History & Stories

In the 1995 film Gold Diggers: The Secret of Bear Mountain, Molly Morgan is the stuff of local legend—a mysterious woman said to have stashed a fortune in gold within the dark, jagged caves of the Pacific Northwest. She’s a character of myth, adventure, and the kind of rugged independence that makes for a great Hollywood campfire story.

​But the real Molly Morgan? Her story is far wilder, and it didn't happen in the mountains of Washington.

​Born Mary Jones in 1762 England, the real Molly was a convict, a survivor, and eventually, one of Australia’s most formidable landowners. Transported twice to New South Wales—the first time for stealing yarn, the second for allegedly burning down her husband's house—she refused to be broken. She survived the brutal conditions of the Second Fleet, escaped back to England, retrieved her children, and eventually returned to Australia to reinvent herself.

​She wasn't hiding gold; she was building an empire. She established the "Angel Inn," became a powerhouse in the Hunter Valley, and transformed from a "wanton" convict into a respected, wealthy, and occasionally ruthless pioneer. No caves, no treasure maps—just a woman who looked at the harsh reality of colonial Australia and decided she was going to own it.

​In 1789, 13-year-old Mary Wade stood in a London courtroom, sentenced to hang for stealing a cotton frock and a linen cap. She was a child of the slums, forced to beg just to survive. But fate had other plans. In a stroke of luck—driven by the celebration of King George III’s recovery from illness—her death sentence was commuted to penal transportation.

​Mary was placed aboard the Lady Juliana, the first convict ship to carry exclusively women and children to Australia. After a grueling 11-month voyage, she arrived in Sydney in 1790, a tiny figure in a brutal, fledgling colony.

The "Ghost Range"

Imagine a mountain range so massive it rivaled Mount Everest, completely swallowed by time and continental drift.

​Hundreds of millions of years ago, the supercontinent Pangea was home to the Central Pangean Mountains. It was a singular, towering wall of rock. When the continents eventually split and drifted away, the Atlantic Ocean ripped right through the middle of the range, separating sibling peaks by thousands of miles of deep water.

​Today, we know the pieces left behind as the Appalachian Mountains, the Scottish Highlands, the Scandinavian Mountains in Norway, and the Atlas Mountains in Northwest Africa.

Chronicles of History // The Florida Town Named After Rocks

​If you’ve ever driven through Brevard County, Florida, you’ve probably seen the name Eau Gallie (pronounced Oh-Galley) plastered on roads, districts, and local spots. But most people don't know the unique history behind the name—or why the town legally vanished.

​Back in the 1870s, a colorful real estate developer named William Henry Gleason bought up a massive 16,000-acre tract of land right on the Indian River Lagoon.

​He wanted to give the area a sophisticated, distinct name. Having previously lived in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, he took the French word for water ("Eau") and paired it with a word derived from the Seminole language for rocky or pebbly ("Gallie").

​Why "rocky water"? Because the local shoreline was absolutely covered in broken-up chunks of coquina rock—the exact same spongy, seashell stone used to build the invincible walls of the fort up in St. Augustine!

​Eau Gallie thrived as its own proud city for nearly a century. But its status as an independent town came to a sudden halt in the late 1960s.

​On July 15, 1969, the residents of both Eau Gallie and the neighboring city of Melbourne voted in a historic referendum to officially merge their resources.

​Imagine sailing across the Atlantic, running into a massive continent, naming it, and then sailing right away because you thought it was just a really long island.

​That is exactly what Juan Ponce de León did in the spring of 1513.

​Commissioned by Spain to find new lands, Ponce de León made landfall on the east coast of Florida in April 1513. While historians love to argue over the exact coordinates, local tradition places his landing right near modern-day St. Augustine.

​Because it was the Easter season (Pascua Florida) and the coastline was incredibly lush, he named the land La Florida.

​But here is the catch: he didn't try to settle here.

​Ponce de León wasn't looking to build a town just yet. He spent his time charting the coast, fighting off brief skirmishes with local tribes, and sailing all the way around the peninsula. He was entirely convinced that Florida was just an island.

​He packed up, headed back to Spain to brag about his "island," and left the beautiful coast of St. Augustine behind. It would be another eight years before he returned to try and build a colony—a mistake that would ultimately cost him his life.

​Eight years after claiming Florida for Spain, Juan Ponce de León came back to finish the job. It was 1521, and this time, he wasn't just exploring—he brought 200 men, livestock, farming tools, and horses. He was ready to build a permanent colony.

​But instead of returning to the east coast near St. Augustine, he sailed up into Southwest Florida, dropping anchor in Calusa territory around Charlotte Harbor (just south of the Tampa Bay area).

​It was a fatal geographical choice.

​The Calusa people were legendary, highly organized warriors, and they had zero intention of letting Spanish invaders take their land. They launched a massive, coordinated surprise attack on the building camp.

​During the brutal clash, an arrow pierced Ponce de León’s thigh.

​A standard arrow wound was dangerous enough back then, but the Calusa utilized a devastating weapon: they dipped their arrowheads in the milky sap of the local Manchineel tree.

​Known in Spanish as manzanilla de la muerte ("little apple of death"), the Manchineel is officially one of the most toxic trees on Earth. Just standing under it during a rainstorm can cause skin to blister, and getting its sap directly into a wound means pure agony and rapid poisoning.

​The Calusa attack at Charlotte Harbor didn’t just ruin Juan Ponce de León’s plans—it ended his life.

​After fleeing the Florida coast in agony from the poison arrow wound, Ponce de León made it to Havana, Cuba. But the toxic sap of the Manchineel tree had done its damage. In July 1521, at the age of 47, the man who had named "La Florida" died from his injuries.

​Because of how fiercely the indigenous tribes defended their land, Spain completely pulled back. The devastating failure of Ponce de León’s colony terrified future expeditions. For decades, every Spanish attempt to establish a foothold in Florida ended in disaster, shipwreck, or retreat.

​It took a massive 54 years after Ponce de León’s death for Spain to finally succeed.

​In 1565, Pedro Menéndez de Avilés finally landed on the east coast and successfully established a permanent settlement. He named it St. Augustine.

The Myth of the Great Fire: The True Death of Alexandria

​Most of us were taught that the Library of Alexandria met its end in one dramatic, cinematic blaze—a single tragic afternoon that erased the sum of ancient knowledge.

​But the truth is much quieter, and arguably more haunting: it didn’t burn down in a day. It faded away over centuries.

​There was no "closing time" for the greatest repository of the ancient world. Instead, the Library suffered a slow, painful decline through a "death by a thousand cuts."

​It wasn't just one fire; it was a combination of factors:

​A Loss of Funding: The institution relied on the patronage of the Ptolemaic kings. When that royal support dried up, there was no money left to maintain the buildings or pay the scholars.

​The Fragility of Knowledge: Papyrus doesn't last forever. Without constant, expensive care and expert re-copying, scrolls inevitably rot and crumble into dust.

​The "Brain Drain": As Alexandria faced centuries of political instability, sieges, and shifting religious priorities, the scholars simply left to find safety elsewhere. Once the people who understood the collection were gone, the books lost their purpose.

The First Witch Trial: Before Salem

​We all know the story of Salem, but the true colonial witch panic began decades earlier in Connecticut. In 1647, Alice "Alse" Young became the first person in the American colonies to be executed for witchcraft.

The Haunted Calendar of Independence

​Did you know the Fourth of July is arguably the strangest date in U.S. history?

​While we celebrate the 4th, Congress actually voted for independence on July 2, 1776. John Adams even predicted the 2nd would be celebrated with "pomp and parade."

The Tragic Quartet: Assassinations of the Presidency

​Four times in American history, a sitting president has been taken by assassination. Stripped down to the vital facts, here are the four leaders who paid the ultimate price while holding the nation's highest office.

​1. Abraham Lincoln (16th President)

​Where it Happened: Ford’s Theatre — Washington, D.C.

​Who Shot Him: John Wilkes Booth

​Age at Death: 56 years old

​2. James A. Garfield (20th President)

​Where it Happened: Baltimore & Potomac Railroad Station — Washington, D.C.

​Who Shot Him: Charles J. Guiteau

​Age at Death: 49 years old

​3. William McKinley (25th President)

​Where it Happened: Pan-American Exposition — Buffalo, New York

​Who Shot Him: Leon Czolgosz

​Age at Death: 58 years old

​4. John F. Kennedy (35th President)

​Where it Happened: Dealey Plaza — Dallas, Texas

​Who Shot Him: Lee Harvey Oswald

​Age at Death: 46 years old

Smashing the Frame

​Dolley Madison wasn’t just the wife of the fourth U.S. President, James Madison—she was the heartbeat of the capital. In August 1814, with British troops marching on Washington, panic gripped the city. While others fled, Dolley stood her ground.

​Watching the orange glow of British rockets ignite the horizon, she knew time was running out. George Washington’s iconic portrait stared down from the wall, a symbol of the young nation. With the canvas bolted securely to the woodwork and no tools to be found, Dolley made a frantic choice: she ordered the heavy frame smashed.

The Pocket-Sized President

​History remembers titans by their stature—the towering Washington or imposing Lincoln. But the blueprint of American democracy was drawn by a man who stood just 5'4" and barely weighed 100 pounds.

​James Madison was the shortest president in U.S. history. He was quiet and frail, but possessed a massive intellect. In August 1814, that intellect was tested when British troops marched on Washington D.C.

​Inside the executive mansion, First Lady Dolley Madison refused to panic. With redcoats minutes away, she famously ordered the heavy portrait of George Washington smashed from its frame, saving a piece of the nation’s soul before fleeing.

The Quiet Resting Place of a Loud Life

​If you walk up a hillside trail in Young's Memorial Cemetery in Oyster Bay, New York, you’ll find a remarkably modest gravesite surrounded by a simple iron fence. The tombstone reads, plainly: Theodore Roosevelt.

​Just a short drive down the road sits Sagamore Hill, the massive, vibrant estate where he lived, raised his family, and governed the country as his "Summer White House." But today, the man who filled those rooms with endless energy rests under a quiet canopy of trees.

​It’s a striking contrast, because "quiet" is the last word anyone would use to describe Teddy Roosevelt.

​Before he became the 26th President of the United States, he was a sickly, asthmatic kid who quite literally built himself into a force of nature through sheer willpower. He didn't just live history; he sprinted through it. He was a cowboy in the Dakota Badlands, a New York City Police Commissioner who walked the midnight beats to catch corrupt cops, a war hero charging up San Juan Hill, and a relentless explorer.

​When he unexpectedly took office in 1901 after the assassination of William McKinley, TR brought that same wild energy to the White House. He took on massive corporate monopolies, championed the working class, and forever changed the American landscape by prioritizing the wilderness.

​He lived by a simple philosophy: "Speak softly and carry a big stick." But more than anything, he lived life to the absolute absolute maximum until his death in 1919. In fact, when he passed away in his sleep at Sagamore Hill, his old friend Thomas Marshall famously remarked:

​In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, American fashion had a brutal obsession: plume birds. Feathers from herons, egrets, and pelicans were worth their weight in gold to decorate women’s hats. Plume hunters were sweeping through Florida’s coastlines, wiping out entire nesting colonies in the name of high fashion.

​But a tiny, five-acre mangrove island in the Indian River Lagoon became the line in the sand.

​A local conservationist named Paul Kroegel noticed the slaughter happening at Pelican Island—one of the last major nesting sites for brown pelicans on Florida's east coast. He didn't have the legal authority to stop the hunters, but he did have a direct line to a very sympathetic ear in Washington: President Theodore Roosevelt.

​Roosevelt, an avid naturalist and outdoorsman, didn’t hesitate. When he was told that no existing law explicitly gave the government the power to protect the island, TR asked a simple question:

​"Is there any law that says I cannot declare it a sanctuary?"

​When told there wasn't, he basically replied, "Then I so declare it."

​On March 14, 1903, Roosevelt signed an executive order establishing Pelican Island as the first Federal Bird Reservation.

The Disappearance of Anne Bonny 🏴‍☠️🌊

​Born in County Cork, Ireland, Anne Bonny was never one to follow the rules. She eventually made her way to the Caribbean, shedding the constraints of polite society to become one of the most fierce and feared pirates of the Golden Age.

​Alongside her lover, Captain "Calico Jack" Rackham, and the equally formidable Mary Read, she raided merchant ships across the West Indies, matching any man on board with a sword and pistol.

​But in October 1720, their run came to an end. Caught by a pirate hunter, the crew was captured. While Calico Jack and the men were sentenced to hang, Anne and Mary bought themselves time by revealing a secret: they were both pregnant.

​Mary tragically died of a fever in her prison cell. But as for Anne Bonny? The official historical record simply stops. She vanished from her cell without a trace.

​What If History Was Different?

​Did her wealthy father quietly pull some strings, buy her freedom, and sneak her off to live a quiet, civilian life under a fake name?

​...Or, if you want to lean into the fun side of pirate legends (and maybe a bit of video game lore), what if she sailed halfway across the world to Madagascar to help build Libertalia, the legendary hidden pirate utopia? Hey, if you're going to vanish from a prison cell, you might as well go big!

The Ghost Colony of Roanoke 🌲🍂

​In 1587, over a hundred English settlers landed on Roanoke Island to start a new life. Three years later, a supply ship finally returned to check on them.

​What they found was a ghost town.

​The entire colony had vanished into thin air. There were no signs of a struggle, no bodies, and no ruined buildings. The houses had been carefully dismantled. The only clue left behind was a single word carved into a wooden post:

​"CROATOAN"

​For centuries, historians have debated whether they moved to a neighboring island, starved, or blended in with local tribes. But let's look at a different path.

​What If History Was Different?

What if the Roanoke colony never disappeared? What if the supply ship arrived to find a thriving, fortified town that had successfully survived the harsh winters, built strong alliances, and grown deep roots?