Category: Miami Stories

My sojourn to South Florida started before I moved here in 1957. My sister and brother-in-law were here from New York on a winter vacation on December 26, 1947. The metropolitan area of New York had a snowstorm of 26 inches in a 24-hour period. It was a record then and may still be to this day. My sister called my father to find out the conditions and my father told them to stay in Miami, the city was paralyzed, no transportation, nothing was going on. They decided to stay and move permanently to South Florida. They came back to gather their personal belongings.

I started coming down in 1950 when my nephew was born. I went to jai alai every night and sat in the balcony for 50 cents. Back then jai alai was the place to be, especially on a Saturday night. The highlight of my trip was when we would go to Leonard’s La Peña on Bird Road, where I think the Palmetto Expressway is today. The menu, if I am not mistaken, was a shrimp cocktail, steak or lobster, stuffed baked potato and, for dessert, hot apple pie with a slice of American cheese — all for $3.95 (plus tip).

I moved to Florida in 1957, a day after the New York Yankees lost to the Milwaukee Braves in the World Series. My parents followed me one month later. They bought a house one block north of the Tamiami Trail and Southwest 60th Avenue. There is an elementary school called Fairlawn, which also had a park with a baseball field. Playing there one day I was recruited by a team that was practicing. They mentioned a league they played in at Shenandoah Park off Southwest 22nd Avenue and 19th Street and asked me if I wanted to join their team. Naturally I said yes. It was a church league and I played for St. Matthew’s Lutheran one year and Shenandoah Baptist the following year.

My first job in Florida was at the Food Fair warehouse on Northwest 71st Street and 32nd Avenue. I believe at the time they were the largest supermarket chain in South Florida. Other supermarkets at the time were Margaret Ann and Kwik Chek, which eventually merged with Winn Dixie, their main competition. Other stores came and went such as Grand Union, Albertson’s, and Shell on Northwest 58th Street. Publix was not as prevalent around South Florida in those days, but of course they have come a long way since then.

In 1960 I bought a hardware store on Northwest 183rd Street and 7th Avenue. The Palmetto Expressway only extended from the Trail (Southwest 8th Street) to Golden Glades. They used to call the Palmetto “Dead Man’s Highway” since there were no overpasses, or very few. You had to drive way below the speed limit to avoid accidents since very few cars stopped or slowed down at the intersections. I think within a year they started building overpasses at key streets which opened the area to residences and businesses immediately.

Some familiar and favorite restaurants through the years were Gold Star Deli on the Trail, just east of 62nd Avenue, the Great Gables on Ponce and the Trail, The Pub (with Whitey the host) on Coral Way, Royal Castles all over, Shorty’s BBQ, Captain’s Tavern, and Frankie’s Pizza on Bird Road, which is still there under family ownership. Dressel’s Dairy Farm on Milam Dairy Road had rides for the children and the thickest malt shakes anywhere.

Miami Beach in the ‘50s and ‘60s was second only to Las Vegas in live entertainment — from Roberta Sherwood and Don Rickles at Murray Franklin’s to Charlie Callas and Shecky Greene at the Deauville Star Theatre and Buddy Hackett and Joan Rivers at the Diplomat. Movie theaters included the Miracle on Miracle Mile, the Tower on the Trail, the State and Claughton theaters.

I have been happily married to my wife Elaine for 52 years (45 for her and seven for me – our joke). We have three children (and one grandchild) and, 45 years on, still live in our house off Miller Road and Southwest 92nd Avenue.

I was an avid tennis player for 30 years and dazzled many courts such as the Dadeland Inn, Marlin Racquet Club, Kendalltown and Courts at the Falls until my shoulder and knees finally gave out.

In between all this I enjoyed a long and successful career in real estate, where our company built, developed and managed warehouses, retail strip centers and private residences, mostly between Bird Road and Southwest 120th Street, and also along South Dixie Highway and Kendall Drive out west, when it was largely undeveloped. It has been a great ride. Thanks for the memories, South Florida (Miami).

In 1951, I was young and it was the summer of my junior year in high school. I left St. Louis to join my older brother, a waiter at Martha Raye’s nightclub. It seemed to me to be an interesting life and he had agreed, after some pleading, to let me join him – as long as I worked and paid my own expenses. So, after apparently every possible stop in Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia and Florida, my non-air conditioned Greyhound bus arrived in Miami Beach and I saw, for the first time in my life, the ocean, framed by palm trees, sand and the just rising sun — and I was hooked.

My brother lied about my age and my “several years” of experience to get me a union card and a job as a busboy. My “experience” consisted of an hour or so of practice carrying dishes and glasses piled upon an up-turned coffee table. From the late ‘40s through the ‘50s and ‘60s the Collins area between 20th and 25th Streets was one of the liveliest in Miami Beach. Martha’s Five O’Clock Club was on the corner of 20th and Collins; Collins and 22nd housed “Wolfies,” the quintessential New York delicatessen. The Grate, the Pin Up, the Place Pigalle and the Night Owls clubs were within blocks; the Embers restaurant and Dubrow’s cafeteria were nearby; Junior’s deli and the old Roney Plaza hotel were just off 23rd Street. The 22nd Street public beach, between the Roney and the Sea Gull hotel, was well known by natives for its homosexual clientele, both male and female, and occasional bewildered tourists, wondering just what they had stumbled on to. My daytime job was working for three dollars a day and tips as a “cabana boy” at the Sea Gull, handing out towels, setting up beach chairs and umbrellas, keeping an eye on guests in the pool and ocean and selling them on the local water ski schools, hand-woven palm hats, Monkey Jungle tours, scuba lessons and other “opportunities” for which, if they bought, I received a one percent commission.

In the 1950s, the Five O’Clock Club was a popular, small nightclub offering two shows a night and three on weekends. The club was named for dispensing free drinks to anyone still at the bar at 5:00 a.m. The 5:00 a.m. sessions were populated primarily by after-work waiters, waitresses and musicians from other clubs, an occasional hooker and sometimes, a celebrity or two. The club had a three-drink minimum and, if you didn’t order food at the 6 p.m. dinner show, you paid a separate cover charge. The experienced nightclub goer nursed a glass of wine, paid the minimum or cover and never, ever ordered food from what was one of the worst kitchens on the Beach. Martha’s was where I learned to maneuver trays of dirty dishware through narrow aisles of tiny, tourist-filled tables and sometimes helped the bartender water down the bourbon, scotch and rye. I also learned that the “snowbirds,” particularly those who had perhaps had a drink too many, were often easy marks for inflated bar tabs. Martha’s was a lesser club, not as big or flashy as Copa City, the Beachcomber or the Latin Quarter but, when Martha was on the bill, it catered to loyal locals and aging movie-going tourists who remembered her from her ‘30s and ‘40s Hollywood musical comedies and who appreciated her off-color comedy routines and very considerable talent as a jazz pianist and vocalist. The five o’clock shows also featured lesser comics, male or female vocalists on their way up, or down the showbiz ladder and, sometimes, a movie-star friend of Martha’s.

I sometimes frequented the Rockin’ MB lounge which featured saxophone duos, drums and no-name vocalists, performing from an elevated “stage” behind the narrow bar. The band played mostly tunes like Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock,” always at full volume. The sound cast out on Collins from late night to early morning and the entrance sheltered a large, bored gatekeeper, seated on a stool, who casually checked IDs and denied entrance to nobody. The offices above the MB also housed a phone-filled “wire room” handling bookies’ action. This was still Meyer Lansky/Al Capone/pre-Kefauver Miami and the horse parlors, “private” casinos and bolito shops had not yet been shut down as consequence of the crusading senator’s traveling hearings on crime and corruption (Kefauver’s first hearing was in Miami in 1951). What wasn’t legally wagered at Hialeah or Gulfstream on the horses or at dog tracks on the greyhounds or at jai alai frontons was gambled with bookies in cabanas by the pool at the ocean front hotels — like the one at the Sea Gull.

The Rockin MB’s clientele, like that at the Sea Gull and other beachfront hotels, were mostly young tourists, often female, in groups of twos and threes — secretaries, teachers and office workers, down from East Chicago, Indiana, Cleveland or other cities up north lured to Miami Beach by the airlines and hotels advertising “3 days and 2 nights (or 7 days and 6 nights) of sun and fun” on the “American Plan” where airfare, hotel, and most meals were included in the package. For example, in the 1950s you could stay at the Di Lido or Shore Club and other ocean-front hotels for less than $27 a day and for an additional $25 get breakfast and dinner. The American Plan became very popular in the 1960s and its utilization by mega-hotels like the Fontainebleau and Eden Roc with in-house nightclubs and New York/Hollywood level shows and entertainers marked the beginning of the end for clubs like Martha’s as well as the bigger entertainment venues.

I met celebrities besides Martha — had my picture taken with Jake LaMotta and Rocky Graziano at the Sea Gull, parked a car for Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher, made sure Irving Berlin’s jock strap and bathing suit were dry for his morning dip, and was able to finance my “other” education at the University of Miami — thanks to Miami Beach and the generosity of tourists.

Growing up in Miami Springs during the 1940s was a sunny and happy experience if one was young enough to avoid the anxiety and trauma of World War II. I was one of the lucky ones because my dad was able to stay home and work at his job in telephone communications.

Each morning, he would drive downtown in his little gray Ford coupe, the blue gasoline sticker in the right window joined by the red one for Civil Defense. I was proud of his sense of responsibility working for Southern Bell Telephone. Most of us were still on party lines, but we felt good about reliable communication.

My classmates in second grade at Miami Springs Elementary were a mix of varied family situations. There were several dads overseas, but it wasn’t discussed by any of us at school. During this time, I happened to meet an outstanding grandfather of one of my classmates. Anne was my best friend .

The highlight of our friendship was the opportunity to meet her grandfather, an early engineer with the Florida East Coast Railway. It was a short walk to her house and, as we left school one September afternoon, she saw his bluish-gray car parked out front under the big pine tree and said, “You have to come inside and meet Choo-cha-bah!”

Taken aback by the name, I asked her tentatively, “Who’s Choo-cha-bah?”

She replied, “He’s my grandpa, and he’s real nice!” So I followed her into the house and there was a giant man, sitting in a big chair, talking with Anne’s mother and younger brother, Sonny.

Her mother met me with a big smile and introduced me to the visitor. “This is Anne’s grandfather, Choo-cha-bah. He works for the railroad!”

He then stood up, gave Anne a big hug and offered his hand to me. He had a kind manner and I felt comfortable. I didn’t stay long; I talked a few minutes about school, and then left for home. It was wonderful for me to have a new friend who looked like he could be anyone’s grandfather. Tall, strong, and gentle he was, and I was to learn he had made a valuable contribution to Henry Flagler’s progress in bringing the railroad down to Miami.

“Choo-cha-bah” will be referred to by his name, Fred A. Daniel, as I relate the rest of my story.

He grew up in the Palatka-Orange Lake area as a boy, where his father was a cattle driver and worked irregular schedules to bring in a salary. His mother worked as a milliner, which meant she would fashion hats out of available material and make a little money when she could. Historically, I’m placing them in the late 1870s. I’m not sure how many children were in the family.

Not much was going on in North Florida, other than what an individual could conjure up for himself. Cattle roamed freely, grazing where available, and offered an opportunity for individuals with a horse and good strong rope to bring home a starting source of beef. Smaller wildlife was available; quails and wild geese roamed freely, but you needed to be able to capture them and secure them. Small farm patches with greens, corn, and maybe a fruit tree could supplement the food needs.

Let’s get back to Fred.

He went to school for three years and then started looking around for more opportunities to help out. He got close enough to the Jacksonville-St. Augustine area to see that Henry Flagler had arrived and was making plans to use the Florida climate and his wealth to establish a new home base for his sick wife and his work interests. He had become a millionaire working with John D. Rockefeller and Standard Oil in Ohio. Arriving in the beautiful sunshine of North Florida in the late 1800s, he and his wife both fell in love with the area.

Mr. Flagler worked to connect the railroad from Jacksonville down to St. Augustine. With that accomplished, he built the beautiful Ponce de Leon Hotel as their new residence. As you know, in business one thing leads to another, and he saw opportunities to spread the business in several directions. In 1888, he added the St. Augustine and Palatka Railroad to the St. John and Halifax railroads. At this point, he had a unified rail system down as far as Daytona Beach.

Do I need to remind you who was walking around this part of the state looking for miscellaneous work opportunities? Yes, Fred found the opportunity to work, carrying water for Flagler’s workers. That’s what he told us of his first job. Not very difficult, but very necessary to fire up the engines and satiate the thirst of the laborers.

Fred learned a lot by just being on the scene. Without qualifications, he was carrying whatever was needed from supply location to work station. No doubt, he learned quickly, for he advanced and continued to work for Flagler and the Florida East Coast Railway, even through the time the FEC lost its battle with “Hurricane 1935” in the Florida Keys.

Because of my older sister Gilda’s illness, my parents, Hedwig and Benjamin Goldstein, were advised in 1942 to move from the Bronx to Miami Beach, where we lived at the La Flora Hotel on Collins Avenue.

Every hotel was filled with Army recruits, who marched on Collins Avenue holding their faux rifles, which were actually broom sticks. As a 5-year-old, I used to dress up in my Cub Scout uniform and watch the soldiers, saluting them as they approached.

Shortly thereafter, my sister and I went to the Normandy Boarding School in Normandy Isle, where I lived and was in kindergarten. .

My parents then bought a house on Alton Road and 43rd Street, where my mom lived for 68 years. On Sundays, I would take my wheelbarrow with coconuts and coconut milk and sell them to the people visiting soldier-patients at the Nautilus Hotel, a military hospital that later became Mt. Sinai Hospital.

I was 6 years old at the time, and it was 1944. I was enrolled at North Beach Elementary, followed by Nautilus School when it opened in 1950, and Miami Beach High School, which I attended through graduation in 1956.

Between ages 11 and 14, my friends and I rode our bicycles everywhere. When I rode my bike for my newspaper delivery route, there was so little traffic I could literally traverse from one side of the street to the other with little effort.

My friends also rode their bikes to school, as well as to Temple Beth Sholom, where my parents were founding members and I was bar mitzvahed and confirmed.

Most of my friends and I earned our recreational money ourselves doing an assortment of odd jobs: delivering newspapers, bagging food at Carl’s, Food Fair and other local markets, and cleaning cabanas or the pool area at various beachfront hotels.

Where the Fontainebleau stands today was the old deserted Firestone estate. We often would catch sand crabs on the beach for bait and walk onto the jetty to fish. As we got older, we rode our bikes with our girlfriends on the handlebars back to that same spot behind the estate, and on a moonlit night it was very romantic.

Weekend mornings offered the opportunity to catch local crawfish as we walked along the sea wall behind houses along the various Beach canals. Today, we’d probably get shot or arrested for trespassing. But back then it was OK, and the residents of the homes who saw us always smiled and wished us luck. We would sell the crawfish to our parents’ friends for 50 cents.

While playing basketball for Beach High, and as captain my senior year, I made life-long friends with both Coach Milt Feinstein and Chuck Fieldson. About six years ago, along with teammates Dr. Richard Berger, Lou Hayes, and Donald Klein, I was fortunate enough to be invited to Coach Feinstein’s surprise 90th birthday party.

After college graduation, I played basketball on the championship Epicure Market basketball team, which even played at the Miami Beach Auditorium against the University of Miami freshmen, including the great All-American Rick Barry.

After graduation from high school, 10 Beach High graduates, including myself, enlisted in a special new Army program with six months active duty followed by seven years Army reserve.

I will never forget the train ride from Miami to Columbia, S.C. (Fort Jackson). It took almost 24 hours and stopped at every town along its path to pick up more recruits. This was 1956, significantly before integration.

Ironically, the boys from Miami Beach were all Jewish, and when we arrived at the barracks, the bulk of the recruits from North Florida, Georgia and South Carolina were unfamiliar with both African Americans and Jews. Our Miami Beach group assimilated easily and quickly with the African-American recruits. Our barrack consisted roughly of 10 boys from Beach High, five or six whites from West Palm Beach, and approximately 15 African Americans from Florida. We got along famously!

It was one of the most interesting and maturing experiences in my entire life and a great transition from high school to college. I returned from my Army service a different person.

Upon graduation from the University of Florida I went to work as a C.P.A. for my father. Our firm today has grown from Benjamin Goldstein, C.P.A. to Goldstein Schechter Koch, C.P.A.s, which employs 115 with offices in downtown Coral Gables and Hollywood. We still have many clients who have been with the firm for more than 65 years, covering three generations. We also have many clients who were my high school friends. Until 2007, three generations of Goldsteins worked at the firm: my mother, my daughter Laurie Adler, and me.

My mother retired at the age of 95, after driving herself four days a week from her home on Alton Road to our offices on Ponce de Leon Boulevard.

The reality is that I have never really left Miami Beach. Neither have most of my friends. Being a Beach guy is a unique distinction of which I will always be proud.

I was born and raised in Brazil.

I was 17 years old when I began my banking career there. In 1986, I was offered a job at a Brazilian bank to manage its Miami branch. I lived here for four years before leaving to work in London and Grand Cayman.

I returned to Miami at the end of 1997 and purchased an apartment in Key Biscayne, where I lived for two years. At the beginning of 1998, I was hired as financial director of a Brazilian company on Brickell Avenue.

In 2000, I was offered a job at an American bank to open a branch here in Miami.

In the meantime, I met Carmen Crespo, Cuban-born and educated in Chile. Carmen was a singer by night, financial consultant by day. Upon first meeting her, I was inebriated by her voice.

After dating for four years, we became engaged, and were married in 2008. Carmen is a big supporter. I am sure that her encouragement empowers me to continue to forge ahead, beyond any obstacles that we may face in our lives together.

For many reasons, I realized that I had to move from Key Biscayne. I sold the apartment and bought a new one in Doral. When I married Carmen, we bought a beautiful house in the city of Sunrise. We’ve been here ever since.

I worked at the American bank until 2010, when I left the banking industry to devote myself to writing.

In Miami, I participate in some cultural organizations and associations that allow me to expand my thoughts by writing essays on different subjects. I have written two books, with versions in Portuguese and Spanish.

My experience in Miami has shown me that here we have the opportunity to make relationships with many kinds of people. For example, at a meeting you can sit at a table with someone who is from Colombia, another from Venezuela, another from Chile, another from Asia, another from Europe. We have to maintain a diversified dialogue with people of different cultures who do things differently. This gives us ample possibility to be flexible with others and, at the same time, with ourselves.

And we have to accept or accommodate ourselves to those styles of life to be happy within the environment where we choose to live. We learn so much from this experience.

In my opinion, it’s not the people who should accommodate us. Instead, we should accommodate them. In terms of culture itself, I believe that in Miami we have the opportunity to come face to face with these situations.

In addition, if we explore, we can find many cultural events here. It’s a question of looking for what is most convenient for us. If we go to Miami Beach, for example, we can find a lot of events occurring on a daily basis.

We cannot talk about this city if we do not mention the beaches. We have to know how to use the beaches and to take advantage of them. It’s in the best interest of our health, too, because we know that the water from the sea has a lot of energy.

Simultaneously, we are among other people who want to share their time and experience with us, and it results in a beneficial situation for everyone. The same can be said for tourism. If we do not consider the tourism part of this community, we will be divorced from a visible reality.

We can note this when we are walking in downtown Miami or even in Miami Beach. We will see a lot of people with different clothes, different hats, different smiles. But everybody who appears in Miami comes with a purpose. They come here to be happy and to enjoy the sunlight that nature offers.

As residents, we should take advantage of all that Miami has to offer. We should enjoy it as the tourists do. We should be flexible — go to the beach, go to the museums, and know the cultures of other countries. We should also be on the lookout for the variety of events that the city offers. This is the integration that exists between ourselves and this cosmopolitan city that opened its arms to receive us.

This is Miami, a city to which I am deeply linked.

Every night after dinner, the four of us would gather around the cramped dining table in our apartment on Kendall Drive, quizzing one another, working on our English pronunciation, memorizing medical concepts, multiplication tables, SAT vocabulary — whatever had to be memorized — drying every stubborn tear because there was not a second to waste.

We were like a startup. When my parents decided to leave Cuba and moved us to Miami in 2002, they were determined to build our own future from scratch. My father, Héctor Chicuén, an electrical engineer, would find work at Florida Power & Light. My mother, María Victoria García, a pediatrician, would certify her medical degree. My younger sister María Cristina Chicuén and I would attend college. This was our business plan. What we lacked in resources, we made up for in drive, an unspoken no-excuse philosophy, an overabundance of togetherness.

Within our family enterprise, teamwork was essential. Whether at a Home Depot, a local Christmas tree shop or a cement factory, my dad would pack his weeks with two and sometimes three jobs in order to make ends meet so that my mom could devote her time to the medical certifications. Some days, when the orange juice disappeared from our kitchen as we ran out of money, when stress drove my dad to twitch his eyes like a flickering emergency light, my mom would close the textbooks.

“No es fácil,” she’d say as she grabbed a mop and drove the short distance to Pinecrest, where good cleaning services were always welcome at the ranch-style estates carved deep in the lush, tropical landscape. Or we’d head to a local gym together. My mother took care of toddlers while their parents exercised, and I prepared protein shakes at the gym’s cafeteria.

These were my high school years, which now blur in my mind, forming a mosaic of sleep deprivation, five-minute phone calls to relatives in Cuba and endless homework for as many advanced courses as I could fit in my schedule. On a rare occasion, as a reward for good grades or a promotion, as a little pause in all the hustle, we would treat ourselves to a family meal at Denny’s.

“Hi, hello, I would like a coffee with milk,” my mom would request in her rehearsed English version of “Hola, qué tal, un café con leche por favor.” The waiter, of course, would proceed to bring a glass of American coffee and a glass of milk.

We also used to rent movies from Blockbuster. We had given up on movie theaters since our first experience, on the release of the original Harry Potter movie. Dressed in our best clothes for what we thought was a special night out, we were baffled by the teenagers in shorts and tank tops — “hasta en chancletas” — flooding Kendall Regal Cinema.

Time had never been so precious to us. Every hour of my father’s work meant $6, $8, $9, $14, $18 to sustain the entire family. One more hour of study brought my mother closer to certifying her medical degree. One more hour at school meant my sister and I were more fluent in English, more prepared for a complex education system we were determined to conquer. That’s why we would arrive at family gatherings with a textbook under our arms, or pass on parties altogether if there was an opportunity for overtime work or a tutoring session.

We took advantage of every resource and free lunch. Even free dinners. On the morning of our first Thanksgiving, the staff from my sister’s elementary school gifted us with a sumptuous turkey we had no idea how to cook. “We’ll roast it like pork,” we thought, as we did in Cuba for every major celebration. Soaked in our traditional marinade of garlic and bitter orange, accompanied by yuca, fried plantains, steamed white rice and black beans, our own bicultural turkey was soul-nourishing. And we were deeply thankful.

Steady, we kept studying and working as hard as we could. It was well into our third year in Miami when the unmistakable light of good fortune crept through our windows. My father received the dream offer from Florida Power & Light. My mother passed her medical board exams and was accepted to a residency program at a prestigious hospital in New York. I received a letter of admission and a generous scholarship to attend Harvard University.

Miami refused to let us go. As we readied to embark on a new adventure in the Northeast, just a few weeks before my high school graduation, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.

We would not give up. We had won the most difficult battles — separation from our family, poverty and unemployment, loneliness, the inability to express our most basic needs and feelings. We would not give in to illness.

For months, my mother fought through chemotherapy, radiotherapy and hours of surgery until she recovered and claimed the spot she had earned so rightfully at her medical residency. Today, she is a primary-care physician in Little Havana, an area of critical medical need.

My father’s career at Florida Power & Light spans over 10 years. As he has risen through different roles and departments, he has been able to coach other recent immigrants on successful applications for employment at the company.

My sister is now in her third year of college at Stanford University. Every summer, she returns to Miami, where she has interned with the Miami Heat and farmers markets to complement her studies in health policy and urban food systems. She is preparing herself to promote wellness in our city after she graduates.

I am at Miami Dade College. From my post in the college president’s office, I recognize in the faces of many of our students the same determination and thirst for opportunity that first brought my family to Miami, and which continue to drive every one of our individual and collective endeavors.

This city has given us a brighter present than we could have ever imagined.

It’s our turn to pay it forward.

Maria Carla Chicuén is the author of ‘Achieve the College Dream: You Don’t Need to Be Rich to Attend a Top School.’

I remember looking out the window as the plane took off from Havana.

It was Aug. 9, 1960. I was 15 years old and leaving my country with my mother and brother to reunite with my father in Miami. He had left months earlier to find schools and a place to live. We didn’t realize it would be for good.

My dad, an attorney with a passion for travel, got a job in sales with Guest Airways and an apartment at 23 Phoenetia Ave., Coral Gables. He enrolled my brother and me at Merrick Elementary and Coral Gables Senior High, respectively.

Two other families we knew from Havana lived in the same eight-unit building, and we would gather in the small patio in the early evenings. But Miami was a very quiet town in those days and we were asked to move.

We did, a few blocks away, to Madeira 25A, an apartment building that has also gone condo, and gone are the wooden stairs with the telling creak that would let me know Abuela was coming down the stairs. Gone, too, are the Coliseum, a great place to bowl, hang out and listen to Top 40 in the jukebox, and the old Coral Gables library, which I remember every time I smell the rain.

My dad opened a travel agency, Caribbean Cruises, on Ponce de Leon Boulevard next to the Coral Theatre. Neither has been there for years. My mom went to work at the Shelborne Hotel in Miami Beach as an executive secretary to the general manager, which meant she ran the place. That is where I had my honeymoon a couple of years later and where, a couple of years ago, I went for karaoke.

My parents made those lean early exile years a warm and fun experience. We had an old car that my dad named “Can you give me a little push,” and we took car trips to Matheson Hammock and Crandon Park. We sang along with musician Mitch Miller and played Clue and Monopoly and we were active on the Cuba issue and even slept in Bayfront Park once to protest something WCKT news anchor Wayne Farris had said.

My boyfriend and many friends were in the Brigade 2506 that invaded Cuba in 1961. He went to prison and the experience changed his life and the lives of Cubans everywhere. But my parents helped make the memories of those times mostly good ones and, at 16, wounds heal fast.

In Miami, I discovered tuna fish sandwiches on plain white bread and French fries with ketchup. I also discovered prejudice. Looking for places to rent, we saw signs that read: “No blacks. No dogs. No Cubans.” The counters at Woolworth and Grant’s were segregated, so were water fountains and buses.

The good old times were not good for everyone and it almost seems impossible that those memories could co-exist with so many wonderful ones: driving up to Jimmy’s Hurricane on U.S. 1 and Bird Road, where servers on roller skates would come to the cars, just like in the movies; parties at the Venetian Pool, Friday nights at the Pizza Palace, window shopping on Miracle Mile and snacking at Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor (where John Martin’s Irish Pub now stands). Sundays, after mass, the go-to spot was Walgreens downtown.

There were Friday night dances at the Coral Gables Youth Center and sock hops at the school gym, where rock ‘n roll was danced the way many have only seen on TV. There was the thrill of a pep rally and the way the air smelled around football season – I don’t know about your high school, but we were the Cavaliers, and that meant something!

There was a Howard Johnson’s inside the old Coral Gables bus station and we would stop on our way home from school for their famous “caramel” ice cream ( Dulce de Leche did not come into its own until 40 years later).

My younger brother was born at the old St. Francis Hospital in Miami Beach in 1961 and one year later, I graduated from Gables High, went to Dade County Junior College and had my first part-time job at Jackson Byron’s in downtown Miami. My first real job was as clerk typist at the Welfare Department; my husband worked three blocks away at what used to be Mary Jane Shoes on Flagler. We had met at the Vedado Tennis Club in Havana as teenagers, reunited here and got married at the Church of the Little Flower in Coral Gables in 1963. Our three children and four of our grandchildren have been born and raised in Miami.

When I first came to what is now my city, there was hardly anything open after 7 p.m. The Freedom Tower was the tallest building and Dadeland Mall was considered the “boondocks.” Our now ubiquitous Cuban coffee could only be had at home – Jose Enrique Souto, Sr., a family friend and the owner of Bustelo and Café Pilon, would deliver bags to our home from his truck.

My husband developed his professional career in computer systems at Eastern Airlines and, after its demise, became an executive at System One and EDS. When writing got the best of me, I began working at Harper’s Bazaar in Spanish, followed by a stint publishing Eventos Miami, a local social/cultural magazine. Miami in the ‘80s was ripe for that decadent scene: Ensign Bitters, Cats, The Mutiny, The Jockey Club and Regine’s in the Grand Bay, where Julio Iglesias visited often and the Dom Perignon flowed easily.

I’m presently retired from advertising, and we just celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary, right here in Kendall. Most of our family lives here and has grown with Miami. Is it perfect? No. But it is ours. And it is home. So when someone tells me we have the rudest drivers and we’re a banana republic and yada, yada, yada, I say “just move, chico.”

Miami will always occupy a special place in my heart. My beloved grandmother spent such a great portion of her life here that the two are now synonymous in my mind. She had impeccable taste, which means Miami is the second-greatest city in the world; of course, our native Petionville, Haiti, comes in first.

My grandmother passed away April 2, 2012. I know she is in a better place now. The nationalist in her wanted to reach eternity via Haiti. Since that was not meant to be, Miami opened its arms – as always. It is where her remains are interred.

With a smile brighter than all the lights on Ocean Drive, my grandmother was the city personified. She wrapped her head in colorful scarves, reminiscent of Miami’s golden age, pulsing with the roar of turquoise and chrome convertibles. She loved the Fontainebleau for its Old World glamor and once-upon-a-time elegance.

My grandmother’s Miami was quite similar to our native country. Many friends gathered on her porch on Sunday afternoons to enjoy lodyans – a form of storytelling drenched in humor.They reminisced and laughed about old times back home. Most of her friends spoke only Creole, even if they had lived in the States for decades.

Her front door stayed open all day – as it did in long-ago Haiti. Restaurants that sold food cooked like back home, if not better, were just around the corner from her house. The grocery stores’ shelves were stocked with the ingredients she used to buy in Haiti’s open-air markets. Miami was her second Haiti. When back home was not accessible – because of various coups d’état and other inconveniences, Miami was her sanctuary.

My grandmother’s last visit to Haiti was in late 2009. She was thrilled to see the house in which she planned to spend what remained of her life. She had spent years sending money for builders to make her house just so. She was ready to move in the fall of 2009.

When she flew home to begin the rest of her life, friends and neighbors received her as though she had never left. Just as they did in Miami, everyone gathered at her house for marathon conversations and tasty food.

But the longer my grandmother stayed in Haiti, the more she pined for “home” – meaning Miami.

Three months after arriving in Haiti, she decided she had lived so long in Miami that perhaps she could not live anywhere else, including her birth country. She flew back to Miami on Jan. 10, 2010.

Two days later, a devastating earthquake struck Haiti, killing hundreds of thousands. She sobbed for the lost lives. I sobbed with her, but took comfort in the fact that she had returned just in time; she might have been among the still-unaccounted-for victims. That would have destroyed me.

As stories poured in about the quake’s aftermath, the utter destruction, the chaotic medical situation, my grandmother wept in silence. Her South Beach smile dimmed. Not even Miami could console her.

She mourned the fact that she could no longer return to her other, sometime home. She mourned the loss of long-ago Haiti – the Haiti that pulsed with turquoise and chrome convertibles, the lush and Miami-green Haiti, the Haiti she knew as a child. She was secretly grateful that her adopted city’s arms were always ready to envelop her. Miami had become her own private Haiti.

Five months before my grandmother passed away, she was admitted to University of Miami hospital. With each passing day, she became more and more frustrated about having to be in a hospital bed. She was accustomed to living life standing up. She detested the hospital gown, and wanted instead to wear her colorful wardrobe that reminded me of the sea, sunshine and coral reefs.

She told the doctors to send her home. By “home” she meant both Miami and Haiti. The intensive care unit was drab. It lacked vibrancy. It lacked life.

My grandmother has been gone two years now. I will always owe Miami a debt of gratitude for opening its arms to welcome my grandmother for as long as she wanted to be here. Whenever I come to the city, I sense her presence in the air. Everything she loved about the city is still here: the Fontainebleau, the banyan trees, the blue-blue water that hems the coast.

And just as my grandmother did when she was alive, I go to stores where only my native language is spoken. I eat Haitian food morning, noon and night. (I’ll admit I love Cuban cuisine just as much.) I visit Libreri Mapou and chat with the friendly owner and customers who cannot get enough of Haitian literature. Each visit makes it clear to me why my grandmother loved Miami so.

Perhaps one day, the city will claim me, too.

Living in Detroit’s bustling Lebanese community in the 1940s was very predictable -unless you were Joe and Mary Thomas, two of Miami’s pioneers from our nation’s largest Lebanese population.

The top priority then was doing everything to help our war effort. Two of Mary’s brothers went overseas, and the youngest died seven months later on the Pacific island of Morotai as part of Gen. MacArthur’s island-hopping campaign toward an attack on Japan.

To this day, I carry a dog-eared article about my uncle George from the “War Page” of the Nov. 20, 1944, Detroit News as a reminder of his ultimate sacrifice for our freedoms.

He was also the person who introduced my mother to my father. Joe’s tool-and-die job at the Hudson auto plant was converted to armament production. He won a glowing commendation from the Navy Department for developing a system to recycle damaged artillery from the field, which enabled him to get needed weapons back on the front much quicker.

After the war, Mary and Joe were married and began raising a family. Mary grew up on the second floor of her father’s grocery store and helped Joe open their own store. Unlike their parents, both from Lebanon, they decided they did not want their children working in the auto plants or the family store.

Upon hearing great things about Miami from their close family friend John Yunis, they headed south in 1955 and first lived in an apartment house he owned across from the Orange Bowl.

They later bought a house nearby on Northwest Third Street. Their oldest children attended Citrus Grove Elementary and Junior High, and ultimately Miami High. Mary’s father had refused to let her take a scholarship to a local college, despite being at the top of her high school class in Detroit. His old-country attitude was that education was a waste of time, especially for women, who should work in the family business.

This great disappointment shaped Mary’s No. 1 life goal: Do everything possible to give her children the maximum possible education. Joe, who briefly attended the University of Detroit but could not afford to continue, agreed.

As a result, one of their greatest accomplishments was that all five of their boys became doctors: two college professors with Ph.D.s, two orthodontists and one optometrist. The total of 16 different undergrad and graduate degrees for their five boys made up for the two college degrees they were not allowed or could not afford to pursue.

Besides raising and educating her five boys, Mary’s second life was dedicated to helping found and develop in 1973 Our Lady of Lebanon Church, which was established in the old Food Fair market on Coral Way. Joe converted the check-out counter to an altar so the first Mass could be held on Dec. 30, 1975.

When the church was struggling to generate income to pay off its mortgage, Mary suggested a weekend festival, as they had in their Detroit church. With their grocer backgrounds, Mary and Joe went to the farmers market to get fresh fruits and vegetables. She then organized a group of women who worked nonstop for a week to make homemade Lebanese food and treats. She was able to convince many local business people and others to make contributions for the fair, including live music.

The first festival in 1978 was a great success, and since then it has expanded to include arts and crafts, folkloric dances, and other fun activities. The 36th annual Lebanese Festival will be held Jan. 25-27, 2013, and it is the top moneymaker for the church. Approximately 5,000 Miamians and visitors enjoy it each year, but few know who the brainchild was behind it.

Mary was also the founder and first president of the Ladies’ Guild at the church in 1974. She continued her work at the church for decades until her health deteriorated.

Among the many accolades she received from the church and the national Maronite Church was the Silver Massabki Award in 1976. It is given to members of the parish “who have contributed extraordinarily of their time, talent and treasure” by the National Apostolate of Maronites.

In March 2011, she was able to attend a special Mass at the church honoring her and other founders.

Meanwhile, Joe became a general contractor and achieved his dream of building the family home on a two-acre mango farm in Pinecrest where Mary, now 91, lives. Joe died a happy man in 1998 on his 84th birthday in his dream house with his five boys and Mary at his side.

If you were to ask him or Mary about their greatest accomplishment, their answer would be very simple: “Five boys, five doctors!”

A vast field of lights met my gaze as I flew into Miami for the first time in the late ’90s. To the west was the blackness of the Everglades and to the east, the ocean, but below me were lights — a breathtaking array of tightly packed luminescence, tantalizing and exciting. And ironic, as my love of nature had apparently lured me to one of the more densely packed urban areas in the nation.

I was moving to Miami for graduate school, to study tropical amphibians at Florida International University. Yet as I settled into town those first few months, the jungles I yearned for felt a lifetime away. I was trapped by concrete. The yards in my neighborhood were cemented over; my commute was a maze of gray; I spent my waking hours within the thick concrete confines of the biology department’s bunker-style building.

I remember my feeling of liberation the first time I escaped the monotony and entered the lush oasis of Coral Gables, passing under archways of spreading oaks laden with Spanish moss, exploring Fairchild’s tropical gardens and, at Matheson Hammock, discovering forest unlike any I had experienced. Elation filled me the first time I crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway and discovered natural beaches with intact dunes at Bill Baggs State Park. It was a side of Miami I had somehow been ignorant of. I had spent time in the Everglades, but what I needed were everyday doses of green.

I moved to the Gables. I became a nature guide at the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Biscayne Nature Center in Crandon Park. I worked part-time for the Institute for Regional Conservation, where I expanded my animal-centric interests to include native plants.

The more I learned about Miami’s natural side, the more I appreciated its subtle but stunning mix of tropical and temperate species. I had moved well beyond my concrete confines, but somehow the improvements weren’t quite enough. I finished my degree and headed for Australia.

I spent three years wandering the wilds of Australia, New Zealand, Borneo, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos, teaching in China, and crewing on a sailboat in the Bahamas. Writing and photography became my new means of interacting with the natural world, but it left me baffled as to a career path. Where and how could I combine these with biology?

And as I grew weary of living out of a suitcase, my thoughts wandered toward anchoring somewhere more permanently. A home base maybe, somewhere I could plant roots. I never consciously considered Miami a contender, yet it kept re-emerging on the periphery of my thoughts.

How could this heavily concreted community with mere patches of green be calling to me? My travels had taken me to more-pristine beaches, more-luscious forests, more-impressive vistas and more-intriguing wildlife, and to cities with more environmental awareness and better green space.

But Miami was the overall package. Beaches, forests, wildlife and green space, although scattered, were here. The city held something for everyone. You could find your niche, perhaps even a green one. It was the kind of place where one person might possibly make a difference.

Warily, I moved back to Miami in early 2006. I resumed residency in my former Gables neighborhood, reconnected with friends and began working full-time for the Institute for Regional Conservation. My project was Natives for Your Neighborhood, the online native plant resource. My role was to add the animals. I realized that conservation through backyard gardening was a solution to the concrete world that had so jaded me initially.

Why was Coral Gables such an oasis? Because individual yards and communal spaces were so thoughtfully landscaped with oaks, figs, palms and pines. There were birds in the trees, butterflies on the flowers, and crocodiles in the ponds. There was space for Miami’s subtropical blend of plants and animals.

Given the tools and knowledge, residents of the rest of Miami could create just as tantalizing an oasis. Yet because South Florida’s natural environment is so special, it didn’t take long to realize that those tools did not exist.

There are piles of books on native plants, wildlife gardening and how to achieve naturalistic landscaping for temperate North America. There are even a few aimed specifically at Florida. But South Florida is subtropical. We are different. We are special, and we need our own set of unique books and resources.

I’ve spent the past five or so years creating my own backyard sanctuary on Key Biscayne — testing wildlife gardening techniques to share with others. I’ve spied on the red-bellied woodpeckers that nested in my coconut palm, applauded the successful rearing of two broods of eastern screech-owls in my nest boxes, and celebrated when a purple martin colony finally settled in my martin house after years of futilely playing their calls over loudspeakers every morning of their season to attract scouts to my yard. Now my yard is filled with live calls.

Following these yard successes, I’ve helped complete South Florida’s first bird gardening books — Attracting Birds to South Florida Gardens and Birds of Fairchild. They have allowed me to combine my biology, writing and photography interests in a meaningful way. It’s Miami; I found my niche.

I am proud to say that I am now part of this city of sparkling lights, and being here no longer seems ironic.