Month: February 2017

I was born in Havana, Cuba on July 4th 1956, and came to Miami in January of 1962.

For years I thought I came to Miami as part of the Freedom Flights, until I later discovered that those flights did not start until 1965. As young as I was, I remember boarding the plane with my mother and father and my four siblings.

I sat on my mother’s lap and my father carried my baby sister, making room for two more passengers. At a time when so many parents were sending their children to the states alone and out of harm’s way, my mother did not waiver. She later told me when I was older that she told my father, “we all leave together, or we don’t go,” and so we did.

My father was 38 and my mother 34 when they arrived in Miami. How courageous they were to leave their homeland with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a couple suitcases of belongings. I am certain they struggled but I don’t ever remember going to bed hungry or not celebrating Christmas. How they managed I don’t know.

Shortly after we arrived, my mother took in three young teens sent alone to Miami. The first, my cousin, was later reunited with his parents. The second was our next door neighbor’s son-in-law, who was the eldest but cried the most having left his new bride behind.

He, too, was reunited with his family shortly after living with us. The third eventually married my oldest sister Mary. We lived in a two-bedroom home near the Allapatah area. I don’t remember being cramped but I do remember covering ourselves with the curtains one very cold January in Miami.

My father, a successful salesman in Cuba, took the first job he could find. He made fudge in a candy store in downtown Miami. I wish I could remember the name of the place. I would watch my dad through the large glass window, making fudge in his chef’s hat. We got to enjoy some of the leftovers at the end of his work day.

Before arriving in Miami, the Fourth of July did not have much significance other than my birthday. I don’t know what year exactly but I recall all of us sitting on the hood of my dad’s car watching the fireworks at Northside Shopping Center, while “Skipper Chuck,” Chuck Zink, emceed the event. You can just imagine the excitement of my birthdays going forward. We used to have so much fun. It was an event I looked forward to annually.

My parents and my oldest sister have passed away. The rest of us, with our respective families, live in Kendall. I have lived here since 1977. A lot has changed in 34 years. There were mostly strawberry fields in what now is a vibrant community. I live here with my 16-year-old son, David. He attends Belen Jesuit Preparatory School, which is celebrating its 50th anniversary in Miami this year.

I wonder at times what it would have been like if I had remained in Cuba. What would have become of our family there? Would we have been able to remain together? My parents never returned; they would not go as long as the Castro regime remained in power. In the spirit of their beliefs, I have not returned either to the place I was born. Maybe one day I will, but without a doubt Miami is home and it always will be.

Thank you Mami and Papi for your sacrifice and, most of all, your love.

Miami and Dade County in the late 1970s and early 1980s had a different atmosphere and environment than they have today.

Truth be told, I was a vastly different person then, too. In those days I was a full-time undergraduate student (living off-campus) at Barry College (which became a university in November 1981) before it grew west of North Miami Avenue. Bob’s Subs, with the best cheese steaks and onion rings around (and, conveniently enough, cold beer), was still across the street from Barry then, at Northeast 115th Street and 2nd Avenue.

I had neither a car nor a phone and was all but penniless — a thrift-store denizen –so I worked part-time as a bartender, a cook and/or a waiter in just about every restaurant around: Lum’s, Pizza Hut, Prime Steak House, The Round Table, Red Lobster, Watsons Family Restaurant, The Jockey Club, Miami Shores Country Club. Most of those establishments have been renamed, changed, or simply closed.

Next to Lum’s (near Northeast 125th Street and West Dixie Highway) was the Pieces of Eight Lounge, my favorite local bar. It, too, has changed, appropriately enough, into a family planning clinic. Around the corner stood Grand Union, an all-night supermarket, where a broke college student, up all night doing homework, could walk at 3:00 a.m., simply for someplace to go.

Without a car but still a “carouser,” I walked everywhere at all hours: to and from work, school, or the Trailways bus station near Northeast 163rd Street and Biscayne Boulevard. I enjoyed walking. Once I walked home from Coral Gables, and thrice from Ft. Lauderdale Beach. (I still enjoy walking but now own a vehicle.)

My fondest memories of Miami and Dade County are of those times I spent walking. Most often it was late at night. The streets were deserted. The sea breeze, without the sun’s heat, would have died down, and stillness prevailed. The trees, many draped with Spanish moss, were like statues.

As powerful and pervasive as the city seemed during the day — people bustling about, noise from traffic — when the late-night hours came and I’d walk through North Miami and north Dade neighborhoods, I’d get an overwhelming sense of the Everglades, the swamp, residing patiently beneath the brassy urban development’s then deceptively thin veneer. The swamp was perceptible. It seemed like a living organism, an abundantly powerful life force, nonplussed by the concrete and the humanity covering it, casually waiting to reclaim its own.

It’s clear that I never really bonded with the city itself, but rather with the land on which the city stood, and the natural environment that surrounded and permeated the land. It was all so abundantly alive and present, regardless of the city that had been built on it.

It seemed that nothing that humanity could do — no roadways, no stone buildings, no canals slashed through the land — could suppress the swamp that, if not constantly held back, would quickly and inexorably break through and devour all that humanity had built, in a lot less time than humanity had taken to build it.

Yet it was so peaceful. For all of its latent power and authority, the swamp didn’t seem threatening — not like the ocean which, with its hypnotically immense majesty, seemed liable to snatch the city from existence with one convulsion. No, the swamp seemed to have a patient, harmonic personality. It was massive, yet finely balanced: an unfathomably complex mathematical equation, trillions of factors in a constant state of flux and yet perpetually attuned with the organic whole.

The more time I spent walking through southeast Florida, the more I marveled at the swamp’s immeasurable capacity, its abundance, complexity, harmony. It was like a song no human being could write, a portrait no human being could render, or an idea no human being could conceive, simultaneously and symmetrically consuming, producing, and providing.

That is all gone, of course. This land is no longer “mine,” and I’m no longer this land’s. The city, with its tall mountains and expansive plateaus of concrete, steel and glass, seems to have dug into the swamp’s heart with quests for commerce and a continually burgeoning population, all of which seem to have erased the swamp’s former beauty. Given the city of Miami’s prominence as the Caribbean basin’s commercial capital, the city will likely only grow.

But to this day–nigh on 35 years later–I’m still spellbound, not by the city of Miami, but by my memories of the land on which it’s built. Since I first moved to this town in 1979–more accurately, since I first moved to southeastern Florida in 1970–a lot has changed, both about the town and about me. I’ve traveled across the seas and around the globe, and I’ve lived all over the country. I’m older–more emphatically, no longer young–and tired, and not so innocent anymore. Similarly, the city of Miami and Dade County have grown huge and become much more crowded: pervasive, overpowering, dominating the land.

But when I see the pink and white cumulonimbus clouds billowing skyward in the east in the morning, and the seemingly endless saw grass plain stretched out to the horizon, and the scrawny Florida pines silhouetted against the red sky at sunset; when I walk the old, North Miami neighborhoods, feel the stillness–quiet, finally, in the wee hours–and recall, rather than still hear, the swamp quietly whispering behind it; when I smell that damp smell that once seemed to hold and to affirm everything, my fondest memories come rushing back, and I bask in the imagery of 35 years ago, when the land beneath the city and the atmosphere surrounding the city still sweetly breathed the promise held ever true in my heart.

Spanglish.

I do not know when I first heard that word, but it pretty much summarizes how I feel about growing up in Miami during the 1970s and ‘80s.

To me Spanglish is not just a mixing of English and Spanish; it is the mixing of two diverse cultures. It is a culture unto itself.

In the 1970s, I lived on 13th Street, five blocks away from Calle Ocho. It was a working class neighborhood — mostly lower-income families living in two-bedroom duplexes. Every morning, I walked to Auburndale Elementary, past Woodlawn Cemetery, La Lechonera, and Velvet Cream Doughnuts. In other parts of the country, I would have played with kids named Mary or John, but in Miami, my playmates had names like Maria and Juan.

At the end of the day, when we were called in for dinner, I would eat beef stew, while my friends had carne con papas. “Ay Mami” and “Oh Mom” translated to the same desire to stay outside ” cinco minutos mas,” or five minutes more.

My mom picked up eggs and milk from Farm Stores; my friend’s mom called it La Vaquita. Because it was a working class neighborhood, both parents worked in many homes. Those of us who came home to empty houses were welcomed into homes with an abuela present, who made sure you got an afternoon snack, did your homework and stayed off the roof.

I took cultural differences for granted. Spanglish was how we understood one another. It blurred the lines between languages and gave us common ground so we could get on with the business of being kids.

Summers are long when you are a child, but in Miami summer lasts most of the year. I spent my weekends with the neighbor’s grandchildren exploring Bill Baggs Cape Florida State Park, also known as El Farito because of the historic lighthouse. We searched for hermit crabs and sea slugs. We were sunscreen-free with sand baked on to our bodies. We climbed onto picnic tables, ate sandwiches wrapped in foil, and drank water out of a thermos before heading back home to play a few more hours outside.

Other times, I spent weekends with a dear friend who had moved on from our neighborhood. Those Saturdays consisted of all day in the pool and backyard barbecues. We did this all year, never thinking that in September and October kids elsewhere were wearing sweaters. For kids growing up in Miami, shorts and T-shirts were a way of life.

If my brother had extra pocket money he hoisted me on the back of his bicycle, and took me to the Machine Shop to play pinball, or sometimes to the Coliseum, a gorgeous old bowling alley off 37th Avenue. The bowling alley changed over the years, and eventually was torn down and a Publix now occupies the site.

We sneaked into the Gables movie theater on more than one occasion. If we were lucky and my mom had time off, she would take us to the Venetian Pool in Coral Gables. I eventually was married there in my 20s.

In the 1980s, Central and South Americans and Haitians became part of the Miami landscape, bringing a new dimension of diversity to a city that already had many identities. The city and its people became media targets.

Miami was the poster child for violence and racial tension. I remember watching Channel 10 news and the broadcasters talked about the violence that was taking place in the streets. I didn’t understand what was going on back then.

Talk of cocaine cowboys and images from the television show “Miami Vice” began to show up everywhere. I did not know this version of Miami. My version of growing up was more like the PBS show “¿ Qué Pasa, U.S.A?” I did not grow up surrounded by violence, I was not afraid to play outside. The only time I ever heard gunshots was when some of the men in the neighborhood shot off their rifles to ring in the New Year.

We moved for a year to Birmingham, AL. It was the first time I experienced the change of seasons; We had a bigger house, I lived in a better neighborhood, and I went to a good school. But I felt like I was missing something. It felt strange to be surrounded by Marys and Johns. It felt strange not to smell café Cubano and sazon criollo wafting from the neighbor’s house in the morning and evening. It felt weird not to communicate in Spanglish.

We moved back after only a year, and the missing pieces fell back into place. I caught up with my old friends and life resumed its normal Spanglish rhythm.

To this day, even though I understand Spanish completely, I speak Spanglish. I have been lucky to travel as an adult. I love the hospitality of the Deep South, the romance of Paris and the hustle and bustle of New York. However, Miami is my heart and its Spanglish culture will always be my home.

The year was 1973, the beginning of October, and for our Indian-origin family of five, the beginning of our new life.
I had just turned 6 and my first memory of our new hometown was actually one of fear. Everything here looked so big and spread out. The city’s bright lights especially scared me. Before moving to Miami Beach, we had lived all over England.

I’ll never forget the drive from Miami International Airport to our two-story apartment building on Normandy Drive. The neighbors living beneath us, Ralph and Betty, spoke Spanish, a language we had never heard before.

My father Virendra Bhuta, a 40-year-old physician, had only come to the United States a few months prior. My uncle had been telling my dad for years to move from the UK to the United States. He also advised him that there were only two possible places where he should choose to live: California or Florida.

After applying to a ton of medical residency programs throughout the country, Miami ultimately came calling Dr. Bhuta. What did my parents know about Miami before coming here? They knew only three things – sunny beaches, beauty pageants, and lots of millionaires!

My father, who had practiced reconstructive plastic surgery before coming to the U.S., unfortunately had to give up his love of being a surgeon. He did a medical residency at St. Francis Hospital in Miami Beach. In 1973, he was only earning an annual salary of $10,000, not much to support a family of five. After only a year of training, my dad eventually turned to emergency medicine. Baptist Hospital in Kendall had the privilege of his expertise in their ER for more than 30 years.

Pravina, my mom, also did more than her fair share. Being 11 years younger than my father, it wasn’t easy for her to take care of my two brothers, ages 4 and 8, and me. She put my older brother, Amar, and me in Treasure Island Elementary. Incidentally, the school’s principal was Christina M. Eve, who would eventually have an elementary school named after her. .

Soon my mom also became an Avon lady and receptionist at nearby Mount Sinai Hospital. Her best customers were the employees at the hospital. Her monthly Avon meetings were around the corner at Howard Johnson’s.

My parents really took full advantage of achieving the “American Dream.” In October 1973, we were living in a two-bedroom/one-bath apartment in Miami Beach. By January 1976, they had already purchased their first home. It was in Kendall, a four-bedroom/three-bath home with its very own swimming pool. My brothers and I attended Blue Lakes Elementary. In fact, we were there the year it “snowed” in Miami. I still remember the snowball fights.

We also went to Glades Junior High and Southwest Miami Senior High. Our higher education came from Miami-Dade Community College, Florida International University, and the University of Miami (where we were national football champs for my senior year). My older brother, Amar, eventually went to Ohio State University medical school to become a doctor.

We have enjoyed many things growing up here in Miami. My dad and brothers would enjoy going to Dolphins games at the Orange Bowl. Of course, we didn’t move here until the year after their perfect season. We also remember attending the spectacular Orange Bowl Parade for New Year’s. I recall the aroma of roasted peanuts and delicious chocolate in the air, along with all the decorating of Winnie-the-Pooh teddy bears.

My teen year weekends always included visiting Burdines and Jordan Marsh in Dadeland Mall. The Falls being built seemed so luxurious, now that we had a Bloomingdales. Eating at LUMS was always a treat, as was being a spectator at the annual Bed Races in Coconut Grove. The Seaquarium and Parrot Jungle were always places to take our out-of-town guests. We also enjoyed showing them the colorful sails gliding on the water at Key Biscayne every weekend. Crandon Park beach was also always a fun time.

My mom even got to chaperone a few beauty pageants in the 1980s. They were all broadcast from the Knight Center in downtown Miami. She did Miss Universe, Miss Teen USA, and Miss USA (the one where Halle Berry was Miss Ohio).

I feel very fortunate to have lived here for most of my life. While I am now 45 and have traveled extensively, I can’t imagine living anywhere other than Miami. Yes, I’ve seen many changes here over the years, but for the most part, they’ve been beneficial for our community.

My parents still live in Kendall, in a different home, near Norman Brothers. My husband, Rajesh, is an interventional cardiologist, practicing mainly at Baptist Hospital and Kendall Hospital. I help with the bookkeeping for his solo practice. I have three daughters.

Seeing my own children and husband live where I grew up is such a great feeling for me.

It’s as if everything has come full circle. For me and my family, Miami will always be our wonderful “Home Sweet Home.”

Yes, I am a Miami native, born in 1951 at St. Francis Hospital on Miami Beach. My dad was in dental school at St. Louis University and my parents came home so I would be born in Miami.

My dad Jerry Denker a native of Brooklyn, N.Y., attended Miami Beach High and played football there in the early 1940s. My grandparents, Julia and Harry Mahler, had a dry cleaning store, DuBarry’s, on Fifth Street.

After the war, my dad met my mom (Gloria, from Woodbridge, N.J.) while she was vacationing on Miami Beach near the store.

After my dad finished dental school, we moved back to Miami and lived in a small duplex on Southwest Seventh Street in what is now known as Little Havana.

I attended the Miami Jewish Community Center (YMHA-YWHA), also located in the neighborhood, for kindergarten.

In 1955, we moved to a new housing development called Westchester. Everyone wondered why we were moving to “nowhere” in the Everglades.

Actually, it was in the area of Coral Way between Southwest 78th and 87th Avenues. There were no expressways and the neighborhood at first was barren, with no trees or landscaping. My father set up his dental practice on Bird Road and I attended Everglades Elementary School.

In 1957, when I was 7, my sister, Marti, was born at Jackson Memorial Hospital. Little did I know that as an adult, I would work at Jackson as a nurse for more than 38 years.

Westchester was a great neighborhood for growing up — playing ball games and riding bikes on the quiet streets, knowing most everyone in the community.

My dad, a proud Gator from the University of Florida, influenced my sister and me in many ways.

Dad was an all-time sports lover and we spent much time in the Orange Bowl, cheering on the University of Miami Hurricanes, claiming season tickets when the Dolphins arrived in Miami, attending the Golden Gloves boxing in Dinner Key, and any other sporting event that came to town.

I have many remembrances of the “sleepy” town of Miami where we did not lock our homes or cars. We picked strawberries and tomatoes blocks from our home.

We walked to the shopping center in Westchester and bought 45 RPM records at Zayre’s. I spent summers hanging out with friends and club members at the Westbrook Country Club (Southwest Eighth Street), later to become the “Y” where my Coral Park swim team practiced. My family liked to go out to eat and some of our favorites were the Red Diamond on Lejeune, the Pub, and Glorified Deli on Coral Way.

My grandparents lived on Miami Beach, and it was always a treat to sleep over and go to Flamingo Park and the beach.

I remember the long ride to the beach weaving in and out of streets through downtown, before the expressways. My girlfriends and I would sometimes take the bus to South Beach and hang out by the old dog track.

If it wasn’t the beach, we would ride the bus to Miracle Mile, shop at Young Sophisticates, eat lunch at Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor and see a movie at the Miracle Theatre.

As a result of the sports culture in our lives, I became a competitive swimmer and swam with the Coral Gables Swimming Association at the Venetian pool from 1959 until I joined the Coral Park High School swimming team in 1966. My sister became a competitive tennis player and often played at Salvador Park in Coral Gables.

My mom, very dedicated, would drive us back and forth to swimming or tennis practice, sometimes more than twice a day. We would spend weekends at swimming meets anywhere from West Palm Beach to Miami.

To this day, I continue to swim and work out with groups at José Martí Park. I have great friends from my age-group swimmers and the Masters swimming community of South Florida.

Needless to say, I attended the University of Florida and also became a loyal Gator and a nurse practitioner. I spent a great 38 years at Jackson Memorial Hospital in many roles, caring for the people of Miami-Dade County.

I continue to reside in Miami in a building with a great view of the beautiful bay and downtown skyline, not far from the little duplex that still stands on Southwest Seventh Street.

My family came to Miami from Holland after World War II. My father had first visited the United States during his youth while working for the Holland America Cruise line.

He knew the United States was the land of milk and honey. So after the war, in April 1947, my parents, my brother (6 years old) and I (1 year old) came to the U.S. aboard the SS Noordam II and were processed through Ellis Island and then directly to Miami, Florida.

We lived with Mrs. Miller, who was the mother-in-law of my father’s uncle. She resided in South Miami near the Cocoplum Women’s Club on Sunset Drive for a short time. We then moved to a home on Red Road and SW 46 Street. My parents became proud citizens in 1953 and my brother and I were naturalized through our parents.

I attended kindergarten at the Cocoplum Women’s Club on Sunset Drive; I was in the Red Bird class. From there I went to David Fairchild Elementary.

I remember being so excited after getting out of school and my mother would walk with me to Allen’s Drug store on the corner of Red Road and Bird Road to get a nickel (yes, that is correct, 5 cents) ice-cream cone. Walking to the supermarket and drug store was common for us.

It was about 6 blocks which seemed very far for my little legs but it was well worth the trip to get ice cream or candy. There was very little traffic on Red Road at that time, and I can remember sitting on a coral rock fence that surrounded our property waiting for a car to come by so I could wave at them.

We frequently went to Matheson Hammock; I learned to swim there. The Eskimo Pie ice cream was an added treat from the concession stand in the coral rock building. We also went to Tahiti Beach years later so we could go on the slide, which was moored in the lagoon. That public beach has since gone to make way for the elegant houses there now.

My father worked as a Master Mechanic for Pan American Airlines for 25 years. This would enable us to fly to Holland on a few occasions. I was 9 years old on my first flight to Holland and remember it being a propeller aircraft. It flew from Miami to New York, Greenland, Iceland, London and finally to Amsterdam, Holland.

I was airsick most of the trip; flying has greatly improved since then. My father took me to visit the Pan Am building on 36 Street when I was about 10 years old. I remember being so impressed with how BIG the aircraft and hangers were. It was a sad day when Pan Am stopped flying. My Dad was very proud to have been a part of Pan Am.

My mother would take me to Dadeland Mall, which looks nothing like it does today – it was an open air mall. Before Dadeland opened we would take two buses to downtown and take time out to feed the pigeons at Bayfront Park. At Christmas we would go downtown to enjoy the carnival rides that were on the roof of Burdines. What a special time it was!

After attending Southwest Senior High I went to work at Sears in Coral Gables in the credit department. Several years later I started my own office products company, which was located near The Falls. After 20 years of ownership I sold my company to invest with my stepson into a financial services company which was located in Palmetto Bay.

I have since sold my shares and enjoy all the free time I have to appreciate how beautiful our area is. Having lived in Palmetto Bay for over 30 years, I have many memories, such as dining at Black Caesar’s Forge on the corner of 152 Street and 67 Avenue, famous for their potatoes baked in a tree resin.

We also had land crabs the size of a small dinner plate running through our yard. It was impossible to drive 152 Street without running over them. I never see any large ones anymore once in a while a few small ones appear.

It has been a blessing to see Miami grow from a small town to the multi-cultural beauty that it is today.

I was born in a wood frame building on Miami Beach in 1924.

My parents were Greeks, born in Turkey. My father’s parents raised silkworms that were sold to the local factories in Bursa. A wealthy Turkish merchant in the silkworm industry who did business with my grandparents, made frequent business trips to the United States. My father would listen in awe as he related stories about a tropical paradise there called Miami.

He said it was located directly on the ocean where cool breezes prevailed all year long, people went swimming every day, it never got cold and the sun shone every day. The merchant also said no one ever went hungry because of all the fruit-bearing trees in the wild and that there are even trees for children called kumquats with oranges the size of a thumb. A glass of water was not necessary to quench a thirst because a large nut called coconut has water in it.

Picture in your mind someone never having picked a nut larger than an almond from a tree being told that in America they was a nut the size of your head with a shell inside that has the pulp of fifty almonds and holds a glass of water. Well, that was all my father had to hear. He vowed then and there we would someday live in that paradise.

After the Balkan countries declared war on Turkey in 1912, the family went to Greece, and in 1915 my grandfather left for America. Working on the railroad laying track, he settled in Cincinnati and sent for the rest of his family. My father begged him all along about going to Miami and he finally arrived here in February 1920.

It was everything he had been told, and he convinced the whole family to move here. They bought a property on West Flagler Street with a restaurant, rooming house, and a hat-blocking and shoe-shine shop. They prospered, but it wasn’t long before my grandfather noticed his two sons were running around with American girls. So he went back to Turkey and returned with two neighborhood girls. The double-wedding took place in 1923 at the Episcopal churchnear the Venetian Causeway.

That same year, my father went to work helping to build the Nautilus Hotel. Looking for a less back-breaking job, in 1924, he drove a jitney to and from downtown and in 1928, he helped with the opening of a market on Washington Avenue.

Having led a very sheltered life with only Greek and Turkish spoken in the house, I was enrolled in the first grade. When told my name was Aristotle, the teacher said, “I wouldn’t name my dog that.” She asked how it was pronounced in Greek. Because “Ari” sounded like “Harry,” that became my name through high school.

We endured the 1928 hurricane, but not the 1929 stock market crash. The Depression years were trying, but we endured. By the end of 1933, my parents had put enough aside to buy a restaurant on Ocean Drive. My father and I fished the jetties every morning, he to catch big fish and I to gather snails and big crawfish for the store. He caught mostly snook and barracuda, which was on the menu as snapper, while I caught Florida crawfish listed as Maine lobster, and snails listed as French escargot. We always sold out because my mother was a great cook.

I once crawled under the fence at the government field and picked a choice watermelon for our store. A police officer saw me walking off with it and offered me a ride. It wasn’t to my house, as I expected, but to the police station. He sat me on the curb, cut it into four pieces, told me to eat all of it, and said he didn’t want to see any red when finished. When I asked if I could use the restroom, I was told it was for police only. I got the picture and hurried home.

By 1935, my parents had put enough aside to buy the lot next to where I was born for $2,500. The following, year they built our house for $5,000. When finished with building, we busied ourselves landscaping it to be the best in the neighborhood. My job was following the horse-drawn ice wagon down the alleys, discreetly gathering horse manure to fertilize our plants. You can bet it was done discreetly.

I made money the hard way: I worked for it. I sold peanuts for an old man named Doc to bathers on the beach for five cents a bag, keeping a penny for myself. Occasionally, when given a dime, I would give it to Doc. My reward was a bag of peanuts to take home.

I would also go to the Miami Beach golf course and dive into the canal to retrieve golf balls for a nickel. I would get in free at the plaza theater by picking up chewing gum wrappers and cigarette butts from around the building. I did the same for Occasionally, I would buy shrimp from a fish market on 63rd Street to fish. When I told the owner it was my mother’s birthday and that I was going to catch a big fish for her, he gave me 10 shrimps for a nickel.

At a boat rental concession near Biscayne Bay, I was allowed to use a 10-foot sailing moth in exchange for cleaning out all of the returning fishing boats. That little moth took me all over Biscayne Bay, from the spoils banks to the ragged keys and Fisher Island.

Later, so as not to be drafted, I joined the Navy, was assigned to the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Yorktown and served the remainder of WWII in the Pacific. After being honorably discharged, I went to work for the city of Miami Beach, in the engineering department. I started as a rod man on the survey crew and retired 45 years later as assistant public works director.

The highlight of my life is my marriage to my lovely wife Artemis, who has given me 57 beautiful years and two beautiful daughters, Adrian Artemis and Andrea Aphrodite. They in turn have given us two exceptional sons-in-law, Robert Sherman and Javier Holtz, who have each given us three exceptional grandchildren: Michael, Andy and Bryan; Matthew, Nicole and Andrew.

Since I retired, the population of Miami Beach has exploded, traffic has become unbearable, and parking next to impossible. I close my eyes and reminisce about the good old days in old South Beach. As a child.

One sunny, mid-week afternoon, I arrived at home to family cars parked in the front yard. I did not have to dig for the house key in my bookbag. My father stood in front of the door as if shielding me from something.

As I entered the house, I heard a woman crying. Family members surrounded the crying woman whom I soon realized was my mother. It was the first time I saw her cry as a result of something I didn’t do. I did not have a broken arm or a D on my report card. On that afternoon, my mother had lost her father.

After I kissed her and said nothing, I went to my room and watched MTV when videos were all the rage. I did not understand what had happened. Death was one of those things I heard tossed around in other people’s conversations. I identified death with Friday the 13th movies and drug dealers on the news.

My whole life I had taken pride in the fact that all of my grandparents were alive and well. I wore that on my sleeve and carried it around as if I had won a trophy. Abuelo was not sitting in a Cuban jail cell, waiting in a ration line, and eating other people’s household pets. Abuelo was in Miami, living in a condo, shopping at Publix and eating steak. Now, Abuelo was suddenly gone, from complications related to diabetes, and there was nothing doctors, my family or I could do about it. Life threw us this curve ball and we had to catch it.

It was my first funeral and the only thing I looked forward to was to practice making my own tie. When I arrived at the funeral home, everyone was already there. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and Cuban coffee. Strangers offered their condolences, hugs and spearmint gum. All I could do was smile and walk away.

As I went toward the room, my grandmother sat crying in a chair next to the casket. Beautiful flowers were scattered near her. The reds, whites, yellows, and greens clashed with her black dress. She was surrounded by more strangers with some hovering over her like more of those loser contestants. The rest of them stood in line waiting their turn to comfort her. I thought all the faces were probably the same to her. Her hands always touched their elbows and her tissue almost always fell on the floor.

I went up to my grandmother, kissed her cheek and walked away through the lobby, the glass doors, the parking lot, and into a cafeteria. As I ordered a pastelito and Materva, I saw some of the strangers from the funeral. They didn’t seem so strange anymore. Their faces and voices sounded familiar. The talk of old Cuba, the exile community, Miami, Hialeah, and my family comforted me. Those were things I had heard before and things my Abuelo used to say.

After spending the night at the funeral home, I woke to find the world still around me. Everyone was still talking and whispering comforts in the air like shooting the breeze over a game of dominos. No one slept. They probably feared they would miss out on one of my grandmother’s wails or so-and-so’s daughter or son and how they are still not married.

At that moment, the priest called everyone to pray the rosary. When the prayer was over, I walked outside with my parents, grandmother and brother to look for the limo. In the corner of the parking lot, the limo rested beneath the shade of one of those trees filled with moon-shaped green seeds. I remembered having block fights with those same seeds and that after one of the fights, I walked back home to find my grandparents waiting in the driveway with packages in their arms and smiles on their faces.

Abuelo said in broken English, “Who’s going to pick up the seeds?”

After the priest did what priests do and said what priests say, the cemetery workers rolled Abuelo’s casket to the rear of the mausoleum. My family and I were walking on a back street with a chain-link fence dividing the mausoleum and some kind of factory. The unkempt hedges sheltered some litter scattered close to the fence. The workers opened the side of the building and I caught a glimpse of where Abuelo was going to be. It looked like dusty concrete shelves. Objects were scattered like the litter next to the chain-link fence. I comforted myself by thinking it was better than being buried in just another hole in the ground with other people’s loved ones walking all over him. At least Abuelo had chosen this place for himself.

That night, I found myself sleeping next to my grandmother. It was dark and I realized that I really did not want to be next to her. I started to cry because I knew this is where I had to sleep tonight. My grandmother woke up and as she wiped the tears off my face, she told me, “No lo puedo creer. El gordo no esta aqui.”

She couldn’t believe her fat man was not there with her. I felt guilty for sleeping in his spot and for reminding her that she would not sleep with Abuelo again. As she reassured me that everything was going to be fine, I reached over and touched her face. As the wind and rain howled outside the window, I rubbed her dry face, rolled over and went to sleep.

Just like so many other Cuban-Americans, we came to Miami to escape the ravages of the Communist regime that had taken over our island-nation.

We were lucky enough to still be able to come on a regularly scheduled Pan Am flight. My parents obtained their visas to leave Cuba in November 1961 and were forced to leave their two children behind.

Those were torturous weeks waiting to see if we were ever going to see our parents again. However, God was looking over us and my brother and I took our first-ever airplane ride on December 1, 1961, from Havana, Cuba, to Miami, Florida.

I remember looking out the window and, as we prepared to land, I saw my mother, father and cousins standing on a terrace on the roof of the airport. Little did I know then that this terrace would be one of the places where we would frequently spend Sunday afternoons – it was free entertainment!

Since we were only able to bring some clothes and had no money whatsoever, our family discovered all the places that provided diversion for my brother, my cousins, and me for free. So we frequently went to the beach (Crandon Park or South Beach), Lincoln Road, the airport, Morningside Park, and Bayfront Park. All these places still exist today, but in a very different way.

South Beach had a dog track right by where Government Cut is and there was no pier. There were rocks that all the kids would climb on and jump from into the water. Lincoln Road was similar to today, but it did not have all the high-end restaurants and it was not as crowded.

There were simple shops, a Carvel Ice Cream shop and a little tram that would take you from one end of Lincoln Road to the other for, I think, 10 cents.

There was no Bayside Marketplace at Bayfront Park – actually, it was really just a big stretch of grass along the Bay. The airport was tiny and you would still have to walk to the tarmac to get on and off planes. The rooftop terrace was very nice to spend time hearing the roar of planes taking off.

Our family settled in what is now called Wynwood. I really do not know if that area had a name then, but I do not think so. We referred to the general area as “el Norwes” (the Northwest). The building that we lived in is actually still there, but the area has changed dramatically.

There was no Miami skyline to be seen and Midtown was not even a thought in anyone’s mind. In fact, having come from Havana, a bustling city with a lot of nightlife and bright neon signs, Miami seemed like a sleepy town then and reminded me more of the town where I was born, rural Moron, Camaguey.

Somehow, it seemed that half of Moron settled within the same block of NW 32 Street. By 1967, when we bought our first house and moved to Hialeah, the entire two blocks between Miami Avenue and NW 2 Avenue seemed to be inhabited by “Moroñeros.”

It was a great childhood there. Everyone knew everyone, we rode our bikes freely without the concerns that seem to worry every parent today, we played “hide-and-seek” throughout the entire block with dozens of kids, and on rainy days we would play Monopoly.

There was no Publix or Dadeland Mall. The only large supermarket in the area was a place called Shell near NW 54 St. We bought our groceries at “Paul’s Grocery Store” on the corner of Miami Avenue and 29th Street and took the bus for a few stops to shop downtown at places like Richards, Kress, Lerner’s, Burdine’s, and McCrory’s. My mother and I loved to have corn dogs at the McCrory’s luncheonette.

I went to Buena Vista Elementary School where I was first called a “spick.” I can still remember the boy’s name: Juan (!). He was taken a little aback by my non-reaction – I had no idea what it meant. I asked him, he explained it to me, and we became good friends. Still not sure what a boy named Juan was doing calling me a spick, though! Fortunately, I never heard the term (nor any other derogatory name) directed at me again.

Later, I went to Miami Edison Junior High, which was bulldozed out of existence several years ago. My brother graduated from Miami Edison Senior High, which was where Edison Middle sits now. We loved going to the Orange Bowl for the Red Raiders games – especially when we played our main rivals – the Stingarees from Miami High.

My father was a very resourceful, intelligent, and ambitious man. Within a couple of months of arriving in this great country, he owned his first gas station – on NW 7th Avenue near 50 Street.

The pumps were manned at the time – no self-service then. He provided full service and automotive repair. My mother pumped gas, checked the oil, radiators, put air in the tires, and cleaned the car windows.

After school and during summers, my brother also worked at the station. I always wanted to work there, but my father would not let me – I was a girl and this was well before feminism and the time, like now, when everyone pumps their own gas.

Within a short time, my father owned several gas stations throughout Miami and we saved enough to buy a house in Hialeah. Hialeah had not yet become the Cuban and Latin-American haven it is today. We were actually only the second Latin family on our block in 1967.

My mother, who had never worked a day in her life before coming here, was also incredibly hard-working. Initially, she worked the night-shift at a shoe factory nearby. Her shift started at 11 P.M. and ended at 7 A.M. She would arrive home just in time to get us kids ready for school. She would rest while we were in school, but also clean the house and get dinner ready. Once we were tucked into bed, she would go to work.

Eventually, she was able to transfer to the day-shift. Then she went to school in the evenings to learn to speak English and become a beautician. She received a beautician’s license and opened up her own beauty shop on Collins Avenue and 23 Street.

Both my parents accomplished this when they were already in their forties and fifties, in a new country whose language and culture was totally foreign to them. Hardly anyone spoke Spanish then. Both of their children went to college and received advanced degrees – mainly, I believe, as a result of our parents’ example and expectations.

Although I went away to school and have traveled extensively, Miami remains home and will always be. This is where I grew up, where my parents brought us seeking to raise their children in a free land where opportunity is available for all.

I appreciate all that Miami has given us and I try to give back whenever I am able. Coincidentally, a few years ago I moved to the Morningside area, right down the street from the old park that I used to frequent as a kid. It is still beautiful!

You can probably imagine my reaction as a 9-year-old from Winston-Salem, N.C. after seeing Miami Beach for the first time in 1947. My parents brought my younger brother and me down from North Carolina to escape a polio epidemic running through the South that summer. Miami Beach was the first big city I had ever seen. I was mesmerized.

Compared to life where we grew up, the possibilities in South Florida seemed limitless. Back then in Winston-Salem, it was impossible to avoid the smell of freshly harvested tobacco. There was still Jewish segregation and some anti-Semitism. Our family was one of 50-60 Jewish families in Winston-Salem and our contemporary friends were spread out across the South. Many of my friends lived in other towns in North Carolina, Virginia, South Carolina and Georgia. Our world definitely felt a bit isolated.

The Reform Temple in Winston-Salem was basically our home. Aside from a few movie theaters, Aleph Zadik Aleph (a Jewish youth fraternity with chapters all over the country) was the only true local hangout for us growing up. I really had never seen anything like Miami Beach. It was mostly desegregated for Jews by 1947, except for Bal Harbour. That unforgettable smell of fresh tobacco in the air was gone. Once our family checked into the rooms we reserved at The Georgian Hotel on Lincoln Road and Collins Avenue, I took one look out of the window at the ocean and knew that one day I would make the Miami Beach area my home.

The Georgian was at the heart of everything we did for fun that summer. It was a short distance to some of the Beach’s legendary eateries: the Crossroads, DuBrow’s Cafeteria, Huey’s Cathay House, Wolfie’s, Joe Hart’s Pickin’ Chicken and the Noshery at the Saxony Hotel. Between the hotel pool, the beach, miniature golf next door, and breakfast at the Liggett’s Drug Store counter, what’s not to like for a 9-year-old? I can still taste the fried chicken from Joe Hart’s and the corned beef sandwiches from DuBrow’s, sliced thin and piled high for a dollar.

My family continued to visit Miami Beach during the summers before finally moving full-time in August 1954, when I was in high school. Much to my dismay, I had to go back and stay with my brother in Winston-Salem to complete high school. I skipped a grade, but Miami Beach Senior High did not recognize that year and would have required me to redo it.

I’ll never forget what happened in 1954 during our first few days as official Miami Beach residents. We went to see the house my parents had rented in Bay Harbor Islands, when two gentlemen stopped to see my father about urgent business they needed to discuss.

They were sent by Rabbi Leon Kronish, the legendary rabbi at Temple Beth Sholom. Rabbi Kronish had received a tip from our rabbi in Winston-Salem that our family was moving to Miami Beach and that Temple Beth Sholom should recruit us to be members. Rabbi Kronish apparently wasted no time and, we later learned, sent two of his best to recruit us for their congregation. The two gentlemen were Judge Harry Arthur Greenberg and Howard Miller, one of the initial developers of Cooper City. I guess temple membership recruitment was serious business back then.

My family did join Temple Beth Sholom, and my father quickly became one of the leaders in the congregation, a role he proudly held until he passed away in 1973. My father was always volunteering and giving back. He was a community leader in North Carolina and afterward in Miami Beach.

Naturally, I looked up to him and wanted to follow in his footsteps. After college graduation in 1959, my military obligation was fulfilled as a member of the Florida National Guard outpost in Hollywood, and later in the U.S. Army Reserves across from the University of Miami. In March 1960, I landed my first (and only) job and also enrolled in the University of Miami graduate school for classes to prepare for the CPA exam. I was living in Surfside at the time, and my classes were at night. Getting around back then wasn’t nearly as easy as it is now. The interstate had yet to be built, so I had to take the Broad Causeway or the Venetian Causeway to Biscayne Boulevard, taking that all the way to campus in Coral Gables.

Even though there were about 30% fewer cars on the road than we have today, that was still a huge drive. I stayed busy by volunteering as a firefighter with the Surfside Fire Department. Aside from the chief and captain, , who trained us well, the rest of the Surfside Fire Department was composed of volunteers. We had a single truck. They needed us, but I can really only recall one time when there was an actual fire.

I eventually met my current wife Nancy in the late 1970s and would settle with her in Hollywood. She has been a permanent fixture by my side in the community, involved with Temple Solel, Jewish Adoption & Family Care Options (JAFCO), Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, David Posnack Jewish Community Center, and our current involvement with Miami Jewish Health Systems, where I serve as chairman of the board of directors. This August will mark my 60th year as a full-time South Florida resident, though it all began with that first summer vacation in 1947.

Thank you Miami Beach, for making all the dreams of a wide-eyed 9-year-old from Winston-Salem come true.