Category: Miami Stories

My grandfather and other family members were Miami pioneers, having arrived in 1895 from Crescent City, Florida.

My grandfather, T. N. Gautier, was one of 500 signatures needed for Miami to incorporate as a city. He was also the first school superintendent for Miami. His grocery store, Miami Groceries, was listed in the one page 1902 telephone directory as “T.N. Gautier Groceries, dial 9.”

My father, T.N. Gautier, Jr., was part of the Miami “Dirty Dozen.” I have no clue what those guys did. I do know that they were a young group of successful businessmen in Miami back in the day.

I was first introduced to Miami at my birth in Victoria Hospital many years ago. Victoria was a small 30 to 40 bed hospital on Northwest Third Street and Ninth Avenue.

My first real memory of Miami was the Labor Day hurricane of 1935. It hit without warning, as there were no TV hurricane advisories back then. I was 3 years old, but not afraid of hurricanes because I was 3 years old. My dad came home from his job at Burdines during the eye of the storm. During the lull, my family walked through a vacant lot behind our house to Flagler Street where we weathered the hurricane at fire Chief Henry Chase’s two-story concrete block house. It was a fortress against the storm. The Chase’s house was next to Fire Station #3. For me, the highlight of that day was seeing the roof of the Dempsey’s house fly off and sail away. Of course, that was not the highlight for the Dempsey family.

I attended Riverside Elementary School from first to sixth grade. Shoes were optional and many of the kids didn’t wear shoes, and I, “Shoeless Joe,” was among the many. However, I did wear shoes to church and weddings.

We lived five blocks away from Ada Merritt Junior High. It was an easy bike ride for me. Our Ada Merritt boys’ teams won the Dade County Soft Ball Championship every year for our three junior-high years.

The old Miami Orange Bowl was half a mile away from our house. My dad and I would walk there to watch the Miami Seahawks. The Seahawks were a professional franchise in the All-American League. They had an All-American running back named “Bullet” Bill Daley and a lineman named Gene Ellenson who graduated from Miami High and ended up a coach at the University of Florida. Those two men were the only redeeming players on the Seahawks team. Sadly the team eventually folded due to lack of paying fans.

My mother Claire Gautier was a soprano soloist at Trinity Methodist Church in downtown Miami. I was used to her practicing on our piano at home and took her talent for granted. But because I loved football my mother became my hero when she sang at the wedding of Army’s All-American quarterback Arnold Tucker in the mid ‘40s.

The Mackle Company, later to be known as the General Development Corporation, changed the dynamics of home building in Miami as they provided affordable housing for hundreds of families. They developed Key Biscayne and built the Key Biscayne Hotel. They also built other developments, including Ascot Park and Westwood Lakes.

My job for The Mackle Company was titled “Industrial Expeditor and General Coordinator,” which technically translated into…GOFER! When I left Mackle to answer the call of the U.S. Army, the Mackle Brothers gave me a watch that they had engraved, “Joe Good Luck Mackles.” The watch is still ticking to this day. It’s like the houses that they built — still being used.

Fast-pitch softball was another thriving sport. It was an outdoor sport and Miami being hot did not stop fans from going to various city parks to watch the games. This, of course, was before TV and air conditioners. The softball games were an evening of entertainment for people of all ages.

I pitched in all of the city parks, but the one I remember most is Moore Park. There was a man there who went to every game. His name was Scotty. He was a one-man cheering section and encourager to all the players. He knew every player’s name and called it out when they were up to bat. I could always hear him with his Scottish accent yelling out when I got to home plate, “Hit a homer, Joe!” Eventually many thousands of people in Miami welcomed air-conditioning and TVs, and didn’t go out at night to watch fast-pitch softball in the heat and hard benches. It was a gain for them and a death knell for fast-pitch softball.

In 1956, I had the privilege of being one of the coaches for Miami’s Little Major League. The team represented Miami for the Florida state championship held in St. Petersburg. We won the state title. Several on that winning team went on to be baseball stars, including Steve Hertz, who went on to play for the Houston Astros and Eric Wanderon who played baseball for Miami High and received a scholarship for both football and baseball at the University of Miami. Tommy Shannon, a pitcher for our team, got a scholarship to the University of Florida as a baseball pitcher and quarterback for the Gators.

Miami is my hometown, where I grew up and met my wife Miriam. It is where my daughter and son were born and went to school. Living in Miami taught me about living through hurricanes, traffic, hot weather and mosquitoes. Miami, to me, was a great city to grow up in.

I was born at Coral Gables Hospital in 1948. My mother was from Brooklyn, my father from Morriston. He was a CPA, in the Giller Building on the Beach, at the exit off the Julia Tuttle Causeway onto Arthur Godfrey Road. He said that every day when he drove across the causeway, he marveled at the beauty around him.

We lived in the Gables – first on Alhambra Circle where the UM fraternities were, and the athletic field and tennis courts. We played touch football and tennis there on weekends; no one bothered us. Then my family moved to the corner of Old Cutler Road and Santurce Avenue, into a one-story ‘50s house, now replaced by a mansion too big for the property.

There was only vacant land across the street, east of Old Cutler. I asked my father why nobody built there, and he said that it was too close to sea level; it would never be developed. Now it’s Cocoplum. Temple Beth Am was surrounded by vacant land. When they built Dadeland, my parents said that no one would live that far out.

Matheson Hammock was quiet and uncrowded—no Red Fish Grill. We swam at the Venetian Pool. On Sundays my dad would get bagels and lox at Sam and Carl’s on Red Road at Sunset. Across the street was the Holsum Bakery, with that wonderful smell. South Miami was small and sleepy, like a village. Sometimes we went to Pumpernik’s and Wolfie’s on the Beach — the best pastrami sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.

One of my father’s clients was the Melaleuca Motel on Collins Avenue, and when I was little we stayed there in the summer – two rooms and a cabana. The ocean, the beach, the pool, eating out, lots of other kids – I loved it.

I went to first and second grades at Sunset Elementary, then to West Lab at UM (my mother put me on the waiting list when I was born). I had a friend who would take me to his country club in the Gables, and defiantly introduce me as “my Jewish friend Joel.” Nobody reacted, but we all knew that there were Jewish and non-Jewish country clubs, and restricted hotels. Most were more subtle than the one with the sign that said “Great Views, No Jews.”

I road my bike to Ponce Junior High, racing up and over the bridge on Granada. In ninth grade I took drama because there weren’t any tests, and after a few silly skits in class, my teacher, Mrs. Firestone, cast me as the lead in the school play. When I tried to get out of it she said that her class wasn’t a democracy. It was my tipping point.

Everything I’ve done since has involved public speaking – debating in high school and college, moot court in law school, writing speeches in D.C., and then appellate law. Mrs. Firestone wouldn’t remember me, because she was just doing her job — being a teacher – and unfortunately, I never told her.

Gables High was all white, with the first Cuban students from the first wave of immigrants. My world was all white. I remember “White” and “Colored” water fountains, public restrooms, and beaches. Virginia Key Beach, for the “Colored People,”was beautiful, and my friends and I were welcome there.

I drove the ’56 Chevy that my father gave me when he bought his burgundy Mustang; it took all my strength to turn the wheel. My friend Larry and I would drop off our dates and go to the Royal Castle on the highway around 22nd Avenue, and eat four or five of those small hamburgers with the soft buns and the little pieces of cooked onions, and drink birch beer.

A favorite hangout was the Hot Shoppes Drive-In off U.S. 1 at Bird Road. We took our dates to the Flick Coffeehouse on Ponce near the university to hear folk music. Movies were at the Miracle, Gables and Riviera Theatres. Next to the Riviera were Spec’s Music and Swenson’s Ice Cream.

Some of my friends had ski boats, which we took out on weekends. At that time you could water ski anywhere you wanted. During the Cuban Missile Crisis there were military convoys everywhere. Our teachers taught us to crouch under our desks with our arms over our heads in order to survive a nuclear attack.

In tenth grade English they announced on the public address system that President Kennedy had been shot. My first political campaign was Miami Mayor Robert King High’s run for governor. We took a small plane to Tallahassee that was held together by bubble gum. It was terrifying.

The public schools in South Florida were among the best in the nation; some of the smartest people I’ve ever known went to Gables; fortunately for me it had a great debate team; and Gables and Miami High had two of the best football teams in the country. In 1965, the game between Gables and Miami High drew 48,000 people to the Orange Bowl. Miami High’s 14-7 win ended our 28-game winning streak. It was devastating.

When I left for college I had no intention of coming back. The place was sleepy and Southern and in many ways prejudiced. But it had changed radically when we decided to move back from D.C. 15 years later to raise our family. It was becoming a center of art, sports, commerce and finance – bilingual, international. It had acquired a buzz that still buzzes. And the lawyers here are as good as the best lawyers anywhere—in particular my colleagues for 25 years at Podhurst Orseck. I’ve never regretted coming home.

In the 1940s, my father Joseph Lanteigne Sr., worked at the Grain Federation League grain elevators on the docks in Albany, N.Y. My mother, Elizabeth Lanteigne, was a nurse at Albany Hospital.

Each morning, after returning home from working the night shift, Mom would turn on our black-and-white television set to watch the Arthur Godfrey show, which was broadcast from the Kenilworth Hotel on Miami Beach. Watching the sunny skies and the palm trees swaying in the ocean breezes fill the television screen, my mother would say, “This is where we are going to live.” After several bitter winters, our family packed up and moved to Miami in 1957.

My dad was employed with Dade County Parks Department at Matheson Hammock Park, and my mother worked for Dade County Juvenile Court and Domestic Relations in Miami. In the late 1980s, my mother was honored by the Juvenile Court, the only nonjudicial staff member to be so recognized. After more than 30 years of service, my parents retired from Dade County.

It was at our first residence, an apartment on Southwest 27th Avenue and Fourth Street, that my sister Andrea and I first experienced living in the South. It began when we took our first bus ride into downtown Miami on bus route No. 14.

My sister and I got on the bus and began to walk to the back of the bus. The bus driver instantly stopped the bus and in an aggressive tone told us to sit in front of the white line. That was just the beginning. Later that day we saw separate seating at the dime-store lunch counter, and separate drinking fountains and restrooms.

After my parents purchased a two-bedroom home on Southwest Fifth Street and 28th Avenue, we would go to Toby’s Cafeteria at Eighth Street and Beacom Boulevard for dinner on Friday nights. Afterward, we would go grocery shopping at the Kwik Chek Food Store on Eighth Street and sometimes visit Velvet Kreme Donut Shop for an evening treat.

I was an acolyte at the 8 and 11 a.m. services at Holy Comforter Episcopal Church, located on Southwest First Street and 13th Avenue. Between services, Father Garret would take me to Tyler’s Family Restaurant on Flagler Street for a hot Danish pastry.

I attended Miami Senior High School and graduated in June 1960. I believe that the graduating class was more than 1,300 students, which was the largest high school graduating class in the state of Florida at that time. My sister attended Citrus Grove Junior High School and then Miami Senior High School, graduating in June 1962.

Miami High was a wonderful experience back then. The school’s architecture allowed for the Miami breezes and the noise from the planes passing overhead to flow into the classroom.

The auditorium was the home of high-energy pep rallies for games against rivals Jackson, Coral Gables and Edison high schools. The Orange Bowl football stadium hosted more than 40,000 students and family members for the annual Thanksgiving evening football game between Miami High and Edison.

In the summer of 1957, I applied for my first job, at the Dade County School textbook distribution center and warehouse on Southwest 22nd Avenue and Fourth Street. This is where I spent my summer days during my high school years. I also worked in the evenings at the Coral Gables Country Club.

Living and growing up in Miami during the late 1950s and early 1960s was full of wonder. In the winter, we’d wait for the big black vultures’ annual arrival to roost at the Dade County Courthouse from their summer home in Ohio. That was a sign that the Burdines department store Christmas carnival was going to be set up on the roof of the downtown store soon.

On Saturday evenings, we’d often eat dinner at the Shrimp Place on Northwest Seventh Avenue. We’d stand outside hoping to be able to see the Russian Sputnik in the evening sky. I remember the excitement felt when our first space shot was successful. Even more exciting was when our first astronaut in space, Alan Shepard, lifted off from Cape Canaveral. That was an era of great American pride.

The later 1960s and 1970s had their share of history in Miami. There were political conventions held in Miami Beach that sparked civil-rights and anti-war demonstrations. Miami faced many civil-rights demonstrations during that time period, which greatly changed our community, as did the later arrival of the refugees from the Mariel boat lift.

Shortly after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, I enlisted in the United Sates Army. While in the First Infantry Division at Fort Riley, Kansas, I volunteered as part of the division’s advance to Vietnam.

When I returned home, I became an internal auditor at the First National Bank of Miami. Later, Southeast Banking Corporation was incorporated and I was asked to transfer and become one of the first employees of Southeast.

My passion for banking began. In 1969, I attended Miami-Dade Junior College, and then transferred to Florida Atlantic University, graduating with a degree in accounting in March 1972. I returned to work at Southeast Banking Corporation in 1974, and it was there I spent the last 20-plus years. I retired in 2013 as president of Mercy Credit Union, located in Mercy Hospital.

My wife Linda Blondet Fondas Lanteigne graduated from Immaculata-La Salle High School in the 1960s. She knew as a child that she wanted to be a teacher. Linda graduated from the University of Miami with her degree in education. Her first marriage took her to the Bahamas where she taught for 15 years.

When she returned to Miami, Linda began teaching first grade at St. Brendan’s, then Blue Lakes, Coral Reef and Kenwood elementary schools. For the last seven years, Linda has been a first-grade teacher at Pinecrest Elementary School.

For the past 18 years, we have lived in our High Pines 1952-vintage home. The first several years, we spent long hours remodeling to ensure we could retire in our home. We were always careful to maintain the integrity of the original house. We now spend most weekends taking care of our tropical garden. Lots of time is spent with Pee-Wee and Chi-Chi, our special Quaker parrots, and Buddy, our faithful Maltese dog.

Miami has gone through major growth and dramatic changes. There is still no place better to see the blue sky and feel the warm, gentle winds. When asked where we are from, with pride we say Miami. Miami is an unbelievable place to call home.

My mother hanging on to the top of a telephone pole is one of my earliest memories of South Florida. It lingers in my mind some sixty years later. Soon after we moved here from up north, a hurricane blew through. My father was away on business, so it was just my mother, my two younger sisters and me.

We were lucky to have long-time Florida residents as neighbors, so we did whatever they told us to do to prepare. We made it through the storm with little damage, but, as usual, we lost power, and telephone. The power came back on in a day or two, but the telephone didn’t.

Over the next week, everyone else on our street got their telephone service back, but ours was still out. Using a neighbor’s phone, we’d call every day, only to be told to be patient. Finally, after about ten days, I watched with amazement as my short, slim mother (I was only eleven, but already taller) shinnied up the telephone pole. Wrapping one arm around the pole in a kind of “death hug,” she used her free hand to reconnect the wires into the main line.

From her perch she sent me back into the house to make sure the telephone worked before she came back to earth. One try and she managed to get it connected. No one from the telephone company ever came.

That definitely “low-tech” repair job was accomplished many years before women would be seen wearing hard hats and working on telephone lines. My mother’s climb provided a telephone that still worked when she moved out of the house thirty years and many hurricanes later.

I grew up in Miami Shores beginning in the mid-1940s, a beautiful place to live where you can still view Biscayne Bay today, as you could then. I went to Miami Shores Elementary School and have fond memories of the teachers and my friends, some lifelong friends. I remember our teachers who were special, such as my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Gonzales, and the Easter Parade for our class. My fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Dees, played classical music for us during rest time after lunch. We sometimes drew pictures to interpret the music.

I took ballet, tap, and toe dance lessons in a home studio where many young people took lessons. We had our dance recitals on the stage of the Shores Theater. We went to the movies there every Saturday morning.

I learned to swim at the Miami Shores Country Club. There was an Olympic-size pool with a high-dive and low-dive boards. It took great courage just to jump off the high dive! Miami Shores did have one real Olympic swimmer, Shirley Stobs. Her swimming specialty was the butterfly stroke. The pool has since been removed to expand parking and a water park has been built on the north side of the main clubhouse.

It wasn’t necessary to swim when I had a water adventure around the third or fourth grade. My friend had a grandmother who lived in a house on Biscayne Bay, just south of Miami Shores. They had a small boat dock. Toni and I tried a little fishing off the dock. After a while, I got a nibble on my line that kept getting stronger and stronger. I pulled and wound and finally landed the fish on the dock. It was a baby sand shark! It was thrown back into the water.

Brockway Memorial Library opened in Miami Shores in 1949, made possible through funds donated by industrialist George A. Brockway. I often felt like I had read my way through all the books in the children’s section and can remember checking out stacks of books during the summer months. A couple of years ago the library requested donations of Miami Shores historical items so I donated my Miami Shores Troop 39 Girl Scout badge sash with earned badges. Troop 39 members started with the Brownies in the first grade, continuing with the Girl Scouts into junior high school. In scouting our troop visited places in Miami such as Greynolds Park, Camp Mahachee, Parrot Jungle and Matheson Hammock. Our last farewell to Troop 39 was a weekend hotel stay on Miami Beach.

We had our meetings after school at the Miami Shores Community Church, the longest established church in the community and near the school. Many of us rode our bicycles to and from school. I rode my bicycle to school starting in the first grade. Miami Shores Elementary was a little over a mile from my house. I continued to ride my bicycle to Horace Mann Junior High School in the first year or two.

In 1948 I participated in a pet and doll show at the Miami Shores Community House. I didn’t win any prizes but someone took a photo that was published in a newspaper. It was spotted by Mrs. Carnegie Cline who later taught me modeling and drama. She was also involved with the Miami Daily News Youth Roundup of Dade County. I got to know the youth editor of the paper and was involved with many of the Roundup activities. I had the opportunity to model in fashion shows at the Burdine’s Tea Room and The Surf Club, ride floats in the Orange Bowl parades and meet famous people like Olympic champion Pete Desjardins at the Deauville, movie star Preston Foster and some of “the little people” who starred in The Wizard of Oz.

The Cuban revolution was taking place while I was at Miami Edison Senior High School. I remember hearing the news announcement on the radio that “Batista has left the island of Cuba.”

After graduating, I went off to college, and then moved to Atlanta, Georgia, but made visits home for brief periods. In recent years I’ve been to Miami for extended periods. When I referred to the Miami News building in downtown Miami, no one knew what I was talking about. It wasn’t until I went to an Art Basel 2012 exhibit in the Freedom Tower that I learned the Miami News building had become the Freedom Tower. Miami-Dade College unveiled the adjacent Pedro Pan sculpture to mark the 50th anniversary of Operation Peter Pan, which resulted in over 14,000 unaccompanied children sent from Cuba to the United States.

I’ve enjoyed subsequent visits to the tower for special exhibits. I learned that a year after this Spanish renaissance revival tower was built it was damaged during Miami’s1926 killer hurricane and was rebuilt twice. It was donated to Miami Dade College in 2005 by a local developer. It’s a tribute that Miami has saved this U.S. National Historic Landmark that stands tall as a reflection of the city’s history while new development grows around it by leaps and bounds.

Suddenly there is fire in the treetops along the turnpike. The sidewalk is carpeted with orange petals and the Poinciana preens itself above the jacaranda’s demure lavender feathers and the frangipani’s pink and yellow pastels. The calendar doesn’t tell us it is time for our yearly Poinciana Walk, but the world does. While we go for the sake of the trees, the homes in the Gables that they guard and grace have become characters in a never-ending story.

On one of our earliest peeking-through-the-Rangoon Creeper days in the French Village, we stumbled onto the storybook house at the southwest end of the block of chateaus. Double garage doors and peeling white paint abutted the perfectly restored wall and manicured yard we had been admiring. A diminutive arch with a black iron gate opened out diagonally to the corner of the street from a postage-stamp herb garden. Above and below, casement windows hinged inward, screens offering only the filmiest filter. The wavy glass panels of the butler’s pantry cabinets were clearly discernible from where we stood outside. Farther down the walk, a vase of fresh flowers bloomed in the window, and next to it a gray top-knotted head was turned toward the flickering screen across the room. We were mystified and mesmerized by the house, a vestige of the neighborhood’s 1920s legacy. We ached to get inside.

Then, one afternoon, we rounded the corner to hear the sounds of pans scraping through the kitchen’s casement window. Pungent garlic and onions sizzled on an unseen stove top, and plates clattered on an imagined table. Two shadowy figures floated in the lampless kitchen, one seated and one busy in the evening light lingering along the freckled street, while a gray head watched at her post, as always, next to the flowers in the living room window.

Months later, as we paced back and forth along the length of the house, by now the object of fantasy and imagination, two wiry little ladies appeared in the open door and looked out at their stalkers. The tiniest one, with delicate bird fingers, pushed open the wrought iron, screen-covered door and smiled at us. Her face was encircled with a white cottony halo and the parchment skin on her face creased into smile lines from her eyes to her chin. The woman behind her seemed younger, more serious and stern, or just responsible and justifiably wary. “Hello ladies,” The snowy one spoke. “Are you enjoying your walk?”

We were nearly speechless. For all our wishing, we weren’t prepared for this sprite to actually speak to us.

“Oh, yes. This is our favorite street. Yours is our favorite house.”

“We think it is pretty special, this house. That’s why we have stayed here all these years. Of course, the Realtors won’t give us any peace. They come by here nearly every day.”

“You aren’t going to sell it are you?” Our simultaneous question belied fears of contractors and realtors circling like vultures.

A little giggle slipped into the pixie’s voice. “Would you sell paradise?”

The taller woman reached out for the handle of the iron door and began drawing it toward her and closing the little doll lady inside. “Enjoy your walk.” She gave a tiny wave, her open palm nearly as papery as her face. A walk in paradise.

Today, perhaps because we had already walked on many streets, we drove to Cotorro Avenue, turning in from the northern end of the French Village block. Maybe if we had been on foot, the awareness would have come gradually. Instead, we were shocked to find the Garlic Sisters’ house standing naked on the sidewalk. The grizzled hedge, ripped from the ground, exposed ancient pipes and spigots that had quenched its thirst for perhaps as many years as we were old. The Florida honeysuckle vine that circled and wound and draped luxuriously over the garden wall was now twisted dry and gnarled in the side yard under piles of debris, boards and nails and chunks of plaster.

Tears blurred our vision, but we scarcely hesitated to duck through the arch and tiptoe gingerly around the rubble that had once been a garden, to French doors, standing open in the back. We stepped through onto original tile floors, terra cotta cool, and looked up to a black, wrought iron chandelier dangling above. Straight ahead, the wood paneled front door, directed a turn into the living room where a TV antenna wire dangled onto the floor.

Off the front hall, a door stood open to the kitchen where black and white tiles checkered the floor. In the empty butler’s pantry, wooden drain boards, grooved and stained, sloped down to an old porcelain sink with iron faucet and knobs still intact. On the drain board stood a vase of flowers, once fresh cut carnations, daisies, and spider pompoms, now drooping with curled and wilted petals. Not the stuff of potpourri, but of memories.

A simple ribbon circled the vase, its color indistinguishable. A florist card stuck out from a stiff plastic stem. The envelope was addressed to Virginia O’Dowd, 1032 Cotorro Avenue, Coral Gables, Florida. Dreading to see what the message would say, fearing a get well wish or sincerest sympathy, my hands shook as I turned over the card. The typed letters read: Happy Birthday, with Love.

Outside, a child’s riding toy rumbled by, a stroller wheel complained and young women’s voices drifted up through the pantry casement. Neighbors. Maybe they would think we had no right to be there, to find the flowers, to sniff for garlic, to walk over dining room tiles the sisters’ feet had crossed and re-crossed until they wore a pattern in the stone, to listen for the echo of a little birdlike chirp. “Enjoy.” So we left the French door just as we had found it, passed through the garden wall, and whispered an apology to Virginia for not somehow leaving her flowers in the open window.

I was born at St. Francis Hospital in March 1947.

My parents both came to Miami Beach for work, my mother in 1936 and my father in 1939. They met while working together at a deli, owned by my great aunt and uncle (Mary and Dave Alper).

We lived on 15th Street, near Washington Avenue and the old Miss Ehrman’s dance studio. We were one of the first families to move to the very new Morton Towers. A lot of my family moved to Miami Beach soon afterward.

My grandmother Fannie Malschick, already retired, lived in one of those apartment/hotels on South Beach that now host the rich and famous. She played cards with her cronies, did group exercises on 15th Street and safely walked everywhere.

My uncle, Gilbert Malschick, worked at the Eden Roc as a bartender from the 1950s to the 1970s. My cousin, Allen Malschick, was a well-known Miami Beach photographer who took pictures of many celebrities who entertained at the hotels on Collins Avenue.

My father eventually opened his own deli with partner Phil Seldin (Raphil’s Deli on 41st Street). His customers included the famous and infamous. Before that, my dad owned The Little Inn restaurant in Miami, a popular hangout for soldiers and friends during World War II.

I attended Flamingo Park preschool, Central Beach Elementary, Fisher Jr. High and Miami Beach High School. Many of my friendships, born during those years, have stood the test of time and I am in touch and close to many of those “kids” today.

In 1960, the first wave of Cubans came to Miami Beach. All of a sudden a new culture was introduced, and we had tons of new friends. We spent the sweet years, as I now refer to my childhood, at Saturday afternoon matinees, shopping on Lincoln Road, and eating at Liggett’s or Wolfie’s. Friday night was dedicated to dancing at the 10th Street auditorium, and on Sunday, many beach parties were held at 14th Street and Ocean.

As we began to drive farther from the Beach, we hung at Fun Fair and the bowling alley across the street, Corky’s and Marcella’s Italian Restaurant, known for the amazing garlic rolls. We ventured even farther to the Coconut Grove coffee houses and playhouse.

I left Miami Beach after high school graduation in 1965, but my heart remains in the memories of those wonderful years. Our lives are richer for the experience and we have grown both up and together these many years later.

A child of the Florida sun, I lived in soft T-shirts and sandals. But here I was, walking with my mother to Van E. Blanton Elementary School, attired in a plaid dress and stiff Oxford shoes. September 1959 was a more innocent time; the terms “crack,” “pusher,” “grass,” or “weed,” surely would have conjured images of children playing on steaming sidewalks where brown summer grass and wildflowers pushed hopefully upward.

At registration, we were told by the principal that first graders’ hours were 8:30 to 12:00 noon for the first three months, and after that the school day ended at 2:00. She added that 6-year-olds should walk unaccompanied to school, as it built self-reliance. First graders were served a carton of Home Milk decorated to look like a house and picket fence, and home-baked cookies in the school “cafetorium” for $1.00 every two weeks.

Walking to school in second grade, I discovered dozens of buttons which read “John F. Kennedy.” Who was he? My teacher explained he was running for president on a platform of equal opportunities in housing, school and jobs for all. A wonderful idea, and it was exciting to follow my first election on TV!

In fourth grade, we had many new classmates from “Operation Peter Pan,” in which Cuban children settled in the United States, often not knowing if they would ever see their families again. I vividly remember the first two arrivals. One, “Angela,” was very shy. She wore the same outfit every day and only responded quietly if Spanish-speaking adults talked first, but she always worked hard on her studies.

Then there was “Maria.” We girls would marvel at her vast supply of rustling silk dresses and gold jewelry. She bubbled over with fluent English that her “Abuela” (Grandma) had gone on a shopping spree at Jordan Marsh in anticipation of her arrival, adding, “Abuela is taking me to New York and has arranged for me to have ham on the plane,” smacking her lips. I was insanely jealous!

There was a game we played every Friday called “7-up.” Seven students would randomly tap seven blindfolded students, then we’d guess which person tapped us by asking seven questions about hobbies and interests. Maria tapped me. I guessed correctly with one question about an upcoming trip. The normally happy, bubbly child burst into cries: “Cheater! You looked to see who tapped you.” I sobbed, “I did not, I recognized the swishing silky sound of your dress.” My teacher mediated: “I want you two to talk privately with each other and smooth things over.” We calmly conferred; Maria acknowledged, “I believe you didn’t cheat; my dress DOES swish.” I responded “Why do you keep bragging about clothes and jewelry and trips? You’re making the kids jealous.” She replied, “I’m envious of you all. You have lived here your whole life and I had to leave my home and might never see my relatives again.” I lovingly hugged and reassured her: “This is your new home and I’ll be your new best friend.” Our teacher then had us sit side by side for the rest of the year. We exchanged gifts of crayons and bubble bath. Maria exclaimed, “Together, we can color and draw beautiful pictures of the beaches in Miami and Cuba.”

In October 1962, we had to confront possible mortality. President Kennedy announced Cuban missiles were pointed towards the United States. A tense standoff lasted three weeks. There were simulated air-raids and we would dive under desks for cover; thankfully it was soon over. My teacher told us that, ironically, the brief crisis actually helped thaw some of the relations between nations, apparently for a mutual desire to preserve mankind. Meanwhile, I wrote poems about annihilation which I submitted unsuccessfully to the Blanton Bugle: “Mother is baking an apple pie, soon we all will die.”

November 22, 1963 dawned as an exciting day for me; I had no idea the day would end so tragically. All summer, I had practiced for a jump-rope competition, with Maria timing. Practice paid off, I won the prize jump rope! But sadly, just as school ended, someone shouted, “President Kennedy is dead. He was shot.” We all froze! Teachers admonished, “Go straight home. This is a national tragedy.” School was closed the following Monday. For one month, school flags were flown at half-staff with black ribbons. President Lyndon Johnson announced that he would carry on President Kennedy’s legacy with the 1964 Civil Rights Act. We all learned a lesson that could never be taught in a classroom: that one’s life can be tragically cut short, but grief and sadness can be channeled into helping their memory live on, by carrying on their good works.

Our school years at Blanton were finally coming to an end. Sixth graders were treated to a barbecue and swimming at Morningside Park and pool, equipped with a high-dive. I was afraid to dive but it was now or never! Slicing through cold, clear blue water, my young life passed before me. I had learned so much: reading, writing, math, elections, death and friendship. How you can make things happen; words can make an enormous impact. Crayons and paper can be transformed into beautiful pictures. Gasping when reaching the water’s surface, I heard my teacher exclaim: “Karin, hurry up. It’s time to go. But first, let’s have a rousing rendition of our school song.”

As onlookers gaped, we sang, “We’re loyal to our school, it’s here we learn and live, knowledge strength and beauty too, these to us we give, our teachers show the way to make our dreams come true, Van E. Blanton, Van E. Blanton, we all stand for you.”

Our first family visit to the Miami Public Library (as it was called then) was back in 1958. I was 5 years old, my sister Victoria was 8, and my brother Matthew was 10. We visited a crowded shopping destination, “Little River.”

After going to Woolworth’s, Arno Shoes, Beauty Fair and Larry’s Restaurant, my mother Mildred “Fritzie” Stahl spotted the Little River Library and exclaimed, “I’ve been meaning to get a library card. Let’s go there!” My sister Vickie picked out Lad: A Dog, I got Blueberries for Sal and my father Edmund checked out a large, illustrated Don Quixote and Sancho Panza and read it to us that same night, which my brother especially enjoyed.

Fritzie loved the library so much she quit working at Burdines in 1959 to work at Little River Library full-time. Although her official position was “Clerk Typist I,” with her educational background at American University, and with my father’sbackground as a member of the Art Students League, they embarked on professional endeavors there.

My mother participated in the children’s summer reading club, which my sister and I eagerly joined. Here’s how it worked: during the summer of 1963, a bulletin board was placed at each library branch entrance. For each child, a colorful fishing pole was placed on the board, identifying the reader. Whenever a child finished a book, a fish was added, showing which book the child had “caught” (read).

My sister’s fishing pole was heavily sagging with such “catches,” including Herman Wouk, Ernest Hemingway and Margaret Mitchell. My pole was heavily laden with Beverly Cleary and Mark Twain selections. At the end of the summer, 15 children from the Little River library boarded a Coast Cities Coaches bus downtown to receive a certificate of achievement. A total of 725 children, each of whom had read a minimum of eight books, attended from libraries throughout the county.

My parents also presented many puppet shows at the library. One memorable show was Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. My father designed cloth puppets and painted scenery, and my mother wrote a script based on the book. After the show was over, my mother was delighted because several children asked, “Where can I get a copy of Treasure Island?” A “classic,” which might otherwise be just sitting on the shelf was being noticed!

I remember one librarian who worked with my mother in Little River, Miss Grace Rayfuse. Fritzie knew the library so well she would just look up a book if children asked for one, but Miss Rayfuse suggested, “Always say, ‘let’s look in our card catalogue,’ if it is a child asking for a book.” That became a catch-phrase in the library.

It has now been more than a half-century since our family’s first visit to the Little River library. My brother, mother and father died many years ago. My sister and I still live about three miles away from the library (we are currently zoned to use the North Miami library). We still love books. Our living room resembles a library itself with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled to capacity.

I decided to take a sentimental trip back to the Little River library recently. The exterior looks much the same with its slanted pillars and double-glass doors. Inside, it was much different. Children had replaced pencil and notebook paper with laptop computers. Instead of “[our] card catalogue,” children now expertly skim a computer mouse to search for books.

Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be nearly as many books available as when I visited the library in the 1950s and 1960s. The entire shelf near the checkout desk was gone. In its place was a display of videos, compact discs and DVDs. Everything seems so different. And yet the library director informed me the county still offers the summer reading club. Despite all the new technology, there are still thousands of books available for checkout. I checked and yes, Treasure Island is still available.