In what surely must be at once the worst and best April Fool’s prank,
after a brief illness Peter A. Hamilton died on Wednesday, April 1. He
was a month shy of 86.
Peter was born on May Day, 1940, in Hartford, where he had the unique experience of growing up in the Noah Webster House. Of course, back then it was just home, a one-bathroom saltbox with questionable heating that had been in the Hamilton family for several generations. He traded his cold bedroom for a dorm at Hotchkiss and then, like his father, went to Princeton. He graduated from the former with numerous lifelong friends, from the latter with a degree in Classics, and after a stint in the Marine Reserves and a cup of coffee in railroading, he managed to monetize his two abiding interests, motors with wheels and music. A serial entrepreneur, he started first a trucking company and later a speaker company, successes both.
Moving to Greenwich in the ’60s, Peter settled with his family in a house on a hill, where, for the next 50-plus years, he’d preside over sleepovers and Saturday morning waffles, Christmas parties and the world’s most delicious/lethal eggnog, quick drop-ins that would go from “How ya doin’?” to “What can I get you?” to an hours-later reluctant goodbye.
Much like his heart, his house was huge and open to all, and Hamilton Hotel was a home to many, related or not, for mere days or even years, from as close as next door to as far away as Australia. It was also the site of that most consequential event: His marriage to Diana, who survives him. After uncanny missed connections (e.g., first marriages on the exact same day!), they finally found each other and proceeded to enjoy nearly 40 years together—40 years of mugs of tea in the kitchen, cook-outs on Martha’s Vineyard, car rides and hilarious conversation.
Belying his conventional bona fides, Peter was an original. Yes, proper New England pedigree and plaid pants at the holidays, but also yes, Tammy Wynette, stock car racing, buying a houseboat, loving the Mets.
His sense of humor was beyond dry, he could fix anything, his whistle could be heard three doors down, there wasn’t anyone he wouldn’t help
out, he was a devoted homebody.
But for all the joys of that house—the ample driveway that could accommodate his many 1960s Chryslers in various states of repair, the wonky HVAC that evoked his Noah Webster years—Peter would be the first to agree that it was nothing without the people, his people: Daughter Xan and husband Nathan Means of New Zealand, son Peter of Los Angeles, stepson David Todd Allee of Florida, Diana’s sons, Christopher Constas and wife Vanessa Platacis of Savannah and Michael Constas of Darien. And most especially, his grands: Caper and Persephone Hamilton Means, Shane Hamilton, Cosmo Constas, and Lucy and Matthew Constas. He answered to many names and titles — Peter, Dad, Papa Pete, Mr. Hamilton, Big Pete, Pop-Pop, Uncle Pete — all with the same steadfast generosity and trademark wit. In addition to his immediate family, he is survived by sister Kathy and husband Thomas Fleming of Florida, nieces and nephews both regular and grand. He was predeceased by parents Frederick W. and Jane Campbell Hamilton and sister Jane Hamilton Fisk. He will be greatly missed. A celebration of life will be held at a later date.