One year I had the opportunity to attend one of these annual conferences in Boston, one of the two “cradles of American Liberty,” the other being Philadelphia, of course. The conference was held the week of July 4th, as they usually were, and it was held at the Copley Place Marriott, right in the heart of downtown, near the harbor.

The good news for me was, my room was on the 37th floor, about 2/3 of the way up one of the two towers that comprised that particular Marriott. So I literally had a “bird’s eye view” of the 4th of July fireworks, from the big window at the end of my hall, overlooking Boston Bay. There must have been 300,000 people outside that evening, so I was glad I could enjoy the fireworks without getting crushed in the crowd.

The bad news was, the AC in their conference center somehow got stuck on “low,” those entire four days, and I was cold all that week! I had come somewhat prepared, having learned from prior conferences that those events can often be colder thank you’d think. So I had brought a sweater and a jacket, in addition to long-sleeved shirts and tee shirts, “just in case” I needed them. I left half-way through the first general session to go up to my room and put on all those layers, and wound up doing that every one of those four days there.

Two other odd events have lodged in my brain about that trip. One was, when my boss and I and the other two folks from our office arrived at Logan International Airport, we wound up getting into one cab for the ride to the hotel. Our driver spoke no English; I think the only two words he knew were “Airport” and “Marriott.”

I also think he was in training to be an “Indy-500” race car driver; and that he would have run over his mother crossing the street, if he thought his tip depended on it! I have never been so scared riding in a taxi, before or since. And we made sure we had a different taxi on the ride back to the airport, four days later. The other unusual experience that trip was the foul-up in making my hotel reservation. That hotel had foreign folks working there as part of their training program, and their English was not always very good. I have always found it a good practice to call back a week before going somewhere, just to re-confirm my reservation. Occasionally, it has somehow gotten lost and needed to be re-instated before I got there.

I have two unusual names, and when I called back a week before going, the foreign-sounding reservation clerk told me brightly that she had indeed found my reservation, “with my brother Peter!”

Somewhat taken aback, I told her I did not have a “brother named Peter,” and my wife Anne would be with me that week. “Oh, so sorry! I will fix it,” she told me quite apologetically.

So you can imagine my surprise when I arrived at the hotel and went to check in, and was again told that my room was available, and “my brother Peter” had not yet arrived. I did get that straightened out, and we checked in without further issue.

A day or two later, however, at the beginning of one of the big general sessions (in a room holding 1,000 people), an announcement was made that “if Rafe Semmes was in the room, please meet your trustee at the entrance to the room.” Wondering what in the world might be the problem, I hurried to the back of the room, only to find my boss lady (a petite black woman) standing next to a tall, heavy-set white fellow.

“Here he is!” Sylvia said brightly to the man at her side. Turning to me with a big smile, she said, “Rafe Semmes, meet your cousin Peter Semmes!”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. Turns out he was indeed a distant cousin, from Alabama, who was attending the conference with his wife – both lawyers – for the first time. So I had to laugh and told him the story about the reservation.

Anyone who spells their last name the same way I do has to be related; our family came to this country from England in the 1600’s, landing in Maryland, fleeing religious persecution. From there, branches of the family spread to Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia.

But that was the first time I had actually met someone with the same last name.

What a trip that was!

I did enjoy my limited time exploring the area around the hotel. And got to do some limited sight-seeing. It was also the first time I had seen a downtown residential area filled with six-story townhomes. Their space was limited, so they “built up,” instead of “out.” But it made me glad my hometown was not that dense.

Rafe Semmes is a graduate of the original Savannah High and the University of Georgia.

He and his wife live in Liberty County, but often drive through Richmond Hill.