GRASS ROOTS POLITICS

Vote early, vote often, and vote Democratic
--An old Democratic Party battle-cry



Party politics in Hernando County, Florida, in the 1940’s and 50’s were essentially in the hands of a few men, my father among them. The others were the president of the only bank, the postmaster, one of the county’s leading cattle farmers, and the manager of the local citrus processing plant. They were effectively the Democratic Party of the county, although I never learned how they were selected, or which of them held the office of chairman, or performed any other specific function.

They just seemed to come together and decide who was to run for what county office whenever the need arose. You could seek local office without their endorsement, of course, but that would have been a perfect example of that colorful bureaucratic activity known as “pissing up a rope.”

One could also run as a Republican, an even greater exercise in futility, as few people of that persuasion then held public office, at any level, anywhere in the state of Florida.

The group met anywhere that happened to be convenient at the time. The back room of my father’s hardware store was one such regular venue, but used only after the store was closed for the day, and their deliberations would not be disturbed (nor witnessed, I think). An empty nail keg made a good seat. A pad of blank order forms was usually handy to make notes. An old paint can served as a spittoon for the excess juice generated by those chewing on cigars. And the chugging old refrigerator by the back door kept the beer reasonably cold.

On most days after school, I walked to my father’s store to perform chores I came to hate: emptying kegs of nails into bins, stocking shelves, unloading newly arrived merchandise, and sweeping up at the end of the day, to name but a few of those tasks assigned “to make a man of me.”

At the close of business, I rode home with my father in his pickup truck. Our departure was delayed on the days party business was conducted in the store. Usually I spent that time reading comic books, but sometimes I drifted back to the rear of the store to listen. Whether or not that was permitted, I was never told, but I understood quite well that anything heard there was to remain there. I kept that covenant for many years.

Fuller Warren was the Governor of Florida, the state’s U.S. Senators were Spessard Holland and Claude Pepper, and Hernando Country was represented in the House by J. Hardin Peterson. As far as the “boys” of the Democratic Party of Hernando County were concerned, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

Then came a dark cloud. Senator Holland announced his intention to appoint as the town’s new postmaster someone other than the candidate chosen by the boys, triggering the need for an immediate meeting.

The language was loud, angry, and colorful that evening in the rear of the hardware store. Smoke from furiously puffed cigars rose thickly, and angrily thrown empty beer cans bounced off the gravel outside the back door.

The postmaster had announced several weeks earlier his intention to retire later that year. The group had anointed his longtime deputy to replace him, and had routinely sent the name to Washington for Holland’s approval, to be followed by the necessary bureaucratic paperwork. When the usual formal appointment was announced, there would be the ritual drinking and backslapping. In rural Florida in the forties and fifties, this was Grass Roots Party Politics 101.

Senator Holland’s announcement was an astonishing, even heretical, development for the boys in the back room. It could not be allowed to stand, as I learned while listening to their disgruntled discussion. They decided they must send a personal delegate to Washington to confront the senator face to face. It was a proud moment in my young life when my father was chosen to make the trip.

Senator Holland’s choice was the son-in-law of one of the town’s three physicians, Dr. Rupert Smithfield, the doctor of choice among the town’s more affluent citizens.

“Doc” Smithfield was a significant fixture on the streets of Brooksville, one I might have described in later life as a bit of local color sent from a Hollywood central casting office. He was a big man who dressed habitually in a white linen suit, topped off with a wide-brimmed matching straw hat. He carried a black cane with a silver handle as he strode the streets of town. Doc Smithfield was one of those figures to whom a young boy dared not speak; indeed, it was just as well to move to the other side of the street if about to cross paths with him. I knew of no actual reason to fear him, only that it had always seemed prudent not to seek his company.

On the way home that evening, I decided to expose what I had overheard by asking my father why the news of the nomination of Doc Smithfield’s son-in-law had triggered such a heated reaction.

My father jerked back in his seat as if struck in the chest. He jammed on the brakes and immediately pulled to a stop at the side of the street. His face reddened and the pace of his breathing increased. There was a long silence. I feared I had angered him, possibly by eavesdropping on his meeting, and that he was pondering my punishment. But when he finally turned to face me, I did not see in his eyes the fire that normally accompanied his bursts of temper, but rather a look of bewilderment. He was simply at a loss for words. At last he spoke, slowly and deliberately.

“Son,” he said, “you really don’t know about Doc Smithfield, do you?”

“No, sir, I’ve never even spoken to him.

He paused again for a moment. “This thing is big trouble and that’s why I’m going to Washington to try to fix it.”

I waited. I may have been holding my breath.

“Son,” my father said at last, “Rupert Smithfield and his family are Republicans!”

I would like to report that there was a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning that enabled me to see the future. It was certainly there before me. But by the time I had had my supper, listened to the radio, read for a while, and gone to bed, the incident had passed from my consciousness. The idea of Republicans actually living in Hernando County was simply too difficult for my young mind to contemplate.