Category: Miami Stories

In the 1920s, the film industry was beginning to invest in “sound” for movies. Impressive theaters were built and audiences came rushing to escape the reality of life. Movies and vaudeville drew thousands of people to these spacious, elegant buildings known as movie palaces, and Miami was no exception.

The Olympia Theater was one of them and she was the heartbeat of downtown Miami. Her lights were brilliant and kept their sparkle through the economic and natural crises of the times from the energy left by the many performers and stars who graced her stage.

Then the glamour and excitement vanished. The dazzle of the movies and the up-tempo of the vaudeville acts no longer thrilled the crowd. The stock market crashed in 1929; the ‘30s saw a hurricane disrupt the lives of Miami audiences. The Olympia’s seats were empty; the audience was gone. The halls were dark except for the ever-present traditional, single bulb, caged in steel standing near center stage and left to burn eternally. This light–the soul of the theater– never goes dark.
It is called the “ghost light.” There is a superstition connected with it that says a spirit floats through and haunts every theater, even Miami’s Olympia Theater. I know it exists.

With all its problems, the Olympia was destined to become a parking garage until millionaire businessman Maurice Gusman bought the theater, saved it from the demolition ball, and it became Maurice Gusman Theater, Center for the Performing Arts.

The theater’s rebirth began and the lights returned brighter and stronger than ever before. I came to Gusman as a Florida International University intern in the 1980s. Upon graduation, I was hired as an assistant to the managing director. I began my dream job on December 26, 1984. Downtown was quiet but I was intoxicated with excitement. This same feeling led me through the next 20 years of my life in a job I loved. Yes, it was filled with long hours but I gained priceless experiences, as well. I also discovered the value for details and contractual requirements unique to major stars. I reveled in the personal moments with these major stars, which I was privileged to see.

I like to call this “my Renaissance period” for it was that for both my beloved theater and me. It formed a lifetime of love for me and a rebirth for the theater as Miami audiences begged for a stage for world performers.

Edward Villella gave birth to the Miami City Ballet, forming a ballet company with local talent and New York dancers with a full week of performances; Michael Tilson Thomas auditioned musicians from all over the world to come to Miami to be a member of a teaching orchestra, the New World Symphony; and my boss created programs for the season of traditional jazz performers, such as Marian McPartland, Dave Brubeck, Ramsey Lewis and Carmen McRae to note a few. These programs brought music lovers to downtown to the corner of Flagler Street and 2nd Avenue.

I loved going to downtown Miami even though everyone told me how frightening it was. Strangely, I never felt threatened by the street people. I felt sadness for them but never fear. The dark streets and empty store-fronts did not intimidate me, nor did the dark of the theater. The “ghost light” was always on so I could stand at the top of the mezzanine balcony and look all over the theater as the light created unique shadows throughout this exquisite atmospheric theater designed by John Eberson in l925. The single stage light cast dramatic shadows on the proscenium arch making the sculptured faces and the carved stone gargoyles grotesque and macabre.

Remember I mentioned the “spirit that floats through and haunts” every theater. The reason I know it exists is because I did see it. Laugh if you will but I did. Here is what happened:

My boss loved to drop last minute projects with immediate deadlines on my desk to see if I could manage it. It was Friday at 4 P.M. He picked up his briefcase and as he left the office rushing down the back staircase of the theater foyer, he said “don’t forget, you have to feed the dance company on Saturday night two hours before show time. See ya.”

What was that? I yelled as I came out of my concentration over a contract and ran to the top of the stairway only to see his 6-foot tall body slip out into the backstage alley. As the door slammed shut, and I started back into my office I thought I heard something or someone but I knew I was alone in the theater. I stopped at the doorway, listening for a familiar sound but there was only the silence of the theater. Then a swath of light floated through the chandeliered balcony foyer making its way up the stairs to the mezzanine. I was not frightened. I was inquisitive. I believe buildings and houses have “energy.” I looked for reflections from 2nd Avenue traffic but there were none. I believe this kind of energy manifests itself in some way, especially if you are sensitive to its existence. I saw the spirit that floats through our theater. I never saw it again but what a beginning.

I love the theater, I love the ghost, I love the audiences and I loved my life at Gusman Center for the Performing Arts, now The Olympia Theater again.

The homeless man knocked on my window while I was stopped at a red light on North Federal Highway, just east of the Miami Design District. He made the motion of hand-to-mouth, the one that says, “Feed me. I’m hungry.”

It just so happened that it was June, and in the middle of a heavy mango season, when eight of our 14 trees were throwing fruit at me as if we were playing a long, continuous and particularly juicy game of dodge ball. Because I never go anywhere without them, I had several Publix bags filled with fruit on the seat beside me. I rolled down the window and handed him one, bulging with the aromatic globes.

He was about to thank me when his expression turned suspicious. The overwhelming perfume of dozens of mangoes shot out of my car window along with the air conditioning. “Wait,” he said, “what are these?” He looked inside and his nose wrinkled. Then he handed the bag back to me. “No thanks. I don’t like mangoes.”

The light turned green at that moment and, with Miami’s notoriously impatient drivers honking at me, I didn’t have the opportunity — or, at this point, the charity — to explain that while he might be one of the few people in South Florida to disdain the world’s favorite fruit, perhaps he could trade them on the street for something else. I just shook my head and drove off.

This anecdote popped into my head when I woke up one recent morning and discovered a criminal act had occurred on my property the night before. Someone had stolen all the guavas from my tree, fruit that were still hard knobs of verdant acidity, but would any day begin transforming themselves into softer, sweeter and kinder versions. My dog walker, Jorge, and I were keeping a close watch — there were about 75, maybe more — waiting for that first tinge of yellow and hint of distinct aroma, caught somewhere between cat pee and tropical mold (but closer to cat pee).

Our vigil was for naught, because my tree has apparently been marked for a while now, and every harvest I’ve almost had for the past two years has magically disappeared. Worse, this time, the thieves didn’t just pick the fruit. They ripped off entire branches, the main arteries where the guavas had proliferated most, rather than take the time to tug them from what would have been, surely, their unforgiving stems.

Several weeks later, I came home from a weekend away to find that all of my low-hanging, early-ripening avocados had been taken as well.

Posting my losses on social media, I learned in response about the rumored “mamey wars” in the Redland region, where mamey sapote is so treasured that it has to be grown under guard. I heard about a fellow Miami Shores resident’s jackfruit tree, which was robbed of its Dali-esque fruit at 2 a.m. one night (a neighbor on a night shift caught the perpetrator in the act). I was given lots of recommendations about planting away from front yards and fences, and suggestions on how to espalier young trees so that they’re less of a target for the drive-by, rip-off artists who sell ill-gotten nighttime gains to fruit cart purveyors. It’s all good reasoning and sound advice, except that it comes far too late.

On the other hand, mango season is so prolific I wouldn’t notice if 500 pieces of fruit took a walk one day. I’d actually probably be grateful. But that rarely happens. Even the mango trees on the nearby properties that have gone into foreclosure remain untouched, the fruit decaying into the ground.

Indeed, as much as mangoes can foster love and lust during the first of the season, by the middle or end no chef, neighbor or homeless person within miles wants to catch a glimpse of me. I was even denied entrance to the Sunday poolside brunch at Hyde Beach in July this past year, where I was bringing mangoes for the kitchen, because the security staff considered them on par with groceries. As in, per the Terminator dude at the velvet rope (yes, for brunch, an element I’m still trying to figure out): “You can’t come in here with a bag of food.”

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. “I have a reservation for brunch, and I brought these mangoes for the kitchen.”

“No entrance with a bag of food.”

“This isn’t ‘a bag of food.’ These are beautiful, tree-ripe mangoes. From my trees. Picked by me. For the chef.”

No one asked for my reservation name, called for a manager or even bothered to turn around to talk to me directly, although it was obvious that they did consider me a middle-aged idiot. Very slowly, the same man said, “Ma’am, we don’t allow outside food to be brought in.”

I was, by now, angry and exasperated, not to mention hot, holding twenty pounds of mangoes in July and arguing at a velvet rope to a venue where I had been invited by the public relations firm for brunch. “Really, it’s not like these are potato chips. I hand-picked these for the chef. It’s mango season. Backyard growers like me do this. Trust me, it’s a Miami thing.”

“We don’t have a chef.”

Check and mate. I left the premises because, well, who would want to eat brunch there anyway?

But along with the lesson of not accepting brunch invitations at what is essentially a club, in Miami, I have learned, some kinds of fruit are valuable currency. (I wonder, had I been holding guava, would Hyde Beach security have parted the Red Sea for me?) Yet those fruit that are plentiful and common, no matter how well-loved, are like the old Italian lira: inflated, worthless. And at the height of season, you can’t even give them away, not even to those who have nothing at all. Including, it seems, a chef.

I was born in Hamburg, Germany, in 1941, during World War II. My father had a sister in New Jersey who sponsored my parents and me to come to the United States. Due to the quota at that time, we had to wait five years to get permission to immigrate. My parents were only allowed a certain amount of money to bring into this country, so we came first class – it was a glamorous ship. Unfortunately, I was seasick most of the cruise. We left April 4, 1952, and arrived on April 15. This April was so stormy our arrival was delayed by two days.

We finally made it to New York and went past the Statue of Liberty. We were all so excited. My aunt and uncle picked us up and we drove to Demarest, New Jersey. My parents went to night school to learn English and I was enrolled in the public school.

Demarest was a small town, and they had never had a foreigner in the school, so they had no clue what to do with me, not knowing English. I was placed in first grade – mind you I was 12 years old – and I felt terrible being there. My aunt helped me learn English at home after school with tools the school gave her. After a few months I was placed in the correct grade.

In 1956 we came to Miami Beach for a vacation and loved it so much that we moved here in 1958.

I worked as a hostess at Maisel’s Restaurant, then known as Junior’s Restaurant, on the corner of 79th Street and Biscayne Boulevard. Having come from up north, I could not believe that the restrooms and water fountains were segregated; “White” and “Colored” signs were placed on them. This restaurant, like Wolfie’s, was very popular. We used to have long lines.

In 1961, I was fortunate enough to be hired as a flight attendant with National Airlines until 1992, when I was made a supervisor of flight attendants for seven years. When Pan American acquired National, I was a purser for them until 2002. I loved all 30 years of flying and looked forward to every trip. My daughter is a flight attendant with Delta and also loves it. My son is in New York becoming a lawyer.

It was a big shock when Pan Am went out of business, and I had to find a new career, which turned out to be in the hotel industry. I became a manager of housekeeping for the Seaview Hotel, then the Grand Bay Hotel, and then Fisher Island. Then I was fortunate enough to receive a call from Royal Caribbean and asked to be a facilities consultant. I traveled to all the ships to teach cleaning and equipment use. Unfortunately, due to the economic situation, several of us were let go.

As you can see, Miami has been very good to me and my parents. “Thank you” to the USA for having accepted us, and allowing us to be able to live here in this great country.

I came to Miami Beach as a New York transplant along with my father Irwin, mother Fay and older brother George.

Dad was a self-taught gentleman with a sixth-grade education. Our small library was filled with Reader’s Digest books and the music of the classics. When we arrived here in 1944, the only place we could find to rent was an efficiency at 1417 Collins Avenue. I can never forget this place because in the same bed I shared with my brother, we twice found scorpions.

Dad’s first job in this beautiful resort town was working as a bookie for an illicit gambling syndicate in the South Florida area. Dad didn’t want to embarrass his family by getting arrested; fortunately the opportunity to start a fruitful career in the hotel industry came upon him.

Starting as a hotel clerk at the Edison Hotel on Ocean Drive, he quickly rose to the position of manager. I was 11 years old at the time, enjoying being able to hang out with my dad often. This is where I spent my first hurricane, helping to feed hotel guests. We opened the coffee shop with our family doing our best to operate it, with me taking the orders.

I learned a lot at that old hotel. I could run the telephone switchboard, the elevator (they were manually run), and could even man the desk to sign in the guests. As a matter of fact, that is exactly what I did on V – J (Victory over Japan) Day in 1945, when the war ended. All the staff went out to celebrate, leaving me in charge to manage the hotel. It wasn’t too long as I remember, that Dad started his move north on Collins Avenue.

The next hotel was called the Alamac. There, I learned to dance the tango at the age of 12. This beautiful blond lady who had a dance studio on the premises asked if I would like to learn. Since I I had a crush on this woman, I jumped at the chance. She had me dance with her in the evening, on the patio, where the guests enjoyed the beautiful weather. I believe she wanted to show that if she could teach a 12-year-old boy to tango then anyone could learn.

The next hotels up the line were small, twin, side-by-side structures on Collins Avenue called the Seacomber and the Surfcomber. Dad managed both at the same time. Next came a hotel south of what became the Fontainebleau . Dad’s new position was to run the Sovereign Hotel where again, I occasionally had a chance to help operate a telephone switchboard. I had a chance to meet some celebrities such Una Merkel and Charles Atlas, the bodybuilder featured on the back cover of so many comic books and magazines touting his exercise program.

Later on, the last of the hotels in my father’s career turned out to be The Raleigh, at 17th Street and Collins Avenue. It wasn’t as famous as it is today, but it was a beautiful place.

I started schools in Miami Beach at Central Beach Elementary, moving on to Ida M. Fisher Junior High, and Miami Beach Senior High at the same location. At lunch time, my friends and I would go to the Dolly Madison ice cream parlor on Española Way. Next door was a place where I would play the pinball machines and buy comic books throughout the ninth grade.

With a love for photography, I was able to convince my parents to let me attend Lindsey Hopkins vocational school (which at that time was called Miami Technical High) for 10th through 12th grades. While in school, I had part-time jobs at several movie theaters in the area; I ushered at the Beach, Lincoln, and Sheridan theaters. The pay then was 35 cents an hour.

We eventually moved out of the efficiency and rented apartments on Marseille Drive in Normandy Isle. We were close enough that my mother would suggest that she and I go fishing at all hours of the night on the 79th Street Causeway bridge. These were some of the most memorable nights I remember about my late mother.

When I got my driver’s license and dated, friends and I would travel around town to places such as the Big Wheel drive-in where we could get a whole bag of French fries for $1. We would go bowling at the Coliseum on 16th Street and Douglas Road, or across from the old Sears store at 13th Street off of Biscayne Boulevard. Swimming at the Venetian Pool was a must for me and my date. We loved the grotto cave where we could “neck” (just a lot of kissing).

After high school, I entered the military, got married, and after nine years of service returned with two sons to the place I loved the most, Miami. In the years that followed, my careers have taken me from being a business owner of “Herb’s T.V.” for over 25 years, to teaching high school starting at the age of 55 for another 19, at Miami Jackson, and later, Hialeah High.

Now as a great-grandfather of two, I am living my retirement years in South Florida where I belong. Recently, I was at a North Miami car dealership, and found on the wall a very large B&W; picture taken circa 1945 of the Edison Hotel, my dad’s first manager’s job; I could not get over it.

This is an interesting story about a creative, talented man (my dearest husband of 50 years), Herbert Marks. He had an office on Lincoln Road for 60 years. His talent for show business started as a boy when his family had a theater in Boston where they had movies and let talent try out.

When Morris Landsberg had five hotels, Herbert produced full-length Broadway shows and he had all guests come to the Deauville to see the productions. Leon Leonidoff from Radio City Music Hall designed the stage.

Herbert also had a Lou Walters review at the Carillon and, of course, big bands at all the hotels. Herbert supplied talent for [Jackie] Gleason and booked big names into the Olympia Theater. He booked shows at the Indian Creek Club, private clubs, La Gorce Surf, the exclusive Everglades in Palm Beach, the Whitelaw Hotel and Boca Raton Hotel.

Herbert also supplied talent for big conventions. He got Sammy Davis for an automobile convention. He also provided entertainment for the children’s wear conventions, started in the ’60s by Sam Kantor.

Herbert managed the McGuire Sisters and got them on the Arthur Godfrey show. He had water shows at the McFadden Hotel (now the Deauville), was the booking agent for the Olympia Theater (where I danced many times) and supplied the talent for Miss Universe. Once, he took the producers to see a circus act and the car got stuck in the mud, but the elephants lifted the car up. Herbert also helped Bob Hope produce shows in Miami to raise money for Parkinson’s Disease.

It’s good to remember the heyday of Miami and Miami Beach. I am 92 and enjoy the memories of the Golden Era here.

A few tidbits about me: I was a dancer. I was the opening act for Dean Martin and Alan King. When I worked with Dean in Philadelphia we used to go dancing after hours. He did not drink whiskey but did drink iced tea. He put on the act of drinking all the time, but that was not true. He proposed to me then. I was too young to take that responsibility. It would have been fun I’m sure, but my mom said no. I kept in touch with him and called him years later when he and his family were interviewed by Edward R. Murrow (in Philly).

I continued working many nightclubs in Miami and Miami Beach, including the Copacabana, which was run by Bill Miller, and the Kitty Davis Airliner, which was a very popular club down here in Miami Beach. The service men loved going there. I was also voted “Miss Olympia.”

The Biltmore Hotel was a veteran’s hospital and I volunteered there as a “gray lady,” which was what we were called. We’d write letters and read to the boys. I loved it there trying to make the soldiers happy. Everything I did for the soldiers and the officer’s club was great fun for me and the servicemen. I did shows for every branch of the service.

Well, when I got married in 1947 my dancing days were over, though my husband and I were still going to the Eden Roc and Fontainebleau for dinner and dancing. We joined the Palm Beach Club, which attracted many celebrities. We also joined the Jockey Club as I was an avid tennis player up until a short time ago.

We had a son, Randy, who worked for the city for 25 years and is now retired.

Several years ago, Alan King was here at the Fontainebleau and I called him. He used to follow Dean and me around. He told me that who he was really following was me! I didn’t know. That’s why they say that youth is wasted on the young.

As it happens with all the affections destined to last, my love for Miami was initially tentative, and needed time to mature. Since my childhood, living in Argentina, I associated South Florida with intrepid pirates raiding the Caribbean waters.

Its name awakened the traveler in me, that wanderer that we children of immigrants carry in our hearts.

Miami was the preferred place to vacation for friends and relatives, those fortunate enough to be able to afford a trip overseas, but I had dreamed of visiting Disneyland in California unattainable for a modest-means family such as mine.

As a child years later, when the world of wonders that was Disneyworld opened in Orlando, I was certain that someday, somehow, I would get there.

Further down the road, in the early 1980s, the TV show “Miami Vice” was a somber global ambassador and tourist guide for all of us who never set foot in Florida. In 1987, when my husband Tomás Jakovljevic and I decided to accept the long-standing job offer from his family to move to Cleveland, Ohio, to work at his brother’s construction company, a friend asked: “Are you sure you want to stop in Miami? Keep in mind that there is a lot of violence there, drugs and weird people – and your daughter is only eight years old.”

At the time, our relatives living in Ohio did not dare risk coming down farther than Orlando, worried of a vaguely threatening environment, foreign to them as much in culture as in language, known through police news reports. The fact that some urban areas of Cleveland at the time were perhaps more violent and dangerous than Miami did not cross their minds.

So, the Caribbean was calling, and the three of us landed in Miami in April 1987. The city embraced us with a gulp of tropical air as soon as the doors of the airport flung open, a delightful welcome since we just had left Bariloche, a small winter tourist city at the foot of the Andes, in Patagonia.

We felt exhausted after severing all our physical ties to our old life – family, friends, home, school, and business, but we were sure it was the best for us and, in particular, for our daughter Adriana.

We called a taxi and asked to be taken downtown. The best way to know a city, in our experience, is to see its oldest parts, and check how it is maintained. Miami was a disappointment. It was flat, irregular, unkempt.

Nonetheless, some changes were sprouting here and there, like the metro mover and the recently opened Bayside with its nearby park. We stayed overnight in an old hotel – now demolished – right across Biscayne Boulevard. The next day we rented a car and decided to move near the beach. We found the perfect place driving through the almost deserted South Beach with its beautiful and faded art deco buildings.

The hotel was called The Netherland, and it was well kept and cared for by its owners, a nice Cuban family. The reception area had big openings with light, gauze drapes swinging in the breeze. Several fans hung from the ceiling over big pots sporting luscious plants. The intensity of the sea behind the palm trees through the windows of the efficiency won us over. I wished to be a painter to reflect on canvas the pastel beauty that surrounded us, the languorous palms, the elderly sitting on their rocking chairs in the shade of the verandas. The quiet beauty of the place conquered our hearts.

The hotel was home base for our sightseeing trips. We stayed for three weeks, alternating between visiting nearby points, and resting on the beach or at the pool. A few days after our arrival, Adriana asked, puzzled: “Dad, when are the Americans going to start speaking English?” He laughed and answered: “When we get further North.”

Three times we drove to Disneyworld. The child I was once, dreaming of visiting Disneyland, finally got her wish, and the adolescent reader of adventures reached the turquoise, fantastic waters of those fabled Caribbean pirates. Adriana was fascinated.

Through the years we would return often, witnessing the changes that, to us, wiped away much of that Miami soul that we got to enjoy briefly. The Beach’s commercial and gastronomic renaissance, with its visitors from the American gay culture, gave a touch of pizzaz and cosmopoltanism to our vacation days.

Every couple of years the three of us would immerse happily in a feast of the senses, being among people from all over the world. Our ears delighted in the variety and musicality of the unintelligible languages and our eyes admired the toned and tanned bodies and the famous faces parading in the evenings in front of the cafés.

The old and abandoned downtown had its rebirth, too, opening during daytime in a thousand shades, like tropical hibiscus, to fold down in the evenings under metallic fences.

Then, one day by the end of 2000 we bought a home in Miami-Dade, and in March of 2001 we packed all our home belongings in a U-Haul and drove down to live under the palm trees in a quaint, bird-sanctuary neighborhood called the Village of Biscayne Park. We started anew jobs, friends and outdoor life.

My husband took the plain, abandoned – but structurally sound – house and, slowly and all by himself, designed and transformed into a modern, very comfortable Floridia home.

Our daughter Adriana left for graduate school, got her degree and married a bright Connecticut man with whom they had a beautiful baby girl, Sofía, last February.

In my spare time, I go back to my long abandoned manuscripts and find a lively, interesting, vibrant literary life in writing groups, conferences, and book presentations around the city.

So we will stay happily in Miami, to share good and bad times, dodge dangerous summer storms, enjoy the peaceful evenings next to warm tropical waters and take in the luxurious pleasure of feeling the perfume of native flowers in the winter time.

Certain deep loves mature slowly, but they are meant to be forever, as the song goes.

The Village of Biscayne Park was, during the ’50s and ’60s, a residential community of small neighborhoods squeezed between Miami Shores and North Miami. A single block would house a group of families who were as familiar with one another as they were with close relatives.

In the period following World War II, there were a great many such neighborhoods with adults and children of similar ages. The Baby Boomers were booming.

Children played together in the street and adults had regular barbecues and canasta parties. Everyone knew everyone else on the block. Children spent Saturdays at the Shores Theater. A matinee would have two westerns and possibly 20 cartoons. An afternoon’s entertainment could be had for less than 50 cents. Since we were living in a two-bedroom house, I credit those long matinees for giving my parents enough time to give me a brother to harass.

Polio was very much a part of our lives back then. Two kids on our block were stricken and paralyzed for life. I was playing cards on the living room floor with a friend when she tried to get up and couldn’t. She was rushed to the hospital, where she and her parents got the bad news.

Young children from Biscayne Park attended Miami Shores Elementary, William Jennings Bryan or one of the two Catholic parochial schools nearby. You could walk to the North Miami Zoo — until it was torn down to make way for North Miami Junior High. Their tiger mascot was selected since the school auditorium was built on the site of the old tiger cage.

An evening out might be a trip to Marcella’s Italian Restaurant on West Dixie Highway or up to Nohlgren’s Painted Horse on Biscayne Boulevard for their 99-cent all-you-can-eat special. On a very special occasion, you might be treated with a trip to the Lighthouse Restaurant at the northern side of Haulover Cut. The Lighthouse had green sea turtles in cement-walled aquariums next to the dining room and a large wood-carved 3-D relief of an underwater scene between the bar and waiting area. It had a back patio on the ocean.

During summer vacation time, families would regularly scout the Miami Herald hotel ads to find the best deals on Miami Beach. Our family of four could spend an entire weekend in an air-conditioned room for $20. The hotels would have a pool and beach access. My family would regularly stay at the Carousel Motel, which had a small mechanical carousel out front.

Entertainment was simple. We had radio. One person on our block had the first television, and the neighborhood kids would gather around in his living room to watch westerns and old horror films, the latter presented by Miami’s own M.T. Graves.

When my family finally got a console TV, I had the pleasure of traveling with my dad to the Eagle Army-Navy store in North Miami to use their tube tester. We would walk in with a brown paper bag full of vacuum tubes and we would proceed to test each one.

The Army-Navy was next door to Royal Castle, famous for its nickel birch beer and 15-cent hamburgers. I would later work at that “RC Steakhouse.” I was behind the counter in 1963 when the manager came in to tell us that President John F. Kennedy had been shot. We listened to the radio until we heard that the president had died. Everyone remembers where he or she was on that day.

My grandmother lived on Northeast 31st Street. We would visit her often and I would do odd chores around the house. When I was finished, I could visit my grandmother’s neighbors, one of whom was a tinkerer/sculptor and had a little workshop in his garage. I was always fascinated with his little projects.

Shopping during the 1950s generally meant a trip to downtown Miami. Such trips in late November and early December could mean only one thing, Burdines. They had a giant illuminated Santa on the Miami Avenue crossover, and the west-building roof had a small carnival with rides for kids. Moms would drop off their children while they shopped. The other major shopping venue was Shell’s City (aka Shell’s Super Store) on Seventh Avenue and 58th Street.

Another of our family’s regular vacations consisted of trips to Key West to visit my aunt. We would drive from our house all the way on U.S. 1, the only route. Bridges were narrow and the guardrails were rails from the old Florida East Coast Railway, destroyed by the Labor Day hurricane of 1935, before my time. On the way down, we would stop at Shorty’s Bar-B-Q in Miami or Sid and Roxie’s Green Turtle Inn on Islamorada.

Dade County Junior College opened officially in 1959 at Central High, but didn’t have a real campus until 1963. They opened Building A, later called Scott Hall, at the old Naval Air Station. I commuted to the campus daily, along with 30,000 other kids in 1963. My drive down Northwest 119th Street took me past the old Bottle Cap Inn and the Tomboy Club.

Miami life was simple when the white and yellow pages fit in one book.

In various cultures, grandparents have been seen as a rich treasure. A grandparent’s life is one to be mined for the depths of riches shared in the form of unique stories.

One example was the late Winifred Ann Jackson Herzog, my own beloved grandmother. This is an account about how she led a motorcycle club across the $30 million Overseas Highway to Key West as part of the official opening ceremonies of July 2-4, 1938.

My grandmother was born in Richmond, Virginia, in May 1919. From her early years, Nana, as I called her, had many wonderful anecdotes which she shared before she passed in 2008.

Foremost among these was the role she played in the Key West festivities of July 1938. It was remarkable from both a historical and societal perspective. She helped Miami to do its part in carrying out a three-day holiday dubbed the “Gala Fiesta” in local newspaper accounts.

That year, the nation and particularly the Key West area was still suffering from the devastating effects of the Great Depression. The national unemployment rate was 19 percent. The morale boost from the manufacturing drive of World War II was just over the horizon as was the “Rosie the Riveter” campaign to promote contributions of women in shipyards and factories.

It was thus no small feat which occurred on Saturday, July 2, 1938, when my grandmother was 19. That day was when she set out to lead the Miami Motorcycle Club along with a special motorcade of city residents in making the trip from Miami to Key West. Nana rode the lead motorcycle, which was an Indian Four model.

Just how did she find herself leading this motorcade? As recalled by my family, Nana had met John Hays Long, my future grandfather, some months prior to this event. At the time, she had a job “hopping curb” at Pixie’s Ice-Cream Parlor. She served customers while wearing roller skates.

Nana had close friends named Thelma and Doris. Their brother, James, had given her a “basket case” motorcycle to take in for repair. The business she chose for service was none other than Long Motorcycle Sales in Miami. That is how she met John, the founding owner of the business and her future husband. (They would end up married the next year.) After meeting John, my grandmother grew interested in motorcycle club activities.

A few months later, local newspapers prominently featured the meticulous planning leading up to the three-day fiesta. The Miami Herald of July 1 reported that more than 1,000 people were expected to participate in the Miami motorcade sponsored by the Key West Club of Dade County. My grandmother led this group when they started out for Key West at 1 p.m. from the intersection of Northeast 55th Street and Biscayne Boulevard.

The Miami Daily News of July 2 reported: “This was the largest single motorized caravan expected to pass over the new highway during the celebration. Headed by a special motorcycle escort, the nomads of the open road traveled at a moderate pace through lanes of curious onlookers who assembled in the small communities along the route.”

In setting the context, it is important to consider details shared by my grandmother years later. In the 1990s, Nana told me that the motorcycle club members wore unique garb when you consider the perceptions of bikers in more recent times (such as the Marlon Brando look). Each club member wore a scarlet tunic or shirt along with khaki jodhpurs and riding boots.

Their mission was clear: to lead Miami residents in joining official ceremonies marking the occasion. This in turn provided a much needed “shot in the arm” for the state and nation. The festivities included inspections of U.S. and Cuban warships (with no cameras allowed), wrestling matches, a motorboat regatta, fireworks displays, and all-night dancing at a special “queen’s ball.” Amateur boxing matches were even held between Miami and Cuban fighters. The referee presiding over the fights was Ernest Hemingway.

Nana led the Miami motorcade for the approximately 130-mile trip from Miami to the awe-inspiring backdrop of the Bahia Honda Bridge, some 65 feet above the water. The ribbon cutting was held at 5 p.m. on July 2. The mayor of Key West, state and federal officials, and a representative from the Cuban government were in attendance. Bernice Brantley — the woman who had been previously designated “Miss Key West” — was given the honor of cutting a 60-foot, red, white and blue ribbon that stretched across the bridge.

The motorcade participants then drove the remaining 50 miles from the bridge to Key West, arriving there at approximately 6 p.m., July 2. As my grandmother resumed the lead position, more excitement awaited ahead. The Miami Herald of July 3 reported: “Led by members of the Miami Motorcycle club, the mammoth parade moved into Key West. From the entrance to the city limits on Roosevelt Boulevard down the broad expanse of this thoroughfare to Division Street and then on down to Duval Street the motorcade was greeted by a wild, cheering throng.”

The July 4 Herald reported that 10,000 people lined the streets to greet the motorcade. The importance of the festivities was underscored as follows: “Key West, once the state’s largest city, lost its importance years ago and its industries slipped away and was rendered destitute by the 1935 Labor Day Hurricane that destroyed the Overseas railway.”

Looking back now, it is interesting to note that Long Motorcycle Sales has continued to stay in business until this this day. During World War II, Nana helped to run the dealership with help from her father, William “Bill” Jackson. They kept the dealership running while Nana’s husband, John, served in the U.S. Army. In 1946, Nana and John were divorced. Today the business is located at 800 NW 12th Ave. in Miami and the family legacy is carried on by John A. Long, my uncle.