Don’t Be A Milo

From the time of Caesar, and likely before, politics has been a family affair. It is quite likely that you vote for candidates from the same political party as your parents. Decade after decade, families have voted Republican or Democrat, depending on how their parents had voted and their parents before them.

But America’s melting pot culture brings about changes. This occurred in my own family. My father, James Chester O’Leary, was a staunch Democrat, a descendant of Irish Catholics from Rhode Island. My mother, Martha Hathaway Whitaker, was a descendant of New England’s aristocracy. She was rightly proud of her seventh great-grandfather, William Bradford, one of the founders of the Pilgrim bastion at Plymouth Rock and its first governor. Her family consistently voted Republican.

My parents married in 1937 and lived in Norton, Massachusetts, with my mother’s grandfather, Milo Rockwood Whitaker. Born in 1857, Milo was an old man and needed caregivers. By all accounts, Milo was delightful and revered by his neighbors, children, and grandchildren. He died in 1946, the year before my birth, so I never had the good fortune to know him. But we have many pictures of him; as you can see, he was a good-looking, seemingly kind-hearted man. He was notoriously Republican, a party formed just three years before Milo’s birth. (Before becoming Republicans, the Whitakers likely were members of the Whig party.) Practical, conservative, and fiscally responsible, that defines the Whitakers of the late 19th century and throughout most of the 20th century as well.

In 1944, Franklin Delano Roosevelt was running for an unprecedented fourth term as president of the United States. Roosevelt had led the nation out of the Great Depression and was now leading it in the fight against fascism in World War II. There was a definite sense of “don’t rock the boat.” However, most of the country also felt that Roosevelt had done well. Roosevelt is the first president for whom we have archival popularity polls, and his rating was an astonishing 70% just before World War II. That level of national support doesn’t come from just one party. Roosevelt had earned the respect of Democrats and Republicans, including Milo.

According to accounts, my father and Milo would often engage in political talk, and my father knew that my great-grandfather admired Roosevelt and his leadership. So, in 1944, as Roosevelt campaigned against Thomas Dewey, my father asked Milo if he would vote for Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Milo thought for a moment and then said, “Chet, if God was running as a Democrat and the devil as a Republican, I’d have to vote for the devil.”

My father told the story countless times during my youth, and I suppose it’s not surprising that I would remember it in this extraordinary election of 2024. It seems to me we have many Milos in this country—individuals who have voted Republican all of their lives and now are compelled to vote for the devil. What else could possibly explain the enduring allegiance that some people obviously have towards Donald J. Trump?

But is it allegiance to Trump or the Grand Old Party? I suspect it is the latter. I read once that loyalty to Trump was like loyalty to a constantly losing baseball team. There is no rhyme or reason, only loyalty, and loyalty is usually an admirable trait. But loyalty can also be perverted, twisted, and tormented into a shape that barely resembles what it once was. Today’s GOP would be unrecognizable to Milo. It is scarcely recognizable to some present-day members. Some, like Liz Cheney and John Kelly, have bravely broken rank and are attempting to rally their fellow members to vote Democrat. As the Republican former Lt. Governor of Georgia said at the Democratic convention, voting for Harris doesn’t make you a Democrat; it makes you a “Patriot.”

If Milo were alive today, I like to think he would agree and would be preparing to cast his first vote for a Democrat, perhaps with trembling hands but with the clear understanding that his beloved political party has been the victim of a hostile takeover. It has devolved into a cult, a dangerous vehicle for a deranged man.

But, sadly, I can’t be sure of that because there are so many people who still seem bent on electing America’s first fascist dictator.

Yes. It is that serious.

So, to those who are preparing to cast their vote for a convicted felon who has broken every one of the Ten Commandments, I issue a plea: don’t be a Milo. Do not vote for the devil. ❧

Hurricane Milton

Those of us of a certain age — aka Baby Boomers — once equated “Milton” with an odd, cross-dressing comic who appeared on a new marvel in life—the television. But Uncle Miltie is long gone, and when a hurricane was recently named Milton, many of us thought it was a nerdy name for a storm.

I’m sorry.
I was wrong.
I will never make fun of hurricanes again.

Milton knocked the starch out of Florida, accomplishing what his sister, Helene, was once forecast to do. Helene, as we know, was destined to demolish parts of North Carolina, but she left her calling card in Florida. With a dramatic storm surge in Florida and torrential rains in Appalachia, Helene will forever be known as the storm that drowned dreams and people.

Milton was more of a wind entity. It failed to produce the predicted and horrifying 15-foot surge in Tampa Bay. But with 120 mph winds and a size that covered the peninsula, Milton quite simply bulldozed his way across the Sunshine State. He did an excellent job of flattening trees, houses, and dreams. Even before these two storms I read that people no longer consider Florida a retirement haven. Milton could be the final nail in that coffin.

Those of us who have grown up and lived in Florida have been saying it for years: All it will take is one good storm to flatten the poorly constructed, ridiculously priced, zero-lot-line, “retirement” homes that have popped up in this state like mushrooms after the rain. Milton did not discriminate based on housing costs. From the small trailer to the most expensive mega-mansions on the Gulf Coast, Milton slammed through all of them with a relish that stunned us. It even altered topography, opening the long-blocked Midnight Pass on Siesta Key.

In 1983, two homeowners closed the Pass without permission to protect their beachfront property. That particular effort failed, and those houses were swallowed by the Gulf. But the Pass remained closed, altering the marine life in Little Sarasota Bay. The thirty-year effort to manually reopen the illegally blocked channel got its first helping hand from Helene, which opened a small trickle. Milton finished the job. Midnight Pass is open! Perhaps something good came from all this.

On a personal level, I came through the storm just fine. My 1962 home, built like a bunker from cinder blocks and updated with Dade County Code windows, withstood Milton’s wrath. The 13 oaks on my property are all still standing, albeit a lot thinner than they once were. On the bright side, there will be a lot fewer leaves to rake when Florida experiences its version of an autumnal leaf fall in February and March. I was particularly concerned about my legacy oak, which is probably as old as I am, 78. But she shed a few branches and stood tall. As you can see, she shed quite a few branches along with the others. The cleanup in my yard alone is a massive amount of yard waste. Landfills in Florida are filling fast after the twin visits of Helene and Milton.

It is said that this spate of severe storms is a result of global warming. I believe it, but hurricanes have been a fact of life for a long, long time. And history has some remarkable and relatively unknown stories of severe hurricanes. In 1814, the British were burning the buildings in the fledgling capital of Washington, DC, and it looked as though they would prevail in the War of 1812. But on August 25, 1814, a “freak” storm arose with torrential rains that doused the fires in Washington. There were fierce winds and tornadoes that lifted canons off the ground. With no safe housing, the British soldiers had to endure the storm while totally exposed to the elements. More British soldiers died as a result of that storm than the actual fighting. When calm returned, the British turned heel and retreated.

This 1814 freak storm was undoubtedly a hurricane, although it lacks a name. Significant storms have been given names for centuries but the practice of naming every tropical storm and hurricane is a modern practice that dates to 1979. The names of significant storms, like Helene and Milton, are retired, living in infamy, or perhaps the yet-to-be-built Hurricane Hall of Fame. I know I won’t forget them, and I’ll never again call a hurricane nerdy. I know many nerds, and I’m a bit of one myself. Milton was no nerd. Milton was a killer of lives and dreams. ❧

References

https://www.heraldtribune.com/story/news/local/sarasota/2024/09/29/hurricane-helene-reopens-midnight-pass-between-siesta-and-casey-keys/75412865007/

https://www.thevintagenews.com/2018/10/12/burning-of-washington/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_tropical_cyclone_naming

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