As “A Furious Sky: The Five-Hundred-Year History of America’s Hurricanes” by Eric Jay Dolin demonstrates, hurricanes in the United States have always been about two kinds of storms — meteorological and political.
Hurricane Andrew, which helped dash President George H.W. Bush’s reelection bid in 1992. Katrina and President George W. “You’re doing a heck of a job, Brownie” Bush in 2005. And President Donald J. Trump and take your pick — Maria (2017, paper towels, Puerto Rico); Dorian (2019, Sharpies and definitely not Alabama) and, of course, Michael, Oct. 10, 2018, Florida panhandle, one of the most powerful storms to date and the last category five hurricane to hit the U.S. as a Cat. 5 since Andrew. It did not stop Trump from attending a rally in Pennsylvania as he geared up for the 2020 election.
Another presidential election, more Pennsylvania rallies and more hurricanes — Helene, which has left a heartbreaking path of destruction, particularly in the bucolic, artisanal city of Ashville, North Carolina, with 227 dead, scores missing and unending recovery efforts; and now Milton, a Cat. 5 barreling toward dense, vulnerable Tampa, Florida, with an ETA of Wednesday, Oct. 9.
Interestingly, Milton replaced Michael as the “M” name for the 2024 hurricane list as Michael’s destructiveness ensured that name would be retired. And here Milton is, almost six years to the day of Michael with the same deadly abysmal barometric pressure and similar strength.
One poster said Milton is a wussy name, prompting those of a certain vintage to recall comedian Milton “Uncle Miltie” Berle and his cross-dressing skits. On the hand, another poster rejoindered, John Milton wrote the epic poem “Paradise Lost” (1667), his shrewd take on the battle of the angels and the Book of Genesis.
It certainly seems as if we are part of Milton’s landscape with all the exploiting, sniping, complaining and outright lying about Helene recovery efforts and Milton preparations.
I’ve long had a fascination for storms — the aunt who raised me always said I myself was a “storm coming through” — ever since I stood as a 5 year old on the street where her summer home was located in Wildwood, New Jersey, during the aftermath of Hurricane Donna (1960).
The house, which had three porches the length of bowling lanes, was a generous clapboard affair, built by an old sea captain along a canal dotted with the homes of year-round fishermen. It had its own pier on which my aunt and uncle would sit at night with their guests. By day, my sister Jana and I would help with the crabbing and chores — mostly we’d get in the way — until it was time to go into town to shop or head for a night on the boardwalk.
I can still see all those people all these years later. How I loved that place. One day I will write about it. One day. But for now I see myself as a 5 year old looking down a street with only one house standing — ours. My aunt always attributed it to the statue of the Virgin Mary that kept watch over the property when we were back in New York, although I think the cement base and that old sea captain had something to do with it, too.
All we lost was the old player piano in the basement that Donna took with her like a furious, unwanted guest, pushing her way in and just as furiously rushing out. For years, my aunt kept the one key that was the only thing left of the piano. Our neighbors up and down the block lost everything.
Over the years, I have lived and worked through Gloria, Floyd, Sandy, Henri and Ian to name a few, not to mention the March 13, 2010 nor’easter that toppled a tree on our New York home. I’ll hear that long, rumbling sound — “like a freight train running through the middle of my head,” to borrow from Bruce Springsteen — till the day I die.
Here’s the thing I’ve learned about storms. They don’t care who you are, what your political affiliation is or how rich you might be, although as we all know, money can’t buy happiness but it can sure make misery comfortable.
A storm is just that — a storm, with no allegiances. It can’t be manufactured by the Democrats. It defies exploitation by the Republicans. It’s just going to do its stormy thing.
Now is not the time to bicker and divide. Now is the time to do whatever it is we can — think, pray, act, donate, rush in to help, or as needs be, get the hell out of the way.
And to all those in Milton’s path — godspeed.