in command of any ship at any time and his commands must be obeyed without question and without hesitation. You can't go to the telephone and ring up somebody and say, "Speak to Pete and tell him not to speak roughly to me." During your years as junior officers, you will receive commands from your superiors, but a day will come when each of you will find himself the number one man, with people under your command, waiting for your orders, willing to obey those orders, looking to you for leadership in a crisis.

The crowning moment in your future careers will probably come the first time you find yourselves in command of your own ship. From my own experience as a yachtsman who ran his own ship for many thousands of miles, I can assure you that you will never know a loneliness or a care or a worry equal to that of suddenly realizing your responsibility for everything--and I mean everything. You will stand long hours, never off duty even though not on watch. You will rehearse in your mind all that you have been taught or have learned from experience. You will anticipate emergencies before they happen, so that if and when they do happen you will know the right thing to do and how to get it done. That is when you will realize the importance of obedience, for just as there is room for only one man to give commands on a ship, each and every man under him must know where to be and what to do at a given moment, and wait for the given command. The juniors must not ask questions or offer suggestions. They must wait at their appointed posts and execute promptly and competently whatever maneuver is ordered from the bridge.

I'd like to explain on that, that I had that experience on my own ship, which was eighty-five feet long, and I had two paid hands forward and some friends aft. And when there was an emergency, the friends would crop around, "Hey, Laurie, what do you want us to do?" "What shall I do?" "Where shall I go?" But when you are coping with a situation, you do not want to be asked questions. You are trying to review all the factors involved--and there are never fewer than three, and the fewest I can think of is safety, convenience and comfort. And you're reviewing those three factors with the known things and if people would just leave you alone to think, then you'd say, "Bill, throw that line over." "Tom, do this please." "Joe, watch out back there." But, if they are all asking you questions or making suggestions, it makes your job just twice as hard. And that is why I stress that the willingness to obey the man in command and to wait until he gives you a command is just as important as being in command and knowing what command to give. I think Hamilton would have said the same thing to you.

So you see, gentlemen, in “Hamilton the Patriot" and "Hamilton the Officer" there is much we can learn regardless of what people like Mr. Boyd may want to write. I hope that future Alexander Hamilton Lectures will follow this same pattern and stress some particular facet in his brilliant career so that when you go to sea, you will think of Alexander Hamilton not just as the man who founded your service, or after whom Hamilton Hall at this Academy is named, but as a fellow Coast Guardsman, a fellow patriot, a fellow officer, a fellow young man.

In conclusion, I wish to stress the importance of faith--faith in yourselves, to begin with, faith in your fellow men and above all, faith in your God and in the traditions of your splendid service.

It was during World War I (my war) that a Canadian officer who was later killed, I believe his name was McCrae, wrote an immortal poem entitled, "In Flanders Fields". You may remember the opening line, "In Flanders fields the poppies grow, amid the crosses row on row." As I recall them, the concluding lines of that poem are as follows: "To you from dying hands we pass the torch; be yours to hold it high. We shall not sleep in Flanders fields if ye keep not faith with us who die." And that is what each generation inherits from past generations and holds in trust for future generations. It's that faith, proven and unshakable faith, in the things we know to be true.

And there is one other apostrophe to faith, which is even older than that. It is in the seventh verse of the fourth chapter of Saint Paul's Second Epistle to Timothy. Saint Paul knew he was approaching the end of his ministry and he was passing the torch to Saint Timothy. "I have fought a good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the faith." Whether you say that at the end of a long and distinguished career as Coast Guardsmen, or whether you say it at the moment of some heroic sacrifice during your active service, remember those last words, "I have kept the faith." I am sure Hamilton thought of them on his death-bed in New York 162 years ago.

Thank you and good evening.

By Laurens Morgan Hamilton, US Coast Guard Academy, New London, CT, January 7, 1966 ~ Courtesy of Mary Anne Hamilton

Unexpected consequences often occur after choices are made unintentionally. In my life, most choices with unintended results eventually generated a positive purpose. The following unusual stories are shared in my Personal Experiences book:

*.How I unintentionally became a HS Varsity Cheerleader.

*.How I unintentionally met a college basketball player when I was a college cheerleader.

*.How I unintentionally got engaged and married even though I never had a boyfriend.

*.How I unintentionally earned a degree without participating in any campus classes during my senior year of college.

*.How I unintentionally earned a BA with a major in a field in which most entry-level jobs occurred evenings and weekends, a schedule I did not want to work.

*.How I unintentionally was hired for my perfect career position—weekdays, daytime hours.

*.How I unintentionally was elected to the WA State Board of Directors for the Washington State Association of Senior Centers.

*.How we unintentionally moved 100 miles away, built our dream home and had to ‘give our house away’ only 18 months later.

*.How we unintentionally bought the house we now live in.

*.How we hosted a retirement party 9 months in advance which unintentionally appeared to be providentially-timed. Why? Because  3 months before my June 30, 2020 declared retirement date, “in-person gatherings” became illegal due to a global Coronavirus Pandemic.

*.How Hamilton, the Musical unintentionally changed my life and inspired me to launch this “empty next” adventure (NOTE: See article section for a link to our Hamilton in Puerto Rico adventure stories).

*.How my husband miraculously recovered from a life-threatening health condition that was not caused by any kind of unintentional choice (NOTE: See article section for a link to our miraculous recovery story details).

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NEWSFLASH!  May 17, 2020 ~ My mom and dad met when she was a 16 year-old washer-girl for WWII servicemen in the Philippines and he was a 33 year-old Army soldier in the Filipino infantry who needed his clothes washed.

After a 5 year pen-pal letter exchange, she thought he was too old so she attempted to scare him away by mentioning marriage.  The letter backfired and she unintentionally got engaged.

After one of our daily phone calls during the Coronavirus Pandemic lock-down, I realized that it might be fun to incorporate my parents’ unintentional choice stories in with my husband’s and my adventures in a personal experience book for friends and family.

Stay tuned, more enhanced and expanded stories to come.  My mom’s unintentional choices definitely had at least one major purpose: ME!

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NEWS UPDATE:  January 7, 2022 ~ My mother moved to her heavenly mansion this afternoon. While it is a sad event and we miss her, we are grateful that we (my brother, sister, and I) were with her when she moved peacefully and painlessly. We were also appreciative that although she nearly died of congestive heart failure and stage 5 renal failure in mid-April, 2021, she surprised the doctors who thought she might not survive until Mother’s Day.  Gradually, she began to recover.

Doctors were ready to discharge her in mid-May but a routine COVID 19 test came back positive on May 19.  Mom became extremely depressed due to the pain and isolation, and often called out “Lord, take me now.”  The hospital chaplain had arranged for our family to visit her via Zoom on an iPad. When we reminded Mom of our upcoming annual family gathering in mid-July, she changed her thoughts saying, “Never mind, Lord. Don’t take me yet.”

She rallied and surprised the doctors again. She successfully completed physical therapy, recovered, and was discharged on June 17, 2021, just after her 92nd birthday. She was able to attend our July family gathering and enjoyed one last event with most of our family present. We were able to spend many more months with her,  reading her Bible, watching her favorite TV shows, singing her familiar hymns and praying with her every night. I was also able to clarify uncertain aspects of her family stories, The extra time beyond the doctor’s—and Hospice staff’s—expectations was a blessing for all of us.

MEMORIAL UPDATE:  Saturday, July 16, 2022 ~ A Celebration of Life for Mom held in Eastern Washington was attended by an unexpected overflow crowd . Her ashes were mixed with Dad’s ashes and and a portion was interred in a special case associated with his favorite hobby—his fishing tackle box. After family members filled mini-urns with their combined ashes, the remainder will be sprinkled in the Columbia River.  Hopefully, gradually, eventually…they will find their way back to the Philippine Islands, where our family legacy began during WWII. 

How do you motivate junior high math students including main-streamed special education class members to see if you can tap into their potential and enhance their learning potential?

In 1987, I created a Community Classroom project, providing a 5 foot circular-shaped foam mountain landscaped with lakes and streams and land plats for purchase with Monopoly houses for ‘residences.’ Students earned faux cash by being on time, bringing supplies, and doing their homework.

Amazingly, homework was turned in and test scores improved and students learned how important math is in the real world. The above photo was posted by a local newspaper which covered our year-end auction. Students used their faux cash to buy real prizes donated by local merchants.

Although we only used it for Math, the same concepts could be adapted to integrate all school subjects. In fact, I was inspired by one teacher who had developed and used the concepts in his combined 4th and 5th  grade classroom in 1978. My children’s 5th grade teacher had a similar program in the early 1990s.

In 2005, as a City Parks and Recreation Program staff member, I created a proposal for an interactive Financial Literacy program for local schools. Although I did not pursue the project, I still firmly believe that age-appropriate Financial Literacy should be a required part of our school curriculum for students in all grade levels.

I’m in the process of updating this presentation in 2023-2024.

Who was wearing my blouse? After I had gained 100 pounds in 10 years and failed to recognize myself, I realized it was time to regain my health.

I began researching to find healthy habits that would work for me. I discovered that being healthy began with a healthy ‘state of mind’ so I developed a visualization project focused on making smart choices in food, beverages, exercise and sleep habits. I devised a 10 step plan that helped me lose the weight gradually, which helped avoid sagging skin.

In this session I will share what worked for me, including what I call “The Pain of the Re-gain.” After losing 80 pounds, a family death and related stress caused me to pack on nearly 50 of those pounds I had worked so hard to lose. I discovered a planned “yo-yo” type food plan that can actually help me maintain the weight loss for the rest of my life.

Creating a Personal Estate Plan is a daunting task for most families.  It’s difficult to begin what is often considered to be a dreaded End-of-Life conversation, even in close families. But with a different perspective, an Estate Plan project can produce a certain peace of mind that will benefit everyone involved when, not if, the End-of-Life “event” occurs. 

Helena Reynolds and her husband Dave had a recent personal experience that inspired their son and daughter to request that they update their Family’s Estate Plan.  She will share 3 unique aspects that any family may adapt to their own specific situations to get started with this arduous, but necessary family project.

Helena is also writing a book tentatively entitled UNINTENTIONALLY, WITH PURPOSE, subtitled Planning for The Event That No One Wants to Talk About, encouraging everyone to preserve their typical as well as unusual life stories. This process will jumpstart End-of-Life conversations organically, that is, without being planned or forced. These stories will also leave a life-long legacy that can be enjoyed by many generations to come.

How do you begin to create a legacy project for your family? Why should your story be preserved for generations to come? Learn how to create your own personal slide show or video project now, when you can choose what stories, music and  pictures you want others to remember you by.

Helena Reynolds Presents simple steps to start this process and then she will share two examples of legacy projects. The first is about her immigrant parents’ unique WWII pen pal love story entitled ‘Rise to the Dream Across the Sea.’ This was initially shown at their 40th Anniversary surprise celebration in 1990 and again in 1997 when her father passed away.

The second is a 40th Anniversary highlight DVD entitled ‘Rising to a Dream’ about Helena and her husband Dave’s family. Produced by her son Jason and daughter Jana Reynolds, Helena refers to this DVD as ‘Rise of the Fastball across the Plate’ because it features the impact of baseball on their love story.